B006O3T9DG EBOK (16 page)

If Darcy believed himself to have been manipulated, it was unapparent. Those who knew him did not expect otherwise. The more inquiring his company, the more impenetrable was his countenance. Perchance he might reflect disapproval, but never would he display any hint that he was the victim of a manoeuvre. Upon this occasion, his noble mien remained fixed—albeit as if he had smelled something a tad... fetid. It might have been concluded that he was simply offended by the company he just quitted, not that of Lady Howgrave.

When the couple did not step onto the dance floor, most onlookers became disinterested.

Darcy’s expression altered but little as the good Lady Howgrave gracefully propelled him from thence up a staircase to a vacant hall. She did so by admiring each the vast number of paintings that lined the wall. Juliette appraised a fine Dutch painting and the parquet floor with a long look of approval. She only stopped her consideration to gaze at the ballroom floor below. Dancers awaited the allemande as the orchestra retook their places
after an intermission. As if by preordination, they commenced a waltz. It was quite the fashion amongst those who amused themselves by admiring the neoteric.

There were a few gasps and several couples left the floor. Others did not hesitate and began to whirl about. They were either blithely unawares (or quite possibly happily witting) that some believed the piece of music was unseemly. The flash of colour as the gowns twirled grandly around the room was quite exhilarating. All of London was entranced by the dance. With the strong, propulsive rhythm—not to speak of the hold (which was nothing less than an embrace), it was a heady, sensual dance. One could actually detect the outrage of those in the ballroom who kept track of such offences.

Mr. Darcy’s usual hauteur was overspread by a rare shade of crimson. Juliette issued a premature smile, believing she was the cause his discomposure. It was not she, however, who held his attention.

Mr. Darcy placed both hands firmly on the balustrade. His expression as he looked down upon his conductor was dour. Mr. Darcy’s glare was forbidding. The conductor looked up as if touched by the hand of God. No word passed between them. However, the conductor immediately (and with great fluidity) guided the orchestra into a sedate quadrille. Passably pleased with the hastiness whereof the dance was altered, Mr. Darcy’s colour began to return to its customary hue.

Juliette was not one to allow the matter drop.

As if musing, she said, “How far afield from heated passion we have chanced....”

Said he, “I beg your pardon?”

She disliked having to repeat what she believed to be a perfectly delivered bon mot. Nonetheless, she did. The importance of her observation must not be dismissed. Nodding towards the tranquil dance floor, she said, “How far afield from heated passion we have chanced.”

In the repeating, her remark had not improved on him. He offered no response. For a man known to own a quick mind, his behaviour was well-nigh hebetudinous. It was quite maddening. She reminded herself of his incomparable self-possession. Had he been untouched, he would have spoken more. Therefore, she took his want of ardency as a compliment and delighted in his silence.

When he did speak, it was a seemingly incongruous remark.

“I here beg to offer my apologies,” he said. “I was not informed that particular dance was to be part of tonight’s selections.”

She found it exceedingly regrettable that he had halted the waltz. It would have been superb ambience for a conversation, perchance a foreshadowing of what was to come. Hence, she pursued the subject.

“I am exceedingly disappointed that you disapprove of the waltz,” she said. “I find it quite provocative.”

He responded, “I fear not all of my guests agree with you, Lady Howgrave....”

“Juliette,” she interrupted.

As if he had not heard, he continued, “It is my obligation as host to entertain everyone, not just ladies and gentlemen of the ton.”

That remark could have been ill-taken. His manners had always been high and imposing. He had not the insolence of the English sort, but he often gave offence. She was loath to be offended, proud in the comfort that she knew him well enough not to be.

She replied, “It has been my observation that many critics take far greater relish in censuring others than anyone ever did immersing themselves in sin.”

He smiled and she laughed, happy that she finally elicited one from him. And when she did, the lilt of her voice hung in the air like a melody.

With the unerring misfortune that some incidents invite, Elizabeth Darcy happened to hear the echoing laugh and turned her eyes upward at that very moment.

Chapter 20

The Retort

It was late and the room was compleatly in shadow. Having flamed out, most of the candles sat in a puddle of wax.

It had been a long evening and Darcy was altogether fordone by feigning felicity. Above an hour with more than a half dozen people tried his patience. Despite the ball being pronounced a resounding success by all, he believed that he had never seen more over-dressed twits and under-hung jaws in one place in all his life.

Moreover, his feet hurt.

He despised dancing slippers. No matter how carefully they were fitted, by the end of the night, his insteps ached. It was further proof that man wasn’t meant to dance. It was a wholly unnatural occupation. Women were meant to wear slippers; men were meant to wear boots. Was his opinion on the matter not incontrovertible, he had several blisters in proof of it.

He tossed the despised slippers aside. They landed just outside his door giving Goodwin to understand he was dismissed for the night. Mr. Darcy was in no mood to suffer any other ritual—his nightly ablutions or not. He sought nothing more than the arms of his wife. Was it not for her, he might have become a compleat recluse.

By virtue of his vexation, he did not take notice until then that his wife had preceded him to bed. On an evening so heavy with duty and small consternations, he had little doubt she would be fast asleep.
Here, his desire collided unhappily with his conscience. The evening had left him near spent; no doubt she was as well. It would be unthinkable to come to her in service of his own passion for a second time. As much as his heart was in want of possessing her, he feared imposing himself upon her again might do her harm.

As he turned aside all thought of amour, he stopped. Perhaps she was awake, anticipating his disquiet. Such was his history. The larger the gathering (especially one infested with politicians), the longer it would be ere slumber would come to him. In the future, he would be more vigilant about alarming her in that. She needed her rest, not stand guard over his. Heaving a great
sigh, he renewed himself to husbanding her and their coming child. From this moment forward, prudence would rule his every thought; caution, his every touch.

But for tonight, to lie next to her—just for a brief while—would console them both.

The balcony doors allowed a shaft of moonlight to illuminate the bed and the ivory curve of his wife’s bare back. She was not asleep. She sat in the middle of the bed, perched on her knees. A suspiration of desire all but choked him.

Desiring nothing but to feel her skin against his, he drew his shirt over his head and cast it to the floor. At the sound of his footfalls, her arms crossed her bosom. Momentarily, he thought he had given her a fright. But she did not turn about to see who was there.

He stopped short of the bed, uncertain as to why. Something forbidden was in the air. He could smell it, feel it, sense it. Owing to the power of that sensation, his flagging spirit was reinvigorated. As he stepped closer, he saw that she was in a state of nature—exquisitely so. So fetching was her nakedness, it might well have given him leave to cast all thought of prudence to the wayside. However, he did not think of that. Still resolved to be her guardian, he was struck by two successive thoughts. Firstly, that her nakedness might invite a chill, and secondly, was she cold, he must warm her.

It was then that he saw that she was not compleatly naked. Initially, she looked to have a shawl draped about her hips. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that what clung to her hips was that which he
had so vehemently removed earlier that evening. He was aghast (more or less).

“Mrs.
Darcy
!”

He had not truly raised his voice, nor had he actually gasped. But it was near enough to have given her a start. She, however, did not respond as if disturbed. Rather, she very slowly and, admittedly, quite seductively, looked at him over one bare shoulder.

It was both an invitation and a dare.

A pause was needed for him to collect his thoughts. No doubt, she believed him slightly vexed. He was, or at least he knew that was the part he was to play in the performance she had foreordained. Notwithstanding the abhorrence he held for disguise of any sort, he scowled (allowing that to appear vexed was not a compleat perjury). Indeed, when he spoke his voice was a husky mixture of indignation and hunger. Yet, his words were not those of a man who desperately desired to make love. Another man might have been more wise.

“Have we not decided against that indecent garment?”

“This?” she asked innocently, placing two fingers inside the waistband. “Indecent?”

“Perhaps I misspoke. It is merely immodest.”

She retorted, “I believe that it not the garment that is indecent or immodest. A garment is but a ‘thing’ and therefore, cannot be either chaste or debauched. It can be silk or cotton. It can be plain or ruffled. It can have a pink ribbon drawstring....”

Here she grasped one end of the ribbon and held it daintily in her fingers.

.”.. or not.”

She pulled it loose. Therefore the top of her drawers fell just far enough down her hips to reveal the cleft of her derriere. He could not see the dimple in the middle of her soft, round buttock, but he knew it was there.

Not altogether trusting his voice, he nodded. To what he had just acquiesced, he was uncertain.

He gathered his dignity, bowed from the waist, and said, “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.”

“I do not take your meaning, sir. Do you, or do you not, approve of my morally ambiguous undergarment?”

With remarkable fluidity, he slid onto the bed behind her, his hands resting lightly at her bare waist.

“On closer inspection, they have improved on me.”

These drawers were ruffled, two rows of lace adorned the drawstring. He had not fully appreciated the frills upon the other pair as he had suffered from a severe case of masculine want at that time. Indeed, he had not investigated them in a gentlemanly fashion at all. He had meant to apologise for his fit of pique. But addressing his want of gallantry would come later. Just then, there was a more important mission at hand.

His fingers spread wide, nearly spanning her waist. Skimming beneath her drawstring they slid across her abdomen and down between her legs. Her breath, which had been quite relaxed, increased at his touch. It became even more stirred as his lips found the indention just behind her ear lobe. That kiss begat a frisson of electricity that shuddered down her body and pooled into the deepest reaches of her womanhood. No caress, no endearment could ever surpass that kiss—save for the one to come.

Such was her fervour, she fell to the side, her arms open and inviting. With great economy of movement, he drew himself atop her, his fingers still reconnoitring with tender urgency.

“There is no need...,” said she.

She need not fear that he would tear this garment asunder. When he had rent the other, it was simply to make a point. The separation of the leggings was quite impassioning. Within that gap could be found the most bewitching furrow; the great persuader of his flesh. Nothing at all lay between him and his single-minded need to have her. Every sinew—so ungovernable still—very nigh overtook his reason once again. Nothing would have kept his passion in check except for the knowledge that there was found far greater pleasure in removing the offending garment, aided by his every stroke, her every response, the bending knee, and undulating hips.