B006O3T9DG EBOK (25 page)

Said he, “Forsooth.”

As his rejoinder was not issued in the exclamatory form, she was miffed. To her great vexation, he remained collected. There was but the barest flicker of amusement in his gaze. Clearly, he did not understand the full nature of the event.

“In flagrante, Darcy!
In flagrante
!”

He announced, “It has long been my ambition to have no part of those situations which offend dignity.”

Such a remark was unhelpful.

She explained further, saying, “They were not in the bed, but on it. He was in
her
nightdress; she in his
nightcap—
!”

Rare are there visions of such humour as try the countenance of a man of Mr. Darcy’s taciturnity. Yet the image as described by his wife did just that. He had to smoother a laugh. Drawing herself to her knees, she slapped at his hand.

Despite all proof otherwise, she insisted, “This is in no way diverting!”

He overcame his mirth long enough to ask, “However indelicate, I must inquire—were you observed?”

“I cannot say,” she answered.

That was understandable. The Gardiners may well have been otherwise occupied.

She said earnestly, “I pray not.”

“I then pronounce that you were not seen. If you were not seen, it did not happen.”

Thinking about it logically, Elizabeth believed her husband had made a good case for how such an embarrassment, for all parties, should be dealt with.

Darcy wondered, “Why, pray tell, did you want to meet in the Blue Room?”

She sighed, “I had amorous leanings myself.”

He raised one eyebrow, “These leanings could not be consoled in our own chambers?”

Raising her own eyebrow in return, she said, “Is it not said that variety is the very spice of life?”

“This is quite true,” he answered. “Albeit, I bend to your will in all matters, in this I one I shall have my say—you may wear a nightcap to your heart’s content, dearest. However, I absolutely refuse to wear your nightdress.”

Voice lowered, she said, “It was my fervent hope that you should wear nothing at all.”

Kicking off his boots, Darcy proved he was not a man to over-think a point, especially when they were so obviously of like minds. That was one accommodation that she was more than happy to make.

His wife lay upon her stomach, happy to watch him as he removed each piece of clothing. He had always been remarkably untroubled to be observed in such a fashion. (Under his scrutiny, her colour always rose.) His insouciance was not guileless. It was visceral—even primitive.

When he joined her upon the bed, he stretched out beside her, settling on his side. He did not speak. His expression alone explained that he awaited her to rid herself of her fustian nightdress. Her buttons were many and she undid but a few ere she slid into his arms. She meant only to linger long enough for a single kiss—for she did not want to be lured from a well-planned scheme (one she meant to implement in the Blue Room).

At one time, they took love in the oddest of locations—the stairwell, the larder, even the scullery. Upon this occasion she had desired variety, but also was in want of privacy. Theirs would not be a hasty lifting of skirts and a fare-thee-well. She meant to have a lengthy (and circuitous) engagement. The Blue Room would have been superb. It had a lovely little alcove with a cushioned chimney corner. It was fortunate that the Gardiners had retired first. Otherwise, it might have been the Darcys who had been found
in flagrante
—bechancing another mortification altogether.

Although thwarted in her initial design, another portion of her scheme had not been ruined. As her husband was unmindful of her true intentions, she had to struggle to disengage herself from his arms.

Abruptly, she sat upright.

“Pray, a moment,” she said.

He, a bit miffed, returned to his side and made himself comfortable by propping himself upon an elbow. Smiling impishly, she slipped her hand beneath the pillow case. With great delicacy, she withdrew a string of pearls. It was as long as a man’s arm—her husband’s arm. The clasp was of diamonds. The necklace was quite precious.

“I found this trifle in my sewing box. Pray, did an elf leave it there?”

It did not occur often enough for it to be called a habit (perhaps just a whim), but her husband liked to leave exquisite gifts for her to find quite by chance. His gallantry was incomparable. He gave extraordinary gifts with the same casual grace that he gave of himself. Whilst it was possible that he overheard Caroline Bingley’s snide comment about the lack of fashionableness of certain pearls, it was exceedingly unlikely that he paid her heed. If her husband gave her pearls, it was from his heart, not at another’s instruction.

He made it quite obvious that he cared not to engage in discourse about the necklace. He did not speak of this preference. Rather, he drew her near and began to kiss her neck.

As his tongue flicked around her earlobe, her eyelashes fluttering wildly and her eyes began to roll upwards. The pearls almost slipped from her fingers. It was only then that she caught sight of another, far more estimable endowment. (One she had admired and enjoyed many times lo these many years.) Despite how often she had witnessed it, she never tired of watching his manhood tumefy from somnolent suzerain to impatient warrior. At times, merely the promise of what it would become arrested her breath. As it lay just then half-erect against his thigh, she was reminded of the plan she had conceived to show him her gratitude for the necklace.

However, the pearls had slid beneath her hip and it took great care to retrieve them without suspension of the favours he was paying to her ear. Only when she had them again did she redirect his attention.

Cupping the pearls in her hands, she gently rubbed them together. Then, she gifted them a great exhalation.

“They must be warm,” she explained.

Sitting before him cross-legged, her gaze was exceedingly persuasive. (He looked at her as expectantly as she looked at his virile sceptre.)

“I rarely question your methods...,” said he.

“Shush,” she whispered. “I shall beguile it.”

Holding the pearls above him, she slowly allowed them to undulate around his ever-engorging member. As she was intent upon watching his burgeoning erection, she did not see that his eyes were trained upon the edge of her nightdress. (It crept higher upon her thighs with every twirl she made with the pearls.) With his wife’s pearls decorating him as if a... er... maypole, his manhood was quickly at full attention.

Pleased with herself, she threw back her head in triumph, crowing, “My adornment is compleat!”

Ignoring what delighted her, he reached for the sentient seat of his own desire. As his hand moved up her thigh, she capitulated compleatly. In a fit of exultation, she whipped her hair across his chest and fell back in compleat surrender.

Clutching her hip, he drew her leg about his. The pearls did then begin to unravel. Neither noticed. Having encouraged a tumescence of exceeding magnificence, it was only right and good that she should enjoy it as much as did he.

“Darcy,” she cried.

“Lizzy,” he gasped.

It was an acknowledged fact that the fire that burns most fiercely, flames out first. It does not necessary follow that it remains doused. Given time and attention, love at leisure is just as fulfilling.

And pearls can be restrung.

Chapter 34

Lady Millhouse’s Confidant

A carriage betook Sally Frances Arbuthnot from Pemberley to Pennyswope Manor that very day.

Once there, Sally’s plan took a surprising spin. Indeed, what had been a bold but simple scheme, wholly unconnected with the Darcys. altered rather hastily. In the end, Sally was beside herself with anticipation—and Lady Millhouse was tickled to her toes to have part in a new adventure.

———

Surprising no one except Sally, Lady Millhouse had been quite delighted to aide in an endeavour that she herself had inspired.

“Dearest child!” said she, her trumpustuous voice reverberating throughout the house. “You are courageous and good!”

The lady had florid cheeks and a clumsy wrist, making it quite obvious that she was far happier on horseback than serving tea. In her enthusiasm, her ladyship reached out and engulfed Sally in her considerable bosom. Sally grimaced (for she was unused to affection), but not noticeably. Poverty was a keen teacher and through its agency, Sally was quite precocious when it came to adapting to her circumstances. She yielded to the stronger force, knowing it was to her benefit to do so.

“I see a girl before me with my pluck, Lord Millhouse!” Lady Millhouse exclaimed.

Holding the office of his wife’s foremost approver, he nodded his agreement. Sally admired the praise—such as it was.

Lord and Lady Millhouse resided at Pennyswope; they lived for the hunt. It was months before the season would commence. When not on horseback, Lord Millhouse was happy in his library. Lady Millhouse, however, had little to occupy her time except to complain how long it would be until the kits would be weaned. With no daughters to marry off or sons to badger, it pleased her to bring the sad little urchin from town into her sitting room—particularly one who bid her retell the rapturous story of retrieving her dear nephew’s bones from across the water. In each successive telling, the bribes they paid to sentries were bigger, the boat they made off with was smaller, and the daring altogether greater. As she spoke, she became more enlivened. She was so taken with her own adventure, she was in want of a part in young Sally’s too. Rather than be her advisor, she decided that she must escort the girl instead. As Lord Millhouse was not disposed to tell his wife what not to do, she went merrily on her way—and he with them. All her ladyship asked of Darcy was a letter of introduction to his uncle in whose family plot John Christie was laid to rest.

The burial of John Christie (and all that it encompassed) was an episode Darcy was most desirous of putting behind him. Time did not improve the notion of digging up the evidence of a history of troubling family events. Elizabeth patted his hand, for she knew that his compliance came at great cost to his sensibilities. As Lady Millhouse was a friend of longstanding, Darcy wrote the letter. He did not want to write it, but he was disinclined to give a reason why he should not.

The Millhouses and their young consort set out for Dover with surprising haste.

Sally had never set foot on a boat. She had watched many a ship dock up the Thames. The wharves were thick with stories about shipwrecks and lives lost. Hence, Sally looked at the channel crossing with trepidation. Once they set sail, she stood on the balls of her feet and looked down at the swells of the sea as they churned beneath her. Directly, she made herself sick. Thenafter, Lord Millhouse joined her at the rail and both of them emptied their stomachs over the side. Neither could bear look at Lady Millhouse as she clung to the bowsprit, glorying in the stinging spray. After they moored, it took Sally and Lord Millhouse half a day to be fit to climb into a carriage. When they were, Lady Millhouse had already commandeered a coach and a coachman.

“Make haste you silly geese!” she called.

They were a merry band until they arrived at the little cemetery where John Christie had been laid to rest. Sally had not thought of flowers and began to pick some running wild amongst the grass. When she knelt next to her brother’s grave sniffling, Lady Millhouse would not have her give way to sentiment, at least not yet.