Darcy & Elizabeth (46 page)

She nodded her head, recollecting the grandfather who wanted a male heir, and the unseemly manner in which the son endeavoured to procure one.

“Young Henry Howgrave is in want of parlaying his heroics in the Low Countries into a seat in Parliament, but he cannot from this district. I believe he would be willing to pay Bingley's debt in exchange for Kirkland Hall, which carries with it a seat in Parliament, one that Bingley has not chosen to take,” he explained.

That only answered a small part of her larger question. It remained unclear to Elizabeth how then Bingley would be able to purchase Howgrave Manor. Her husband's expression was one of unmitigated satisfaction, hence she felt he had everything in place for that to come to pass also.

“Once the bankers are paid, Bingley's merchandise will be released. That represents a considerable fortune—enough to purchase whatever estate he so chooses.”

“You are quite pleased with yourself, I see,” she teased.

“I must admit that I am—quite,” he said. He then looked to the eastern sky and pointed with his crop. “The sky darkens, I am certain.” Taking out his watch and looking at it, Darcy commented, “Yes, it is not all that late. We must make haste for home.”

“One question, dear husband,” said she. “Does Bingley yet know of the arrangements you have made upon his behalf?”

He shook his head. Then he drew his reins to the left and gave Blackjack his heel, causing the big animal to wheel about.

“Come,” he called.

She took but one look at the sky ere she duplicated his manoeuvre, urging Boots towards home.

Headlong Passions

The sky did not withhold its deluge further than the outskirts of Dronfield. They had pressed on in the vain hope that they could at least reach the more familiar area of Lambton before the heavens opened. There Darcy knew all manner of barns or outbuildings in which to take refuge from an impending storm. Those were the glens and downs of his youth. Here he was familiar only with the roads.

As they began to be pelted with the first large drops of a summer storm, Darcy spied a stone edifice down a small incline. They veered to its leeward side perchance to keep the worst of the storm from them. Fortune saw it to be a ramshackle shearing barn built into the side of a hill and open upon one end. They quickly dropped to the ground and led the horses under the shelter.

Although it had been unused since the spring shearing, it still stunk of dung, urine, and, increasingly, damp wool. But there was hay residue upon the ground and several broken bags of wool at one end. As it did not look as though the rain would stop in much haste, Elizabeth removed her bonnet and shook her head a bit in hopeless attempt to dry the tendrils of her hair that were plastered to her cheeks. Seeing the tempting pillows of wool, she made herself comfortable away from what she knew would come to pass from the horses. They immediately obliged her, first one then the other, by employing a convulsive head-to-tail vibration that did the job of expelling excess moisture from them and drenching everything around them. Knowing it then safe to tie them, Darcy led them to a post, but a clap of thunder made them stamp restlessly. He talked soothingly to them whilst Elizabeth began unbuttoning her soaked jacket. When she caught Darcy's eyes, she patted her hand invitingly upon the canvas bag next to her.

“I think not,” said he, taking off his jacket and giving it a fierce shake. “Nor should you, either.”

She frowned at that, wondering just what fastidious quirk made him pronounce a bag of wool an unworthy perch. As it was an expression she had employed before, he recognised it immediately as one which suggested him overly captious.

“Sheep ticks,” he announced.

“Sheep ticks?” she repeated. “My father had sheep and I have never heard of such a thing. I think that a compleat fiction.”

“
Longbourn
had sheep. It is likely that the only thing your father did was to count them.”

Her hair was dripping, and her riding habit clung to her in a clammy, uncomfortable fashion leaving her a bit short-tempered. She was not prepared to capitulate to him just yet.

“I suppose that you, sir, did for your sheep more than my father did for his?” she retorted.

“As a boy, indeed I did,” said he. “I have been bitten by many a sheep tick and refuse to submit myself to that injury now. This is a sheepfold and I dare say it is rife with ticks. Sit there amongst them if you will. I choose not.”

She was inclined to further the argument by insisting that it was unlikely any sheep had inhabited lately enough to have left any blood-sucking insects behind, but her contentiousness was arrested. As he busied himself with loosing the saddle girths to allow the horses a rest, she allowed her gaze to take in the length of his frame. Soaked to the skin as he was, she could not help but notice that his aspect did not bespeak his usual meticulousness. Indeed, his hair in a muss and his costume soaked lent a rakishness to his attitude that she found altogether fetching. As he removed his jacket, she could not help but tell him so.

“I say, you look quite the brigand, Mr. Darcy.”

“I dare say your curls have seen finer days themselves, Mrs. Darcy,” he retorted.

She threw back her head and had a good laugh, allowing, indeed, that was true.

He added, “I also hope that he who owns this barn does not begrudge us this shelter.”

“Surely no one could be so cruel as to deny that in this storm,” she said, “despite how disreputable we appear.”

“There was a time when that would be true,” said he, “but there are many on the road and some are not above pilfering when they can.”

The thought of the poverty that drove those poor souls from their homes was one she had little time to contemplate. Suddenly, she leapt up. She was sent halfway to Darcy before she realised that what had affrighted her was the bleat of a half-grown lamb—one most likely escaping the rain in the same fashion as themselves. She did not see her husband smile at her alarm, for she immediately looked down and around the sack upon which she had sat and saw two small, glittering, coal-black eyes staring back at her.

“Oh, Darcy! What a precious little mound of fluff!”

As she reached out to pet it, he clasped her hand to hold her back, saying, “Do not—the ewe may be about.”

No sooner than that was said, that particular danger came scrambling forward. Both Darcys leapt for the surest escape, which was a ladder leading to the loft. Darcy stood his ground halfway up, attempting to regain some dignity. Elizabeth thought it all rather hilarious, but as the ewe maintained her mean watch, she thought it best to wait her out in the loft rather than on the creaking ladder. Darcy, however, kicked out with his boot several times in a determined, but ultimately vain, attempt to shoo her away. Elizabeth rose upon her knees and peered down at both him and the infuriated ewe.

Laughing, she called, “Retreat! She may have ticks!”

The look he gifted her was not quite as mirthful as hers, but he did climb up the ladder and onto the loft. They both looked down upon the sheep which, in turn, butted hard at the ladder. Darcy caught it before it fell and they both pulled it up onto the loft beside them lest they be marooned.

“This rain may well let up before the sheep,” he said with his usual pessimistic perspective.

As a person of more optimistic persuasion, Elizabeth began to claw hay into a pile for a more comfortable wait. He granted the ewe one more dour look, but Mr. Darcy's glare—intimidating to all who fell under it—was useless on this sheep. Hence even he knew when he was defeated and joined Elizabeth. When at last they were settled, they lay their damp jackets across the hay to dry, then lay back to listen to the rain as it struck the roof. In a moment, a banging noise behind them again brought Darcy to his feet only to see that the door to the hayloft had been left unlatched. He thrust a board against it to temporarily batten it.

When Elizabeth queried, “Pray, will that determined ewe come round here and find us?” it was only partly in jest.

He rose upon one knee and peered over the edge of the loft. “She is hanging fast here.”

“A pity,” said she.

Rising, she came up behind him and put her arms around his neck, placing her cheek next to his. Directly, she began to unbutton the first buttons of his waistcoat. He attacked from the bottom and their hands met mid-most of his chest.

“Mr. Darcy,” she whispered coquettishly, “have ever you lain in a loft with a maid?”

He grasped her hand, turned, and pressed her back against their pallet of hay.

“Not to my recollection,” said he, then effecting a bit of a frown, looked off into the near distance. “Although my recollection is notoriously weak….”

Ere she had the opportunity to challenge such a leading remark, he offered unto her a most disconcertingly penetrating gaze. “No, I can say absolutely—I have not.”

Her eyes repaid him in kind.

Their long looks were to the accompaniment of the rain as it pounded the thatch of the roof and began to find its way through to drip upon the back of Mr. Darcy's head. They picked themselves up and found a dryer spot. The dampness and the chill were excuse enough had she needed one; she nestled against him. He dutifully rubbed her arms and back and then blew upon her hands to warm them. Knowing there were far better means to encourage circulation, she lovingly stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers, her forefinger trailing then to the tip of his chin. She whispered the beginnings of an ancient rhyme.

“Dimple in your cheek, a living you will seek; dimple in your chin, you'll have your living brought in.”

He smiled.

She asked, “You have both, what does that foretell?”

“You have neither, what does
that
foretell?” was his rejoinder.

“It means that your son has a dimple in his chin and your daughter has none.”

“Speak to me not of dimples,” he said huskily.

As it was his bidding, she then raised her lips to his—a chaste kiss that did not remain so. As his tongue probed her throat, so did her hand make its own inquiry, sliding down the inside of his leg to find the firm evidence of his desire. (It had not been her intent, but since Brighton, she most particularly noted that was the only weapon he had concealed within his breeches.) With the barest of caresses, his manhood presented itself at attention as dutiful as a soldier. Had her lips not been so thoroughly engaged in another employment, she would have smiled at how easily his member was provoked. She caressed it once again for no other reason than the pleasure of how easily she governed his…governor.

With that last caress, the kissing was not abandoned, but their attention to it was compromised by both pulling and tugging the tail of his shirt free with what became almost a frenzied abandon. Whilst he attended to the buttons on his breeches, she ran her hand up and beneath his shirt-front. He was left then to attack her skirts on his own—but he was immediately rewarded when she wrapped one liberated leg over his and began to massage his calf with the heel of her boot.

“Lizzy,” he gasped. “Lizzy.”

As she had embedded her lips against his neck, he did not hear her call out his name in return. Her mouth formed the first letter, but with the second, it altered into something akin to a moan. The rain pelting down, the smell of the aged hay, and the occasional bleats from below were a far greater aphrodisiac than either would ever have guessed. It was, however, no small operation to engage in the intimate manner they intended without the elements of their pastoral setting being the occasional bother.

Indeed, although when his hand found the back of her knee and thereupon cast her skirts aside, the wild abandon with which he was taken did not altogether preclude a small worry for her bared bottom being pricked by other than himself. It is the nature of such activities, however, that the deeper in the throes of rapture one becomes, the less any troublesome stems are noticed.

And because their rapture transcended the prickly nature of their bed, so did their vigilance. Hence, when there came a call from up the hill, it was a moment ere they realized that they had attracted unwanted attention. As Darcy was withholding himself with admirable restraint and Elizabeth was amidst a primeval swoon, it was he rather than she who first noted an intrusion. When he fell to the side and immediately began stuffing his shirt and his swollen member into his breeches, she, understandably, was somewhat miffed. She grasped him by the buttons of his waistcoat and very nearly apprised him of the extent of her displeasure when she suddenly came to the realisation that something was amiss.

Before she could inquire the nature of the disturbance, he put his forefinger to his lips to silence her. Once again they heard a voice, this time it was accompanied by the rapping of a staff upon the doors he had just closed.

“You there!” the voice growled. “You will not steal my wool! I'll have the bailiff on you, I will!”

Only then did they see the sacks of wool hidden in their loft. There was the merest flick of a moment when both entertained the possibility of identifying themselves to the owner of their shelter. Simultaneously both considered and rejected that plan in that their present occupation would be apparent—and thus lend the Darcy name little distinction.

Therefore, as the man impatiently rattled the door, Elizabeth straightened her costume with the utmost rapidity and claimed their coats, Darcy quietly slid the ladder back in place, stepped over and down a few rungs before offering Elizabeth his hand to follow his lead. Just as the intruder was having his way with the door, Elizabeth was only halfway down and nigh unnerved with panic, hence she veritably leapt into Darcy's arms. (In fortune, he managed to both break her fall and to keep to his feet.) With no thought of the belligerent ewe, both ran for their horses, Darcy hastily legging Elizabeth onto her horse. (It goes without saying that this manoeuvre was employed with such haste that it eschewed the usual accompanying caresses, but it had its own distinction in nearly propelling her over the other side.) He leapt upon Blackjack and they raced like blazes for Pemberley with the scream “Thieves!” ringing in their ears.

Fortunately, the rain had eased by then to a mere drizzle allowing the remainder of the journey to be uneventful save for the disgrace done to their costumes by the mud-spattering run for home.

They were still giddy with the triumph of their escape when at last they arrived. Happily for them there were few who witnessed the embarrassing state in which they returned. The groom who took their horses made a point of not staring at them, and Darcy, refusing to slink away in humiliation, stood for a full ten minutes and detailed just how their horses should be cooled down. This predilection for maintaining his dignity at all costs was a particular torment to Elizabeth just then. But upon their walk back to the house, Darcy did the unlikely and took her hand. He whispered the promise that they would directly remedy the
coitus
that was
interruptus
. The hand-holding alone made up for any adversity they had encountered, but she smiled to herself as she thought of the many ways he would repay that debt. Indeed, he would have immediately had not they been stopt upon the staircase by Smeads with an important missive.

When Darcy took it in his hand, they both recognised the significance of its black border.

He tore it open quite hastily, but did not speak. Rather, he simply held the card betwixt fore- and middle finger and handed it to Elizabeth. With equal measures of gravity and impatience, she retrieved it. Her eyes scanned the letter quickly, for it was the briefest of announcements. It read that his cousin, Lady Anne de Bourgh Beecher's soul had departed this earth and her mortal remains would be laid to eternal rest as soon as family could be gathered.