Mr. Darcy's Indiscretions

by Valerie Lennox

  “Mr. Darcy is not interested in paying you any more money,” said the footman. “Tell anyone anything you wish. But get off the steps here and take your drunken self elsewhere!” The footman began to push the door closed.

  “Wait!” said Wickham, wedging his foot in the door. “If you don’t let me in, Darcy is going to have you dismissed, I guarantee it. He wouldn’t want me to flap my lips with this tale. I assure you that when he discovers what you’ve done—”

  “Out!” The footman shoved Wickham out of the doorway and shut the door tight against him.

  Wickham gave the closed door and indignant look. “Told his servants not to admit me, did he? Well, Darcy’s going to regret that. Oh, yes, he most certainly is. I’ll tell this story to whoever I please.”

  And then he turned and tumbled down the steps, legs over arms, too drunk to stop himself.

  * * *

  Elizabeth tried to help Darcy’s fingers as they worked at her stays. She was laughing, and the laughter seemed to bubble out of her like sparkling wine. She was happy, so very happy, and she felt as if there was nothing in this moment that could change how good it all was.

  Darcy was laughing too. “I don’t see why they make these bloody things so difficult to get off,” he grunted.

  “Don’t say bloody,” said Elizabeth, turning in his arms, putting her lips against his. “We are finally here together, in this perfect moment, and you’re cursing.”

  He kissed her hungrily. “Mmmph, it’s been too long that we’ve waited for this,” he murmured against her mouth. “I don’t have any patience left.”

  She wriggled the stays around her torso, still laced, so that the laces were in the front. Now that she could see them, she deftly unlaced them and pulled them off. “Voila!”

  He chuckled, but then he broke off because he was looking at her, and he didn’t seem to be able to get enough of her. He had that penetrating look, the one that seemed to go through her and make her weak, and soon she wasn’t laughing either. She was just looking at him as well.

  “Well, I am nearly stripped of all my clothing,” she said, suddenly breathless. “And you are wearing… all that.” She gestured.

  Darcy yanked off his cravat and shed his jacket and coat. He untucked his shirt from his trousers and tugged it over his head. His chest was bare in mere seconds.

  She sucked in an audible breath. How long had she been waiting to see his bare shoulders? It seemed an eternity. But it had been worth the wait. They were magnificent. They were so broad, and his muscles rippled beneath his skin. She wanted to touch them, and so she did. She put her fingers against his bare skin.

  He made a noise in the back of his throat.

  She feathered her fingers over him. He was firm—so firm, so wonderfully firm, but yet, the way that his skin slid against her fingertips, it was like velvet, and she shut her eyes and shivered again.

  His lips against her eyebrow. “Do I please you?”

  She laughed, keeping her eyes closed. “Am I that transparent?”

  “No, indeed,” he whispered. “In fact, your good opinion is not so easily earned.”

  She opened her eyes slowly, bending back her neck to look into his eyes. “I thought it was you who had such exacting standards, sir.”

  “Well, whatever my standards are, you quite exceed them.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And your shoulders are quite possibly the Platonic ideal of shoulders, I should think. I have been waiting so long to see them, to touch them, and now that I have, I am stunned.”

  He ducked his head, looking bashful. “That’s… preposterous.”

  “No,” she said, her fingers under his chin, turning his face back to hers.

  They kissed again.

  The kiss went on for a long time, long enough for everything to become nothing but swirling colors and pleasantness, for all thoughts to be wiped out of her head, and for there to be nothing in the world but his lips on hers and her fingers tracing patterns over all the bare skin of his chest and his back, and for time to become meaningless, seconds that stretched out and became hours or hours that turned to minutes, she knew not. Nothing was important except Mr. Darcy and—

  Oh!

  He gave her gentle shove, and she was suddenly on her back on the bed, and she was laughing again. He crawled onto the bed as well, covering her body with his.

  More kissing.

  She loved the kissing. She thought the kissing could well go on forever. They had never kissed like this, each kiss going deeper than the next, each making her feel as though she was being turned inside out and that every part of her was sweetness and goodness.

  His hand under her chemise, working its way over her thigh, her hip.

  She moaned. She couldn’t help it. She had not had the knowledge that a touch could feel thus. It seemed to wake up parts of herself she was not sure she had truly become acquainted with before, as if there were secret, new parts of her body that had lain dormant her entire life.

  And then his fingers skimmed her waist, and her whole body broke out into puckering goose bumps, and she was overcome with the sensation of it. She gasped against his mouth, and she could not catch her breath, and she began to feel vaguely frightened, as though she might lose all control of herself and become nothing but a slave to this feeling of pleasure. If she had only known it could all be so nice, she would have been twice as strenuous in her insistence that they engage in this activity immediately.

  But then this plateau of enjoyment was shattered entirely when Mr. Darcy’s hand cupped her breast.

  She cried out.

  He panted, resting his forehead against hers.

  She tried to catch her breath.

  But then he was exploring her, teasing her, both his hands on her, and she realized her chemise was somehow bunched up under her armpits and it was most undignified and probably looked very silly, but she didn’t care, because she only wanted him to keep touching her. She must have somehow passed that point where she had control of herself and not realized it. She was thoroughly unmoored now, a ship tossed on stormy seas, and everything was bliss.

  She wrapped her bare thighs around Darcy’s legs, dragging her hands down his bare back.

  He went rigid over her, his head back, his eyes slammed shut. Then, relaxing, he looked down on her.

  She felt strange, looking at him again. He was here with her on this journey that had unwound her and unmade her, but she was still herself, and she did not—

  “Hello,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

  She smiled back, relieved. “Hello,” she whispered back.

  He kissed her again, sweetly, briefly. “Ought we…? That is… the rest of our clothing…?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, struggling into a sitting position and fighting with her chemise to get it over her head.

  He moved away from her to a sitting position and wriggled out of his trousers and boots.

  She had the chemise off, but she was holding it against her skin, covering herself, which was stupid, because he had seen it all already, and touched it too, touched her everywhere, his hands had been all over her skin, and yet she still held it tight. She watched him, watched as he yanked off one boot and then the other and then undid his trousers and pulled them down and then… there he was.

  She bit down on her bottom lip and stared.

  He looked up at her.

  She looked away, shy all of the sudden.

  “Is that… have I…?”

  “No, no,” she said, bringing her gaze back to his. “No, I am… you are…” She dropped the idiotic chemise and pressed herself against him and the feeling of his bare skin against hers, everywhere, it was an epiphany.

  They fell back on the bed and there was more kissing, and more touching, both of them urgently moving their hands over the other, and she could feel that part of him, that male part, the part she found so curious and interesting, pressing against her between her legs.

  She wriggled against it,
because it was the firmest part of him yet, and everything seemed concentrated there, between her thighs. She should have realized that, since it was all going to end up there, but she had been distracted by how nice it felt everywhere else, how much his hands had driven her mad with sweetness.

  He grunted and pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “The, um, the French letter,” he muttered.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, sitting up. She fumbled in the drawer beside the bed and came out with the container that held it and then handed it to him.

  He took it out and turned it this way and that, looking at it as if he didn’t understand how it worked.

  She licked her lips, wondering if she should offer to assist him. She was fairly sure it was meant to, er, sheath him. But she felt oddly shy at the thought of putting her hands on him there. Was he quite sensitive in that part of his body? Could she hurt him? She knew that men could be badly injured if there was a blow between their legs, and perhaps it was because of the male organ. She should perhaps ask. Or she should have asked Lydia. Why had she not asked anything useful?

  But then Mr. Darcy seemed to understand what needed to be done and he did it himself, quickly, efficiently. He gave her a lopsided smile, and his ears turned pink.

  It was so endearing that she had to kiss him again, and he kissed her back with vigor and force, and one of his hands was back at her breast, and the other was touching her between her thighs, and she shuddered, crying out at that, at the sweetness of it all, it was so, so good—

  Her eyes popped open, because it had happened.

  He was… in her, stretching her wide open and they were joined, and it did hurt. She whimpered. She coughed.

  He let out a labored breath. “Lizzy?” he murmured, worried. “Lizzy are you—?”

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders.

  “Do you want it to stop?” His voice was a dark rumble in the darkness.

  “I…” She didn’t know. Already, the shock of it was wearing off, and the pain was lessening. Lydia had said the pain was part of it, that there was no way out of it. It would be pointless to stop, she supposed. “No, don’t stop. Keep going.” Of course, she didn’t really understand what there was to do to keep going. Hadn’t they achieved it? He was inside her, all the way inside, as deep as he could get, and there couldn’t—

  He started to move.

  She let out a ragged breath.

  He echoed it, and his lips found hers again.

  Oh, she thought. So, this is it. This was the most intimate thing she had ever experienced. He was so close, all of him pressed up against her, part of his body buried in her own. They were one. They were joined together and they were connected, and she had never felt so much sheer, powerful joy in her life. Tears came her her eyes unbidden and she held onto him for dear life.

  His lips on her mouth, on her jaw, on her throat. He groaned softly. “I love you, Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “I love you too, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she whispered back, and she was floating somewhere. Everything was wonderful.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Mr. Bingley, you are visiting rather early this morning,” said Jane, opening the door wide for him. There was no maid today, and Mr. Bingley had usually not visited on days when they had no help, but she supposed none of that mattered now that they were engaged. He knew how she lived, of course, and he would not be put off by the fact that she and her sisters must serve him.

  “Yes, I apologize,” said Mr. Bingley, removing his hat as he stepped inside.

  “Well, come into the parlor,” said Jane, gesturing. “I do not think we have any tea brewing, but I can go into the kitchen and—”

  “No, do not trouble yourself,” he said. “I did not come here for sustenance.” He nodded at the door to the parlor. “After you.”

  She stepped into the parlor.

  Kitty and Mary looked up. They were both darning stockings that morning. There had been a growing pile of stockings with holes in them, and it needed to be seen to.

  Mr. Bingley cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps your sisters might wish to find some other activity for a while.”

  “Oh, had you not heard?” said Mary sourly. “We have confessed that we both know all the dark secrets of the family.”

  “Yes,” said Kitty. “We have not been ignorant of our sisters’ occupations for some time now. So, there is nothing to hide.”

  “You may speak freely,” said Jane, gesturing for him to sit down.

  He did so. “I had thought that Mr. Darcy’s and your sister’s arrangement was over.”

  “Oh, it is,” said Jane. “Why last night, she went to pack up the last of her belongings from the house where he had put her up. She even stayed overnight.”

  “Oh, did she,” said Mr. Bingley darkly.

  Jane furrowed her brow. “I suppose it is odd for her to stay overnight. She said there was little she could pack, anyway, only the dresses, and she wanted to arrange for those to be sold, and so…” She looked up. “I think Lizzy lied to us.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Bingley. “She and Mr. Darcy were seen together at the Birchfield Ball last night, dancing together. But they didn’t stay long. They both disappeared early in the evening. The sight of her—Mrs. Fieldstone—is always enough to get tongues wagging, because they dance far too many dances together, and they arrive and leave together, and never a hint of a marriage proposal, and everyone already thinks that Mrs. Fieldstone is a woman of very loose morals. But the way they were dancing last night…” He shook his head. “They were especially scandalous.”

  Jane sighed. She rubbed her temples. “I don’t know what has got into Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is the very devil. I had thought he was taking the honorable path with her, but he is dragging her down the broad way of destruction again. She loses her head when it comes to him, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, it appears so,” said Bingley. “Listen, your sister is welcome in our home when we are wed, but not if she is… entertaining gentleman. That goes for all of them. I must draw the line somewhere.”

  “I agree,” said Jane. “It is quite one thing if she has seen the error of her ways and is trying to reform. There is forgiveness for those who ask. But if she does not wish to change, then what can we do?” She stood up. “I shall write to her and tell her that she must choose between Mr. Darcy and her family. She cannot have it both ways. Do you have a servant who could deliver the letter?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Bingley. His shoulders slumped. “Are you certain, dearest? I do not wish to cause you pain, and if you wished to try to convince me otherwise—”

  “No, sir,” said Jane, shaking her head. “It is not you who is causing me pain. You, in fact, are the soul of reason. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

  Mr. Bingley’s expression changed to something rather smoldering.

  Jane’s breath caught in her throat. Oh, dear, she was feeling rather flushed. “Paper,” she said in a strained voice. “I need paper and a pen!”

  * * *

  Elizabeth woke as sunlight streamed in the window, and she was gloriously undressed, wearing nothing at all. She liked the way the sheets felt on her bare skin. She rolled over, sighing softly.

  Mr. Darcy moaned next to her, his mouth moving against her shoulder, his fingers crawling slowly up over her hip and walking over her belly button.

  She let out a tiny squeal.

  He growled and began to kiss his way up her shoulder and neck to find her earlobe.

  Pleasure exploded through her body, hot and sweet. She gasped, clinging to him.

  His hands were roaming over her, finding her sensitive places. She could feel his body pressing against her. That male part of him was stiffening.

  “Are you too sore?” he whispered in her ear.

  “I…” She kissed him. “No.”

  His fingers darted between her legs.

  She moaned.

  “You want this?”

 
“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And then there was no more talking, none at all, and she was sore, but it was a sweet soreness that felt good at the same time, and she thought she would very much like to spend the rest of the day in bed, sleeping and waking to do this over and over again.

  But once they were spent, and resting in each other’s arms in the bed, holding onto each other, there was a tentative knock at the door.

  “Madam?” Meggy’s voice was a squeak and the door remained closed, though Meggy usually opened it to speak to Elizabeth.

  Darcy tightened his grip on her shoulders. He kissed her temple. “Tell her to go away.”

  Elizabeth giggled. “Is it important, Meggy?”

  “There’s a letter from your sister,” said Meggy. “The servant who brought it has been instructed to wait for a reply.”

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “My sister?” Oh dear, was it bad news? Had something happened? She shoved aside the covers and climbed out of bed. Oh, the cold morning air was less than welcome on her bare skin. And she couldn’t find her clothing. What had happened to her chemise? It wouldn’t be enough, but it would at least cover everything.

  She remembered throwing it, but where had she thrown it and—

  Mr. Darcy pulled it out from beneath his pillow. “Looking for this?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She took it from him. “Oh, I am sorry for—”

  “No, go and read the letter from your sister,” he said. “Of course, you must.”

  She smiled at him and then pulled her chemise over her head. She went to the door and opened it a crack. She did not want Meggy to see Mr. Darcy. That wouldn’t do.

  But then she couldn’t go marching about the house in the chemise. And Mr. Bingley’s servant could not see her only dressed thus.

  Luckily, Meggy held out the letter, her eyes averted, her face blood red.

  “Thank you, Meggy,” said Elizabeth, and now she felt mortified. She had been rather noisy had she not? All of the servants would have heard, and now… She shuddered, and now her own face was heating up.