Darcy & Elizabeth: Hope of the Future: Darcy Saga Prequel Duo Book 2

by Sharon Lathan

  Frankly, she had no worries over William’s “demands upon her person” since she fully intended to be making her demands upon his person as often as feasible. Nevertheless, in the way her mother couched the idea, Mr. Darcy sounded like a monster. How could she speak of him so negatively?

  Lizzy could not immediately think of the words to defend him, and her mother provided no time to collect her scattered thoughts. Apparently mistaking Lizzy’s stunned expression as panic, Mrs. Bennet leaned over and patted her suddenly ice-cold hands.

  “There, there, Lizzy. Do not fret. You are a strong woman. If anyone can handle a man like Mr. Darcy, it is you. Besides, I am confident the pressure will subside once you have provided him with an heir. That is what is most important to men of his station. Pray, my dear, that you are not like me and that you birth a boy first. After that, things shall go better. Men with social requirements, such as Mr. Darcy, do not wish their wives to be indisposed by frequent confinement. He will want you to stay pretty and svelte, to be the elegant lady at his side. These great men always have mistresses to take care of their baser needs, leaving the wife free to fulfill her household and social duties. Quite probably Mr. Darcy has already established an arrangement of this nature. I have suspected as much, what with his frequent and extended stays in London.”

  “Mama!”

  Jane’s shout silenced the awful words spewing from their mother’s mouth. Jane looked no less flabbergasted than Lizzy felt, but at least she had found her voice—Lizzy was absolutely speechless. She sat on the sofa completely frozen. Her head spun and a black curtain was blanketing her sight.

  I am going to faint.

  Oddly, the prospect was appealing. Oblivion was better than the pain slicing through her body. She was surprised not to see a pool of blood by her feet. Stars began to flicker before her eyes as her mind screamed, Breathe! You need air!

  Jerking to her feet, she swayed dangerously and stumbled from the room. Faintly, she heard Jane speaking in an uncharacteristically harsh tone, but she was too distraught to care. Instead of listening, she made her way outside, the need for fresh air and solitude determining her steps. She wound up at the garden bench she so often sat upon with William’s arms embracing her and his lips pressed to hers. But whatever comfort and reassurance she unconsciously sought was not to be found.

  William loved her, of this she held not a shred of doubt. Yet was there any truth to her mother’s claims? Sifting through them one by one, a laborious process with a clouded brain, Lizzy discarded most as outrageous-or she tried. In truth, her attempts at moving past the reference to mistresses, in the plural, were futile.

  “Lizzy, there you are! I should have known you would come here. You must not listen to a word Mama said. You know as well as I how ridiculous she is on this subject.”

  Jane’s sweet voice and tender embrace were immediately soothing. Laying her head onto Jane’s shoulder, Lizzy attempted to relax.

  “I know Mr. Darcy is not the man Mama described just now. He is wonderful and kind and loving. How could she say such things, Jane?” Springing to her feet, Lizzy paced over the cobblestones. “Oh, I can see past most of it, truly I can. But…do you ever wonder, Jane, about Mr. Bingley? About his…past?”

  “With women, you mean?” Jane’s whisper finished what Lizzy could not say aloud. “No, not really,” Jane answered. “I suppose he must have…experience, I believe is the polite way to put it. I do not want to know of it. Whatever past he has is irrelevant now. I shall be Charles’s wife, and I trust in his love and promised faithfulness. The same is true of Mr. Darcy. Trust your heart, Lizzy.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth Bennet, soon-to-be wife of an amazing man she loved with every ounce of her being, had a terrible week.

  On that first night of her separation from Mr. Darcy—he in London and she in Hertfordshire—the relatively minor geological distance dampened her spirits. Of far greater weight were the lingering words from her mother and the conjured images and fears they aroused.

  Placated to a minimal degree by Jane’s calming presence and wise words, she faked her way through dinner and for one hour in the parlor afterward. Mrs. Bennet appeared to have forgotten all about the exchange, Lizzy unsure whether to be relieved or furious. On the whole, the strain was too intense, so she retired early.

  Curling into a ball under the heavy blankets and down-filled counterpane, she welcomed the peace of her dreams. In and of itself, this was a typical nighttime wish, as her dreams for weeks had predominately included William. After Mrs. Gardiner’s informative lecture that ranged from the specifics of male anatomy to biology to sexuality, her dreams had evolved. Upon occasion, they were the carefree, chaste, sweetly romantic interactions from before. With increasing frequency, her dreams were vivid, intense, passionate interludes which caused her to wake abruptly, gulping for air, with her body flushed and aching from unfulfilled desire.

  Despite being a bit frustrating to jolt awake in the middle of the night in a state of intense concupiscence, Lizzy relished those dreams. Tonight, thanks to her adoring mother—sarcasm intended—her inner turmoil, and the early hour did not bode well for a restful slumber. She fully expected sleep to evade her, and to then toss and turn fitfully. In the end, that might have been preferable.

  She did not stir when Jane came to bed and slept dreamlessly for a time. That night's slumbering vision, when it came, began similarly to most of her unconscious fantasies involving William.

  The setting was a bedchamber unfamiliar to her, although when the only visible feature is an enormous bed, identification is difficult. On most nights, as well as this one, the assumption that it was the master's bedroom at Pemberley gained veracity by the appearance of William. He either entered through a doorway vaguely outlined in a blank wall or materialized as if from the air, as he did in this dream.

  However he arrived, his handsome face was relaxed and happy, and he gazed at her with adoration. The passionate countenance seen in waking life on those handful of occasions when emotions were let loose, was on full display in all of her dreams. Every feature was crisp, from the tousled, brown hair to his clear, blue eyes, and from the tantalizing cleft in his chin to the provocative patch of chest hair peeking from his open shirt collar.

  Alas, no matter how hard she prayed as she drifted off to sleep, he always wore trousers and a shirt, that being the most undressed state she had ever seen him in. Apparently, her subconscious still could not fabricate a nude William, despite her aunt’s descriptions of the male physique. Some details were destined to remain mysterious for a while longer.

  Dream Lizzy always wore a loose, lightweight chemise, one of the frilly, new purchases from her recent shopping expedition. Judging by the avid scan of her body from head to toe, dream William was wildly enticed by her attire. He would rush to her, eager to touch her flesh. Enfolding her in his strong arms and crushing her against his firm chest, he would capture her mouth in a penetrating kiss.

  On most nights, at this point, the dream varied. He might peel the gown off her shoulders as they stood near the bed, his caresses and kisses moving over her inflamed skin to places as yet untouched by him in life. Three or four times, they were suddenly on the bed, limbs entwined passionately. Once she vaguely recalled them falling to the carpeted floor, and a few times, a huge sofa spontaneously popped into the scene.

  In every dream scenario, Lizzy’s heart soared, and her ardor rose to unimaginable heights. This building of sensation—blissful, rapturous, consuming sensation— inevitably caused her to wake, her body aroused and on the brink of a craved for, mysterious physical release.

  On this night, passionate arousal was not what woke her with heart pounding and body throbbing.

  All had begun the same, William kissing and caressing in his gentle, loving manner. Dream Lizzy waited for the sweet spark of heat, for the tingles and shivers to erupt where his fingers danced on her skin, and for the rush of warm moisture in her womanly core. She waited for the antic
ipated ecstatic response…and felt nothing. Or rather, she felt an unwanted, contrastive response. Her skin grew ice-cold, her belly clamped into knots, and her lungs were desperate for air. Unnamed fear swelled inside her chest, expanding and ripening into full-blown panic.

  I cannot do this. I will disappoint him. I cannot please a man like him. I have no idea what to do.

  Unsure whether she shouted it in the dream or transmitted her thoughts by struggling to escape his embrace, dream William received the message. He did not care—at least, not initially. His handsome face—moments before awash with love and tenderness—altered into the proud, arrogant mien she’d first glimpsed at the Meryton Assembly. Lips pressed into an angry line and eyes hard as ebony, , he held her so tight it was painful about her body, and then he roughly propelled her toward the bed.

  In a state of hysteria, her frenzied thrashing and screams to stop escalated. Abruptly releasing his hold, he stared down at her with absolute disgust. William, both the dream version and the man she loved in waking life, was gone. An extreme, mutated version of Mr. Darcy had taken his place. This Mr. Darcy was far worse than she had ever imagined, even at the height of her dislike for him. Anger, pure hatred, disdain—all of these and other awful sentiments shone from his stony eyes.

  He did not speak aloud, but she heard him anyway. “You are a child. How could you please me? I’ve been with skilled women all over the world. Who are you to compare?”

  As the final nail in the coffin, he turned away…into the arms of another woman—a gorgeous woman with massive breasts, who smirked at dream Lizzy as she slid her arms around his shoulders and melted into his kiss.

  Lizzy launched upright in bed, the scream caught in her bone-dry throat.

  Any hope that the cloudless cobalt sky and shining sun that Tuesday morning would lift her spirits and warm her heart was dashed thanks to the London newspaper read over the breakfast table. Handed the social news sections while Mr. Bennet read of world events and politics, Lizzy scanned the gossip column by habit. It was a mistake. The top news bits were four reports of the latest whispered mistresses and affaires de coeur amongst the bon ton.

  Hastily flipping to the literary section, the headline story was of Lord Byron’s newest publication. Surely an article about a book of poems, the primary work a fable about a monk, was a safe read, right? Apparently, it was not her destiny that morning to avoid reminders of illicit dalliances. The writer of the piece barely mentioned The Prisoner of Chillon, and Other Poems. Instead, the focus was on Byron’s affair with Claire Clairmont, formerly linked with Mary and Percy Bysshe Shelley in an infamous, scandalous ménage à trios and who was now rumored to be pregnant with Byron’s child.

  Tossing the paper onto the table with a grunt of disgust, she further startled her half-asleep family by jolting out of her chair and stomping out of the room, leaving her plate untouched.

  From there, the week proceeded from bad to worse.

  Every night, without fail, the horrible nightmare came. Over and over and over, his beloved face would twist in anger and disappointment, stabbing her soul. Always, some woman, the face changing and often hazy, would clutch him, kissing and touching as the entwined duo faded into the shadows. Dream Lizzy would be left standing alone, sobbing and wretched. Unable to bear the pain, Lizzy would wake in a panic, her heart pounding and lungs burning.

  Jane had forever been a solid sleeper, but how she slept through Lizzy’s thrashing was a mystery. Lizzy was glad of it though, as she absolutely did not want to talk about the nightmares or her chaotic emotions.

  Nevertheless, despite Jane’s unawareness of Lizzy’s traumatic nightly visions, Jane knew her sister well enough to pierce through the feigned normalcy Lizzy tried to project in front of her family. No one was fooled, although to everyone besides Jane, Lizzy’s dolor was merely the result of missing Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Bennet, who was hopeless in dealing with female moods, retreated to his library. Whether due to conscious regard for Lizzy’s malaise or regret over her hideous speech, Mrs. Bennet never again broached the subject of future husbands and marital counsel. This development was a huge relief to all four of the Bennet daughters!

  Mary was flummoxed by Lizzy’s depression over a man being absent for a few days, the concept utterly inconceivable to her. After a handful of piously intoned platitudes gained nothing but stinging retorts from Lizzy, Mary gave up on her brand of comfort. Kitty tried to cheer her sister but was far too self-centered and flighty to fret over Lizzy’s emotional state for long. After all, if a cute puppy or a parlor game didn’t do the trick, what else was there?

  Honestly, Lizzy was glad when they finally left her alone. She had always preferred solitude when troubled, ideally out of doors where the clean air and open vistas calmed her nerves and renewed her senses. Alas, the weather insisted on being unpredictable and volatile, another reason why that week was terrible.

  Decreased temperatures, spates of wind, and intermittent drizzling rains forced Lizzy to remain indoors. Normally impervious to inclement weather, with her wedding a week away, even hale and hearty Lizzy Bennet was not going to risk an autumn fever. Thus, she had scant to do but stare at the gloominess outside, which matched how she felt inside.

  I miss you, William. I miss you so much my entire body hurts. Please hurry back to me.

  His letters helped tremendously. In that week alone, Lizzy received nine envelopes addressed to her! The red wax stamped with his seal indicative of passionate love, so he wrote. The double-sided pages contained line after line of romantic sentiment, expressions of his grief in being parted from her, his longing to hold and kiss her, and his impatience to be her husband. After his loving greeting, each letter began, “In X days, you shall be Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  Despite this concrete evidence of his devotion, Lizzy’s subconscious stubbornly refused to relinquish her fears and insecurities. It was not until Friday, a short break in the nasty weather providing a window of opportunity for a vigorous walk, that she gained some clarity and improved her outlook.

  “Assess what you know to be true,” she said aloud to herself while trudging through a deserted field of yellowed, knee-high grasses. “William loves you. He is an honorable man, who is devoted to his family—a gentleman in the purest meaning of the word. He is kind and…he loves you.”

  Always, inevitably, she came back to that incontrovertible fact. He loved her. He had proven his love in a thousand ways for close to a year. There was no possibility of her doubting his love. With his love and because of his love, he desired her physically. No question of that either!

  Where she stumbled in her confidence was concerning her ability to please him in the physical realm, as probably all virginal brides had since Eve. What caused deeper anxiety were the subtle doubts of her competence and worthiness to be Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley that had crept inside her brain. There had been conversations and incidences, particularly while in London, when the reality of his worldliness, education, refinement, and superior station forcibly hit her.

  William had divulged fragments of his business affairs, life at Pemberley, and noble family, but for every piece of the Fitzwilliam Darcy puzzle she snapped into place, there were a hundred more lying in a jumble. His stated reasons for secrecy--the pain of lost loved ones weighing upon his heart and the preference to share once at Pemberley--made perfect sense. Lizzy had never questioned his motives or was suspicious. Until now, thanks to her mother instilling distrust and weakening her faith!

  Ignoring the damp, Lizzy plopped down on a sun-warmed rock and stared up at the sky. As much as she wanted to curse her mother and place the blame upon her shoulders, Lizzy knew her mother’s words held no power unless the thoughts had already been buried deep within her mind.

  Was he the type of man who entertained women of ill repute? It was so outside his character that she could not fathom it! Then again, look at Lord Byron. A man who wrote the most beautiful love poems was a notorious rogue if even half the rumors were
true, and he was only one famous example.

  What her mother had said about men of Society and mistresses was true. If one listened close enough, murmurs of the same were rampant right in sleepy, boring Meryton and the surrounding villages. She could name three widowed women off the top of her head who were reputedly “available” for men in need. Polite ladies pretended not to hear such tales—and also pretended not to gossip about it—yet somehow whispers spread.

  Local shenanigans had nothing to do with Mr. Darcy, of course. They only served to remind Lizzy of the wickedness of the world, the decaying morals—the human condition, if you will, that far too often justified less-than-perfect behavior.

  William had said, numerous times, how he abhorred the attitudes and activities of Society, and she believed him. However, by all accounts, it was wholly acceptable for males to follow different rules when it came to their physical urges. Her William was a healthy, robust, virile man possessing an intensely passionate nature, as she knew oh so well.

  “No, I don’t want to know the details of that portion of his past. Not ever,” she said to the sky. “I only hope Mama is mistaken and that his affairs are past and will remain so.”

  It came down to her fears and uncertainty—right or wrong, valid or nonsense—and their promise to be honest with each other. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject or what she would say, but she trusted her beloved William to comfort and reassure. No matter how difficult the conversation or painful the answers, the burden pressing upon her shoulders eased once she decided to talk openly with him.

  So why did she continue to have that hideous nightmare?

  11

  Significant Introspection

  Darcy’s week away from Hertfordshire was fantastic—at least in comparison to the week suffered through by his beloved Elizabeth.