by Iris Lim
"Mr. Darcy?"
"Send him to Georgiana's," my husband orders, and we hear the little feet scurry away.
• • •
I don't remember much about this afternoon. It's as if the world just decided to go to the next track and skip our spot on the playlist. I know we visited Georgiana, that Dr. Haddon said something about getting the pastor guy to visit, that we somehow miraculously got out of that study fully-clothed. I recall bits and pieces.
But all I really actually remember — is Darcy.
Darcy readjusting his cravat thing even as I want to tear it off. Darcy shutting the door firmly when we leave Georgiana's room. Darcy's lingering glances when we part to go dress for dinner. Darcy right now — looking across the dining table we occupy — and lifting a single eyebrow in ultimate seduction. I feel myself blushing and desperately wishing my not-for-general-audiences thoughts don't show on my face.
Servants talk, you know.
"Mrs. Darcy," a voice beside me calls. I ignore it, too transfixed on Darcy to care.
"Mrs. Darcy," the voice grows louder.
I ignore it again.
It takes a puzzled Darcy to drop the eye-sex and frown at me before I care enough to listen. Frustrated, I look up to see a servant — a footman, I think they call him.
"Yes?" I snap.
"Your plate, madame," he answers politely. I glance down at my scattered leftovers — and begrudgingly lean back to let him take the plate.
"Thank you, Mrs. Darcy." Ever civil, he bows and backs away.
In that tiny corner at the back of my mind that isn't preoccupied with getting Darcy to myself as soon as possible, I wonder if I'm being a horrible mistress. I know I've been playing the whole 'not-used-to-it' card to everyone — to Darcy himself, even. It's as if I'm excusing my own poor behavior.
But hey, then again — isn't it true?
Can't imagine my lack of old-school housekeeping skills making Pemberley run any better than it did before my surprise arrival.
"Elizabeth," Darcy calls across the table. I look up, surprised at the full name.
"Yes, dear?" It feels natural.
"Thank you for tending to Georgiana. She yields well to your guidance."
"Oh, right." I nod absent-mindedly. I think I did sputter some random health advice earlier. "It's — no problem. I'm, like, totally used to it."
I bite my lip right after. Kudos to him for only frowning a little.
"Elizabeth."
I look up. We aren't seated that far apart, but it's still farther than I'd like. I smile. "Yes?"
"Do you prefer —" He hesitates. For a bit, he tucks his chin into his neck. The familiar gesture sends overwhelming chills up and down my spine. "Do you."
"Do I?"
"Do you still prefer to play music tonight?" He completes the thought.
I'm taken aback by the strange question for one minuscule moment. Then, his mischievous eyes say it all. I inhale sharply, hoping I'm reading him right.
"I have no plans tonight," I reply gradually. My eyes stay steadily on his. The eyebrows tease me, melt me. "Do — you?"
"I believe myself quite ready to retire." He stands up. His voice is layered and deep. His eyes still tease. "Do you?"
All this hinting and gazing, in front of the servants no less — who says people weren't sexually liberated before?
"I believe — I am," I make out, slowly standing myself. His face brightens. His lips curve into a smile.
I still can't believe we're doing this in front of Lilieth and the gang. This is downright indecent.
"I shall see you — in a moment," he says, calm and erotic.
"Mmm hmm." It's all I trust myself to say.
He gazes longingly at me for another two seconds. I forget everything — Georgiana's sickness, Georgiana's name, my hometown, my address, my Google password, my name. Then he smiles and lifts that damn sexy eyebrow — and turns to walk away.
"Darcy!" I call reflexively, stepping forward just a little. He turns around. "I — I, uhm."
How do I even start?
Do you love me? Are you sure you love me? Are you sure I am who you think I am?
I lick my lips. I gulp.
Do you remember anything that's not from here? Do you have another wife? Another Lizzie?
My breath grows shallow. I feel this strange urge to cry.
"Lizzy?" He's standing beside me, hand gentle on my elbow. I look up. He's tall, really tall. I smell it again — that hint of cologne and aftershave. Were my assumptions about his being the real Darcy right?
Or were they selfish imaginings of a lustful mind?
"Lizzy, please understand — I do not expect —"
"Oh, it's not that!" I stop him, hand on his arm. I want to hug him, kiss him — forget about all sorts of ethical questions right now. Ethical questions, such as, of course, if it's okay for me to bang this guy if he's mistaking me for someone else.
Then again, it's not my fault that he's so hopelessly attractive.
"Lizzy, are you well?" He asks, all concern.
I give him a smile. "Yes."
He nods uncertainly. I feel my heart in knots.
"Darcy, if I —" I'm only vaguely aware that we're in the hallway, still within earshot of all the household help. I grip his arm tighter. "If I have — faults, faults that you have never seen before — faults that make me seem like someone else entirely —"
He nods solemnly, listening. I swallow that giant lump in my throat.
"If those — if you — I mean, if you find out that I have faults like that," I force myself to go on, to look him in the eye. "Will you still love me?"
He's surprised by the question. Heck, I'm surprised. Since when has Lizzie Bennet become such a needy basket case?
Then, he pulls me into his arms and hugs me so tight my lungs stretch their lining.
"Of course," he breathes beside my ear, hands warm on my back and waist.
And I know I've run out of excuses.
And, frankly, I'm pretty glad I have.
• • •
"Hey." My voice feels small in the expanse of his room. It's my first time here, now that I think about it — and the sparse ornamentation and muted colors fit exactly what I've always known about him.
He whips around, surprised, and looks me up and down. It's nothing special, just an extra green silk robe on top of the usual white ruffles (there's not much to work with around here) — but the way the lust condenses on his face is undeniable. I feel the air pour out of my chest and on to the suddenly-too-small room.
I smile despite the nerves. "I, uhm — thought you might be in here."
Because I'm just so original with my lines.
I try not to look too much at the furniture — can't have him thinking I'm a gold digger.
Darcy doesn't seem to mind. The way he wanders towards me in that solitary white shirt, the way he licks his lips while looking at mine, the way his hands fly slowly and firmly to encircle my waist — every single movement ignites my senses.
I gulp, looking straight at him. Is this how virgin brides feel on their wedding nights?
I can hear the fireplace behind me, the literally cackling fire. I can imagine the empty surfaces, since I've told Lilieth not to bring a single thing tonight — or to disturb us under any circumstances. We need privacy tonight more than ever.
A girl taking charge of her own sex life — who'd have thought?
I smile at the thought, and Darcy notices. "You find something amusing, my love?"
"Hm?" I refocus on him. The way his thumbs stroke my ribcage makes it impossible to think too much. "Amusing?"
"You smile," he explains, and presses a kiss to my forehead. I realize that if one little kiss like this is already making me turn liquid — then I'll be barely alive when the real things comes along.
"I smile for you," I say, barely making sense. He lifts an eyebrow, obviously not expecting my line, and my knees officially give way.
He cat
ches me, chest against chest. I swoon unabashedly. Left hand on my waist, he lifts his right to my cheek.
"Lizzy." The way he says my name is dark, bright, and erotic. He kisses my lips. I respond hungrily. Then he pulls back. I frown. "You understand we do not have to —"
"But I want to," I interrupt. I look deep into his eyes — searching, convincing. "Darcy, please — Fitzwilliam. I — I want this. I need this."
He frowns a little, like he doesn't understand my world's tritest proposition. I realize in a haze that maybe it's not trite around here.
"Lizzy, I am overjoyed to have you restored to me," he goes on. My sexual frustration is rising by the second. What's with the gentlemanliness? Seriously. "I treasure you every moment, darling — there is no need to choose physical reassurance if you do not wish so."
Whoever his wife usually is — she's a total prude. Why would anyone not want to take this hunk of meat to bed?
I ignore the nagging thought that I have been the one refusing for the past few weeks.
I pull him closer by the neck. "Fitzwilliam, please — I want this. You are the most attractive man I've ever da— uhm, spent time with in my entire life. You are kind, you are gentle, you are considerate. I want this — I want you."
His eyes surprise me by growing even deeper, practically chasms of eternal space. He kisses me again. I'm more gentle this time.
"I apologize for compelling you to alter your life so dramatically, Lizzy," he's talking again. "I would not wish to impose my dreams and desires upon you in any way. From the moment you'd agreed to marry me, I had determined to respect your every hope and longing. Please understand you do not have to comply merely to please me. Elizabeth, I love you, and I —"
"Well, I love you too." I'm surprised at how effortless the words fall out, like they've always been meant to be said, meant to be said to him. "You don't have to worry, you know. I really, really want this too."
He looks straight at me now, emotions all over his handsome face. The heavy curtains and open windows and wooden frames all blur behind him. I see him — only him, the man I've found myself falling in love with — perhaps, already have.
"Lizzy —"
I don't let him talk. My lips make sure of that. My fingers grasp at his hair while his run into mine. His other hand presses me so firmly against him that I'm dangling off him — reckless and hooked and utterly drunk on the feeling of it all. He pulls me backwards, straight towards the bed, and I feel myself warming and wetting so keenly it's embarrassing.
Except it isn't — not with him.
"Darcy," I whisper breathlessly between kisses, between his hand on my hemline and his hand on my breast. He tongue grazes my lips, my teeth, my jaw, my neck. He's neither rushing nor slowing. It's like he knows that magical pace where everything is perfect. "Mm — William."
The word has him smiling against my collar bone — and unlocks a higher plane of passion.
"Elizabeth." His voice is by my ear — breathless, longing, dangerous. I inhale it all — the sweat, the skin, the wood, the aftershave. I bring his mouth back to mine. His hands bunch my shirt up to my neck — and soon has it joining the robe on the floor.
My hands roam the expanse of his chest, his shoulders, his back. He settles in between my legs like he's always belonged there — and maybe, just maybe, he always has.
He hums against my ear when he enters — I cling vigorously to his naked shoulder blades. Then he's moving and thrusting — and words can't describe just how much he knows what he's doing. Each drive against my body, each fiery kiss that accompanies the impassioned moves — I find myself exploding into a thousand pieces and getting put right back together just to explode again.
"William," I whisper. And each time, he puts his lips back on mine.
It feels both like forever and all-too-fast before he's done, and I'm done, and we're both panting and smiling and irrevocably happy. He rolls off me and we snuggle, actually snuggle. It's not like the movies — where two people fall in bed in a fit of passion and have messy emotional entanglements afterwards. It's not like the books — where one person is the dominant teacher and the other a submissive student. No, it's not. Nor is it like the ways old married couples want you to think — that once you're married, it really isn't anything special.
Because it is.
I blink fast, repeatedly. Darcy's moves in the bedroom, they — they're not from a hormone-driven young man wanting self-validation. It's not about him, nor me. His every touch was a loving caress of a monogamous, dedicated husband — and every moment was about both of us, about everything we share and feel.
It's cliché, super cliché — but I almost want to shed a tear or two.
"You, my love." He kisses my cheek. It's warm and fuzzy and perfect. "Are heaven-sent."
My smile falters just a little.
Am I?
Eight
The room feels bright even before I open my eyes — the angle distinctly different from my usual sleep space. It's warm here, and cozy, and warm.
"Hm, good morning, Lizzy," Darcy's voice rumbles beside me. I smile into my pillows.
"Good morning." The lazy smile on my face is probably the most vulnerable thing I've ever displayed, last night included — but surprisingly it doesn't bother me at all.
"Did you sleep well?"
His face is so close to mine that his features are distorted. I giggle. "Too well."
It feels natural to kiss him then, like we've done this morning dance a million other times — in this or another life. The sheets feel cool on my skin. His kisses soothe me as his hands wake me up.
"Should we have breakfast?" I pull back first, smiling wildly.
"Still not sated, my love?" Darcy lies on his pillow, naked torso in full display, and quirks that eyebrow.
I don't stop kissing him for another two minutes.
When we stop — it's flushed skin and short breaths and tangled legs in one romantic mess.
I laugh, panting, "You really don't want me eating, do you?"
"Not if I could nibble upon your skin all day."
I smile, flustered. His teasing look feels both foreign and familiar, like everything about him does. Again, I have to wonder — is he the same Darcy I've always known? The Darcy who lingers in the coffee room when I'm there, who volunteers to use the old computer when the latest shipment comes out short — who enters the office each morning smelling of cologne and aftersha—
This Darcy's brand-new assault on my neck begs me to stop thinking when another activity this delicious is at hand.
By the time he rolls back on his side, I'm ready to sell my soul for another morning round.
"I have missed you, Lizzy," Darcy says, all seriousness, hand on my cheek. And I'm forced to remember that we've probably had vastly different interpretations of last night.
As far as he's concerned, we've finally gotten some good make-up sex after weeks of meaningless abstinence.
As for me?
Well — it's — it's the start of something new.
I turn to smile at Darcy and run my hand through his messy hair. He teasingly pulls at my robe, pretending to take it off — as if I'm not exposing enough as it is.
"I love you," I say, without prompting.
"I love you, Lizzy."
• • •
"I shall leave you most unwillingly for my tiresome books and matters." Darcy sighs as he pushes himself away from the table. For some reason, breakfast tasted particularly good today. The butter is smoother, the water sweeter, and the omelets more aromatic than any I've ever had in life.
"Maybe I can convince you to stay?" My voice sounds so love-struck that I'm in junior high with my first crush all over again. I lean most of my body weight on my folded arms. The table's sturdy enough to prevent my toppling over at least.
Because, you know, if undressing Darcy was hot — dressing him was, too.
It took a few interruptions before I let him finally call his valet this morning.
I blush, unashamed at the thought.
"Shall you tend to Georgiana?" His voice wakes me from the memory.
Right — she's, uhm — sick, right?
I feel a little bad for having forgotten, so I sit up straight. "I'll take care of her."
"Thank you." He says it so dashingly that I want to tear off his clothes right then and there.
So when he starts walking towards me, it takes every last drop of self-control I possess not to slam him on the table and straddle him.
"Have a wonderful day, my love," he says, leaning closer.
"You too."
He kisses me then — on the lips. And I fight the urge to demand that he take me back to bed this very instant. The kiss doesn't last long, just a few seconds more than his usual peck on the forehead.
But it means the world.
"Has the rector visited?" Darcy asks — because, supposedly, that's what people say after a kiss.
I resist the eye roll. "I think so. I'll check."
"Thank you."
Again, chills.
"You're welcome." I smile. He licks his lips like he's about to kiss me again — and then bows and backs away.
I hide the disappointment as well as I can.
• • •
"Does it matter?" I'm genuinely baffled when Georgiana explains — in tears, no less.
So she sent a letter in reply to a jilted ex-boyfriend.
Like, what's the big deal?
I sit closer to her on the bed. The embroidered covers don't come close to reflecting her gorgeous golden hair. Even the tears enhance her beauty.
"Oh, Lizzy, don't you see?" Georgiana sobs — uncontrollably. "Lizzy, I am ruined!"
Huh.
Okay.
"Are you — sure?" I want to bite my tongue the moment the words leave.
She looks at me like she thinks I'm lying — and then cries even harder. Drama queen that she is, even Lydia has never been this inconsolable.
I'm totally at a loss. "Georgiana, could you — uhm. Could you — tell me what happened?"
"He — he." She's sobbing, wailing. It's rare to see her so weak. I mean, Gigi is born to be the eternal sunshine of life. I reach for her shoulder. "He — he wrote to me first, Lizzy. His words were so horrific I could hardly repress the urge to reply."
