“Why have you not kissed me again?” Her mouth made a little moue of disappointment. “We only kissed the once, but it was very pleasant.” She lowered her head until their mouths were only inches apart, and he could smell the wine on her breath.
“How much wine did you drink, love?”
Her brows drew together. Good Lord, even her frowns were beautiful! “I am not foxed.”
“Of course not, but—”
“Although, I must admit the wine did go to my head earlier. I feel quite…warm and…delightfully…distracted.” Darcy found her attention far too focused for his peace of mind. She settled onto his chest, giggling as if the situation were a minor inconvenience rather than the potential disaster Darcy knew it to be.
Gently, he tried to slide her back to her side of the bed, but she resisted. “Elizabeth—”
She pouted. “Just one kiss?”
What could be the harm in a single kiss? Especially if she then surrendered to some much-needed rest. Her lips were so very pink and…close…and difficult to ignore. “Very well,” he breathed.
Before he had a chance to act, Elizabeth’s lips descended onto his, pressing and demanding a response. Oh, it was heavenly. How often had he dreamt of kissing Elizabeth? Yet the reality far exceeded any dream. Her lips tasted of wine, appropriately enough since he felt intoxicated by every touch. Her lips avidly sought his as if she, too, could not get enough of his taste, and her eagerness further stoked his desire.
Darcy opened his mouth, and their tongues swept together in a loving duel. The need for air meant their lips must reluctantly part, which prompted a throaty moan from Elizabeth. “I have nothing with which to compare, but surely you bestow the best kisses of any man in England—or France.” She moaned again, and the sound traveled down Darcy’s spine to radiate excitement throughout his body.
Darcy flushed with pleasure. “I can only say I am happy you have been kissing nobody else.”
She smiled and lowered her head for another kiss. As their lips parted, both Elizabeth and Darcy were panting for breath. He had expected her energy to flag by now, but she still lingered, seemingly prepared for another kiss.
He patted her arm reluctantly. “Elizabeth, love, you must sleep.”
“I am not tired.”
“Still…” Darcy had been avoiding touching her more than necessary, but he feared his will would soon break. Placing both of his hands on her waist, he attempted to roll her back to the other side of the bed. But Elizabeth used his momentary distraction to slide one of her legs over both of his. Now her entire body rested atop of his, straddling his pelvis. Darcy’s body reacted in an unmistakable way.
He groaned, mind and body at war. “Elizabeth, we cannot—”
“Shh.” She laid a finger on his lips. “I am recovered from my injury and illness. There is no reason we could not resume…marital relations.” She blushed at the words, not meeting his eyes.
Damnation! Darcy’s body was in complete agreement with that plan. His desire had been restrained by concern that she did not return his feelings, but these actions seemed to answer that question. Yearning surged through his blood, lashing his entire body into a frenzy.
As she bent down to kiss him again, her entire body pressed against his, their night clothes providing only a flimsy barrier as body parts rubbed against each other. Darcy swallowed hard, on the verge of losing control of the situation.
With an effort of will, he grabbed her arms and flipped her onto her back. Now he loomed over her, his body covering hers.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she gasped, but she made no complaints. She recovered quickly, entwining her arms around his neck, and brought his head toward hers for a passionate, impossibly long kiss.
The bodice of her shift had moved, almost to the point of revealing a mound of creamy flesh…If Darcy just…
His hand reached out and…
Chapter Ten
What the hell am I about? This woman is not my wife!
Darcy yanked his hand back as if she had suddenly burst into flames. Fool! he berated himself. I cannot indulge in “marital relations” with Elizabeth. I would be taking advantage of her in the worst way.
But his body protested. She was lying beneath him, flushed and wanton, entirely too willing for someone he would take advantage of.
Ignoring his body’s pleas, Darcy rolled off Elizabeth’s warmth with a muffled oath and landed with his feet on the cool floor.
“William?” Elizabeth was stricken. “Have I become less desirable to you?” Moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Oh, Good Lord! Let her believe anything but that! Darcy felt like the worst sort of blackguard. “Nothing could be further from the truth, my love. But I—” He cast about for a plausible explanation. Unfortunately, his brain was still befuddled by lust. “I—You—You are not completely well,” he finished lamely.
Her brows drew together. “If I am well enough to travel, surely I am well enough for...the marriage bed.” The plea was followed by a wiggle of her hips that did nothing to dispel his desire.
What could he possibly say? Then inspiration struck. “Darling, we are currently trapped in France.”
“Yes.” She nodded warily.
“I do not want to take the risk that you could become with child. We do not know how soon we can return to England.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed a perfect circle. “I had not thought of that.”
He leaned over her and stroked her silken hair. “It is not a lack of desire, darling. That is impossible.”
Her shoulders slumped in resignation. Darcy hated the defeated expression on her face. How could he experience guilt over not taking her virginity? He had wandered into a mirror world where right was wrong, up was down, and left was right.
She slid down into the covers. “Very well. Will you at least hold me as I fall asleep?” Her voice was plaintive and small.
“Of course.” He climbed back into bed and pressed his body against hers, savoring the warmth against his skin. The sensations of her moving beside him were almost enough to undo the vow he had made so recently.
He could not completely deprive himself; one more kiss would be his reward for restraint. Cradling her head in both his hands, Darcy captured her lips with his. This kiss was slow and tender, unlike the earlier frenzied collision of lips. When he reluctantly pulled his lips from hers, she sighed with deep contentment, her body relaxed and supple.
“I love your kisses, William,” she murmured, her eyes heavy.
“And I love yours.”
He watched as her eyes fell closed; soon her breathing became deep and slow and regular. Still, he could not shake a feeling of unease. What would he do if she became amorous again? When would he tell her the truth? What would happen if her memory returned?
Darcy was more than willing to marry her to compensate for the ways he had compromised her reputation. But once she learned how he had lied to her, she might never wish to see him again.
Still… Darcy rubbed his finger along his swollen lips in wonder. He could not bring himself to wish those kisses away.
***
People streamed along the street, hurrying to work, buying bread, or chatting with friends. Paris seemed even more crowded than London, not that she could remember a specific trip to London. Elizabeth fought the desire to shrink down on the bench as they entered the city. Perched on the high seat of the curricle, she felt as if she wore a sign proclaiming her to be an Englishwoman. It was nonsense, of course. She was wearing French clothing, and her face alone could not betray her national origin. As long as she was not called upon to speak, she was safe. Fortunately, she understood French far better than she spoke it; they had managed throughout the past two days with William speaking French while Elizabeth listened and nodded in appropriate places.
However, the sheer number of people in Paris made her apprehensive. Surely some of them would want to speak with Elizabeth. How could she avoid revealing her secret
? If their identities were revealed, the consequences would be bad enough for her, but far worse for William. The gendarmes were unlikely to be very harsh toward a woman, but they were imprisoning all Englishmen. William had been so good to Elizabeth, so patient; she could not be the cause of his downfall.
If anyone suspected, they would claim to be a Frenchman with an English wife, but Elizabeth foresaw many potential problems with the plan, not the least of which was that an Englishwoman living in France should speak better French.
To make matters worse, she had awakened that morning feeling far more weary and stiffer than the day before. She had experienced fewer coughing fits, but her breathing was more constricted, wheezing roughly in and out of her chest. Elizabeth strove to minimize the sounds and conceal her fatigue, but William’s solemn expression suggested that he was not fooled. A stiffness in his posture betrayed his anxiety.
She tried not to stare at him, but he was very handsome. At times she experienced such desire for him, as she had the previous night. But other times he seemed far too magnificent for her—like a fine silk gown one might admire in a shop window but knew would be far too dear. How had he ever fixed on her as the future companion of his life? It seemed impossible that such a creature would desire her.
Although she had only seen him in rough laborer’s clothing, she knew they did not suit him. His bearing was too commanding, his posture too erect for him to be anything other than a gentleman. William would be resplendent when dressed the part: in a waistcoat and jacket with a starched cravat neatly tied around his neck. Was such an image fixed in her mind as a memory?
His hands were strong as they handled the reins. She could not help recalling the night before as his fingers pressed into her skin—firm but caressing. Even his profile suggested the strength of his character: his determined mouth and sharp eyes. And then there was the unruly dark hair she longed to run her fingers through.
How had she managed to capture the attention of such a handsome man? Elizabeth had viewed herself in a mirror; she had her share of beauty but nothing out of the common way. Nor was there any reason to suspect William had married her for her dowry.
Recognizing her scrutiny, William gave her a quick, reassuring smile before returning his attention to negotiating the teeming Paris streets. At such moments she had no difficulty believing in his deepest love. Indeed, it was the only explanation for his behavior. Yet at other times she wondered. Would she discover one day that it was all some bizarre mistake or waking fantasy? Without her memories, everything seemed slightly unreal. Perhaps she was still lying unconscious in the Martins’ guest chamber, only dreaming of Paris.
On the outskirts of the city, William had stopped to ask a shopkeeper for directions to Rue DuVal. The neighborhood in which they now found themselves was neither for the most prosperous citizens nor the city’s poorest residents. Women on the street wore sensible, sturdy cotton dresses, and the men in drab brown jackets were most likely shopkeepers or clerks. Houses were small, even by London standards, but well maintained and neat, with boxes of summer flowers blooming at their windows.
William guided the horse down a narrow side street, little more than an alley; a sign tacked to one building proclaimed it to be Rue DuVal. Elizabeth allowed herself a sigh of relief; she was quite prepared to quit the curricle. He reined in the horse in front of number twenty-three, an unprepossessing townhouse little different from its neighbors. Lacy curtains adorned the windows facing the street, and the door had been painted a cheerful red.
“This is her house?” Elizabeth asked as William helped her down.
“Yes.” Darcy took a deep breath as he gave her his arm. “We can only pray she is at home.”
As at the Dreyfus farm, William positioned himself between the door and Elizabeth while he knocked. She did not know whether to be annoyed or touched by the unnecessary chivalry; surely his former governess was unlikely to be a source of danger.
The door was opened by a young man—probably in his late teens—tall and thin with dark hair. He was not dressed as a servant. A family member perhaps? William had said the governess had returned to France to nurse a widowed sister through her final illness; then she had remained in Paris to raise her niece and nephew.
“Good afternoon,” Darcy said politely in French. “Is Miss Laurent at home?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is for Miss Laurent. I am an old friend.”
The frown deepened. “Is she expecting your visit?”
William huffed out a laugh. “No, but I have no doubt she will be pleased to see me.”
The man hesitated, not opening the door to admit them, torn between protecting his aunt and his duty to visitors.
An older woman’s voice floated out from the depths of the house. “Who is it, Bernard?”
“He will not grant me his name, but he wishes to speak with you.”
“Nan!” William called out in English. “’Tis I.”
At these words a stout woman in her early sixties came bustling down the hallway. Her eyes went round with shock when she saw William. “It is you!” Instantly, her eyes darted around the street behind them to see if their presence had been noticed. “Bernard, let them in. Let them in at once!” She gestured urgently.
With a dubious expression, Bernard admitted William and Elizabeth. Only once the door was safely closed behind them did the woman fling her arms around William and embrace him as one might a child. Had the woman been younger, Elizabeth might have been seized by jealousy.
“Will!” she cried. “What an unexpected treat! Mon Dieu! You are in good looks, although a bit informally dressed.” The woman chuckled, but her torrent of words continued. “Why are you in Paris? And who is this lovely creature? And how is Georgiana? Is she with you? And—”
William laughed. “I will answer your questions, Nanny Laurent, if you will stop talking long enough to listen.”
Miss Laurent laughed, too. “I simply cannot believe it! Let me look at you.” She stepped back to scrutinize William from head to toe. “Ah, you are a fine figure of a man! The very image of your dear papa.” She leaned toward Elizabeth, confiding, “In his youth he was prone to stoutness, but it seems he has outgrown that tendency.”
William rolled his eyes as Elizabeth put a hand over her mouth to disguise her smile. “I do not believe it!” she said.
The older woman waggled her finger at Elizabeth. “You must believe it. I have known Will since he was a babe in arms.”
“I may regret introducing the two of you.” William gave the older woman a tolerant smile.
Miss Laurent raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Elizabeth. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“Ah, forgive me. Miss Adele Laurent, this is my w-wife, Elizabeth Ben—” William caught himself and began again. “Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Your wife? Upon my word, I heard nothing of a wife in your last letter.” At these words, William stared at his feet and fidgeted. “It must have happened very quickly. How wonderful!” The woman could not help but draw Elizabeth into an embrace, kissing her on both cheeks. “Nothing could make me happier than to meet Will’s wife.” She turned to William. “You have given me a great gift.”
Elizabeth blushed. It would be difficult to accept such effusions under any circumstances, but it was particularly hard when she could not recall their courtship.
William’s face sobered. “This is not a holiday, I am afraid. We have found ourselves in France by mischance and now seek to return home.”
The older woman clapped her hands together. “Of course. We will help in any way we can.” Behind her, Bernard stood with his arms crossed over his chest, not appearing at all inclined to help.
“We need shelter for two or three nights, if possible,” William explained. “Elizabeth requires rest, and we must find a way to cross the Channel.”
“Why does Mrs. Darcy need to rest so badly, eh?” Miss Laurent nudged William in the ribs. �
��Is she, perhaps, in an interesting condition?”
Elizabeth could not imagine many people treated William with such familiarity, nor had she known his face could turn that particular shade of red. William coughed. “Not at all. Elizabeth was recently ill with a lung fever.”
“Oh, my dear!” Elizabeth found herself embraced for the second time by a woman she had known for fewer than five minutes. “What do you require? Hot compresses? Leeches? An apothecary?”
“Just a place to rest, I thank you,” Elizabeth murmured.
Miss Laurent kept an arm around Elizabeth’s waist as if she needed to be propped up. “I pray you, remain as long as you need. We will do whatever we can to be of assistance.”
Bernard’s eyes darted to his aunt. “Aunt, it could be dangerous if we were found sheltering an Englishman,” he objected.
Miss Laurent gave her nephew a level look. “We will not turn away friends in need, and do not forget that Mr. Darcy’s generosity helped me buy this house and feed you and your sister. We owe him everything. What has Napoleon ever done for us? We owe him nothing.”
“If there is a danger—” William started.
“No.” Miss Laurent waved her hand dismissively. “There is no danger. The gendarmes do not even know who I am. There is no reason they should pay us a visit.”
“We will depart as soon as we are able,” William promised.
“But not too soon, I pray you. I must hear how everyone fares at Pemberley. And you must tell me the story of how you arrived in Paris.” She gestured William to a small but stylish drawing room. Elizabeth followed them, attempting to ignore the scowling Bernard trailing in their wake.
***
Adele poured Darcy another cup of tea, adding the amount of milk and sugar she knew he preferred. He and Elizabeth had explained their situation to his old governess. At the conclusion of the story, she had patted his cheek and exclaimed over him. “My poor dear!”
Darcy had smiled and endured. Despite his age, Adele still tended to view him as her young charge. But the tilt of Elizabeth’s eyebrows suggested she found Adele’s informality a bit shocking.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 11
