“If you do not choose to make away, what can be done?”
Her indecision tried his patience, this she knew. He had little time for what some might believe to be a womanly weakness.
“I have but one avenue for escape,” she said urgently. “It is why I came to you en secret. I have signed a marital agreement with my husband. I cannot leave the marriage unless I give him a son.”
“As repellent as that might be for you, I see no other recourse....”
“He is impuissant—impotent.”
Pulling at his cuffs, Darcy first frowned and then replied, “A conundrum....”
“He can become impassioned only through delivering the whip,” With a great shuddering sigh, she said, “I have no more of that to give.”
Although it was too dim to see it, she knew Darcy’s colour had deepened. Time was at hand for her to put forth her request. In preparation, she flung herself against his chest.
With all due urgency, she repeated, “I have no more to give! I must have a child to end it. I need you! I need you to father my child.”
His reply was, in its way, quite succinct.
“Whot?”
Chapter 68
The Course of True Love
Darcy had not actually said, “I surrender,” to his wife, but it was implied as he fell to one knee before her.
He made no avowals, no utterances of any kind. How ungovernable his desire was implied in all that followed.
———
That he had not, in fact, fallen prostrate before her, he attributed to his stern self-control (and admittedly, a bit of sheer luck). In a failed attempt to compose himself, he struggled to his feet, placed one hand upon his waist and cleared his throat. He saw her toss the crop aside, but was still too discombobulated to realise or appreciate that she had. Indeed, he was not altogether certain what had come to pass.
As he was much in want of composure, it would not have been to his advantage to allow his gaze to linger upon her naked figure, but he did. Her hair was loose. One long tress fell from her shoulder and, with unstudied grace, circled her breast. With every breath she took (her respirations were deep and many), the one curl promised him untold raptures. Indeed, he stood before her overtaken by unblinking lust. So piercing was his gaze and so obvious his desire, she lowered her eyes under the scrutiny.
When she did return his gaze, he had lowered his chin and began taking slow measured steps in her direction. His was a formidably ardent démarche, but she held her ground. As she was intent on not fleeing, she was quite unwitting that he had begun to shed his coat and waistcoat as he crossed the floor. As thither he came, her early brazenness began to wane. By the time he reached her, she raised a trembling hand as if to fend off the indocile love she had just so unabashedly provoked.
Slowly, he took her hand in his, and placed it against his heart. When he did, their spreading fingers intertwined. Her soul, so injured by loss, surrendered to the incontrovertibility of his love. She did not speak. Her expression went limpid with adoration and abandon. It said all.
Her most fervent desire was to be kissed, but to her great mortification, she began to babble, explaining her scandalous behaviour.
“I feared you might need encouragement for I have given you good cause to doubt me....”
His fingers lightly caressed her ribs then slipped around to her spine, quieting her. She did not alter her position, but beneath his hand her very being emitted a frisson of ignited hunger.
“Whatever you want of me, Lizzy, I am here.”
Now that he was there, it was not the time to remind him that of late he had not been.
Wrapping herself in his arms, she bid him only to embrace her. He was not content with that. Hence, with tender purposefulness, he swept her up and betook her and her boots onto the bed. Her passion renewed, she fell back in naked recumbence onto the counterpane. Coquettishly, she pointed a toe of one boot towards her husband. He obliged her by catching the heel of her boot and sliding it from her foot. Whilst he did the same from the other, she teased the front of his shirt with her bare toes until he snared them and playfully pretended to bite them.
“I now understand your admiration for my boots. My mind on the subject has certainly altered....”
As he cast her other boot aside, she continued to trail her toes down his body.
She replied, “Whereas you so seldom err, I take no delight in correcting you. But on this point, I must.”
Her toes tickling the front of his breeches, she said, “My fetish is not for your boots. My interest is with the man who wears those boots.”
She rose to her knees and whispered into his ear, “I admire how his knees rise from them, sinewy thews surging upwards....”
As her hand slid to his leg, she continued to whisper, but more urgently, “Impenetrable trees, crowned by a stanchion of such measure....”
Never, in all his recollections, had she been so explicit. There was a sudden disinterest in nuzzling and languid strokes. He clasped her thigh, tossed her upon her back, and allowed her to lay there unmolested by thought or deed for the better part of five seconds.
When he lay the flat of his hand against her abdomen, it trembled.
He whispered, “How many ways can I please you?”
With a specific flick of her eyes, a laughing struggle to release his manhood did ensue—that mirth only to be quelled once it was.
Darcy placed one hand against her face, the other gripped her hip. She gasped.
Lost in the sweet cleave of her flesh, a line of perspiration paraded down his breast bone. He reached shuddering conclusion far too quickly.
Spent, but unsated, he rolled onto his back and emitted a small groan of chagrin.
His wife’s hair, her breath, her hips bid him. Turning to her, his hands searched her face, her ears, shoulders, the valleys and the knolls, as if a blind man learning a stranger’s identity. Her every feature had long been cast in his mind. He pressed his lips against her neck.
No longer a bridegroom, yet still able to arise to engorgement and achievement unstintingly, Mr. Darcy was yet infused with considerable manly vigour.
Her legs claimed his waist, his hand cupped her buttocks. Undulations, slow and seductive, assuring, reminding, ever encouraging, were enjoyed for the better part of an hour.
Their reward was an afternoon of satisfied slumber in the other’s arms.
Chapter 69
The Gift
When Darcy awoke, the sun was low. Looking upon his wife, he noticed a dampened strand of hair had stuck to her cheek. With delicate care, he tucked it behind her ear. Directly he drew a bed-cloth above her shoulder lest she catch a chill. He looked upon her lovingly and fancied that the smile on her face was in appreciation of their afternoon’s amour.
What had begun as a rather lusty prank (suffused with sufficient quantities of unattended passion and suppressed affection) did erupt into passion as fervent as any new love.
It would be understood then why Mr. Darcy left his wife’s bed with great reluctance. However, the recollection of a rider come fast upon their door just prior to their extended encounter, bid him do so.
That decision was reinforced when he saw that Mr. Howard himself stood waiting at the base of the staircase. He did not speak until Mr. Darcy’s boots reached the bottom step.
“A rider bearing a package has arrived from London. It was to be delivered to your hands alone, sir.” Howard added, “The man said that he was expected.”
Mr. Darcy nodded.
He met with the man directly. After the courier took his leave, Darcy emerged from his library. In his right hand, he held a package. No one spoke of the visit, at least not openly. He sent for Hannah.
When Hannah curtsied before him, he said, “When Mrs. Darcy awakes, I would like to speak with her.”
It was not Mr. Darcy’s habit to make a formal request to speak to his wife.
Mrs. Darcy had not tarried in bed once she had detected Mr. Darcy was
no longer there. Hence, Hannah did not have to spend many agonising minutes to give her mistress the master’s request. Indeed, she told her forthwith. Witting that something of significance was to occur, Elizabeth hastily donned her favourite blue dressing gown (the one adorned with gold braid) and draped herself impatiently in her favourite chair to await an audience with her husband.
Elizabeth was impatient to see her husband. Her regard for him had never been greater. Given a choice, she would have run to find him and leapt into his arms. Instead, she was forced to wait for him to come to her. She did so hope that whatever momentousness should come to pass, that it would not place undue restraint upon her exhilaration.
Placing a book in her lap, she flipped nervously through its pages as she listened for him.
He entered without knocking and she smiled happily. His countenance upon seeing hers did not alter appreciably, but she thought that she discerned a bit of question in his eyes. Perhaps he too feared that the reinvigoration of their union had been fleeting. He drew a chair near her. Unknowing that he was gauging the shades of her mind (and not bearing unhappy news), she grew solemn. A small pang of foreboding made itself known in the pit of her stomach. He noticed the adjustment of her expression, but spoke not of it.
With rare hesitance, he said, “I truly cannot guess your mind upon this matter. Should I wait, or not come to you at all.”
With those words, her countenance grew apprehensive. It was clear to him that he should not have been so frank about his trepidations.
To his surprise, she reached out and placed a reassuring hand upon his knee.
Clearly, his countenance was not the mask of impassivity he had believed. Indeed, she appeared quite unnerved. It was important not to allow the quagmire of fear overtake either of them.
Taking her hand in his, he turned it palm up. Onto her out-stretched palm he placed a small package. Her eyelids fluttered in disconcertion, but he still bid her unwrap it herself. For a reason she could not fathom, it was to be opened by her own hand alone.
It was loosely wrapped. Therefore, when she drew the string, the object unrolled easily and fell face up in her lap.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. Whether it was a lamentation or acclamation, he knew not.
He studied every movement of her hand and each expression that touched her countenance. When she began to weep, he knew not whether he had triumphed or failed. His heart had been in his throat for the duration of this presentation, unknowing if she would admire it or despise it as a reminder of what she wanted to forget. In a moment, the truth revealed itself.
Holding the oval ivory against her breast, she turned to him and whispered, “I have never, never had the privilege of receiving such a dear and treasured gift. I shall admire it all my life.”
It was a remarkably good likeness. Indeed, the turn of little William’s countenance had been captured almost flawlessly. She beheld it as if a precious stone. When at last her eyes were sated, she took it in both hands and pressed it against her heart. Tears tracked down her cheeks.
Fighting against a most indelicate weep, she cleared her throat and said, “The painter has not quite captured his nose....”
Neither believed that was her true opinion at all.
His voice was mild, mimicking hers, “I quite agree. But taken on the whole, I believe it a tolerable likeness.”
“Indeed, do I as well. I am all astonishment that such a truthful rendering could be accomplishment without... without....”
Unable to compleat the sentence, she stopped herself.
She said, “I love it dearly.”
She would have asked him whereby the miniaturist had managed to catch their son’s image so perfectly, but she recalled a time long past when he had a miniature done of her compleatly from his own recollection. Elizabeth marvelled at her husband’s powers of description.
“Done when you were last in London?” she asked.
He nodded.
He explained that he chanced again upon the studio where Gainsborough once worked. (The first time he went there, it had been an impulse—indeed, quite rash.) The second time was entirely purposeful. It was difficult to find. However, he recalled the entry was at the back and through a low door. The old painter was still at work. The man recalled Mr. Darcy too. Darcy had commissioned the man immediately. He then spent several hours perched on a stool, looking on as sketches were made to his precise specifications.
“Then it was not Morland?”
“That man was still much engaged with another royal commission. The painter I employed I have used before—on your likeness. Kimble, I believe. He is quite accomplished.”
Looking upon the back, indeed she saw Kimble’s signature.
She said, “Perchance we might engage him to make miniatures of all of our children. I should favour setting them in a row upon my dressing table next to yours.”
“You have no miniature bearing my likeness,” said Darcy.
“Do I not?” she replied pertly. “Au contraire.”
The only ivory image of his own countenance he recalled was one taken in his youth. At one time, it sat in a case next to Wickham’s.
“Yes, I recall it. It was taken above fifteen years ago....” said he.
She replied, “Not that one—a different one entirely.”
Now that she admitted that she had it, she knew he would not be satisfied until she produced it for him to criticise. And there was much about it for a gentleman to protest.
She said, “It was done to exceedingly explicit directions.”
“I am sure I shall despise it.”
“Indeed, you shall,” she agreed. “It was done by Morland.”
“He, who eschews trivial commissions?”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. To him that signified a furthering of playfulness they had shared just that afternoon. That observation was a great relief. He began to believe that they had truly experienced a renewal of spirits. As she continued to speak of the miniature, he looked upon her with unbridled affection.
She told him, “Morland took it at my particular request. It is quite... dashing. It might even be described as indecorous.”
Her expression was a bit mischievous and he was altogether uncertain whether she had such a miniature of him at all—and if she did, just what she had imagined. A frown attached itself to the ridge between his eyebrows as he considered whether or not it was true, and if it was, just how explicit it could be.
He did not like his disconcertion on display. Imagining her describing the contours of any part of his person to Sir Robert Morland was displeasing enough. It occurred to him that he had never actually gazed upon his own reflection. (If they frolicked by the looking glass now hidden beneath their bed, he gazed upon it to admire her form, not his own.)
She laughed and pinched his knee, telling him that hers was a tease. His relief was palpable.
He said, “I knew full well you could not have kept such a work from me.”
“Oh my love, it does exist. It simply is not as indecorous as I implied. Indeed, I should like you to see it. I had it painted after your journey across the channel. As much as I love the one in the portrait hall, I longed for an image I could keep near my breast; one to gaze upon at my leisure.”
Clasping William’s miniature in her hand, she stood, announcing, “I shall no longer test your patience. Come!”
Darcy allowed Elizabeth to lead him towards her dressing room. Hannah was within laying out several combs and brushes side by side, with soldierly precision. She hastily withdrew when she observed that Mr. Darcy was with her mistress. Elizabeth repaired directly to her table. He saw no miniature then, nor had he before. She sat William’s likeness carefully on the table top, allowing her to open a small drawer.
She removed a key. With that key, she opened another, hidden drawer. From it, she withdrew a small, paper-wrapped object. Carefully, tenderly, she unfolded the paper. She placed a small, flat piece of ivory i
n her hand and held her palm in Darcy’s direction.
To his great happiness, his face did not adorn some undraped cupid. The image was quite as tradition dictated—except for one thing. He recognised his face, his hair, and even his sideburns. However, his wife had made one, nearly obscene, omission.
It would not do. He looked at her.
“That is not me,” he said with finality. “It is an invention.”
The visage upon the soft, white surface was as she saw him—without his collar and cravat.
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