“Now that is underhanded,” Fitz said, “comparing your sister Jane to a man little better than a beast.”
“I mean only that you perceived her as not good enough for Mr. Bingley. I think my assessment of Mr. Collins was better than yours of Jane, but the moral of my story, if any, is that sometimes our friends know what is best for them, despite our misgivings. And also that our own happiness must not come at the expense of others. Selfish as I am, I cannot be content in my marriage if I do not think everyone rejoices in it as much as I do.”
“If you are referring to my aunt de Bourgh,” Fitz said, glad of a subject less weighted with dangerous emotions, “I assure you her opinion is immaterial. She has no power over me, and you need not let her disapproval worry you.”
“Oh no, Fitz. I quite agree with you there. No, I should qualify my sentiment by saying that my wishes are restricted to those people I am fond of and whose goodwill matters to me. Specifically, my sister Jane, and the man she is to marry, your friend Mr. Bingley.”
“So long as you have forgiven me, that is all that matters.” Fitz stared into her eyes, suspecting he was, as usual, missing the deeper implications of her words, was again overcome by passionate longing, and turned quickly away.
“But you love Mr. Bingley, I think, and would be sorry to lose his friendship,” Elizabeth said, daring to move closer. “I was so very angry with you for so long, but now that I have come to know you, I flatter myself that I understand you. Although what you did was wrong, you did it for a noble reason.”
Fitz looked steadfastly out over the shallow hills of Hertfordshire in the far distance, feeling the slight breeze ruffling his hair around his ears. “Not entirely, Elizabeth. Much as I would like your good opinion, honesty is more important. I was selfish. I wanted to keep him to myself, and I had this foolish notion that he and Georgiana would marry. We would be brothers that way, and it was all to be years in the future.”
Elizabeth took his hand. “I do see, Fitz. You need not apologize anymore. I did much the same thing, with Charlotte. It’s another reason I think we are so well matched.”
Fitz was jolted once more by the surge of energy between them, even through their gloves. He pulled his hand from hers with regret, conscious of the necessity. “Please, my love. Don’t tempt me again.”
“Oh, Fitz, how will we ever wait two more weeks?”
He laughed in loud, wheezing gasps, glancing sideways at her flushed face and rumpled gown, her curls tumbling down her back tangled up with her bonnet strings. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. Brisk walks, cold baths.”
“Perhaps it will rain tomorrow and we will be forced indoors and into propriety,” Elizabeth said as they started down the path that led toward Longbourn.
Twenty-Four
TWO WEEKS LATER, two wedding parties shared a feast at Netherfield. Everyone remarked on the glowing good looks of Mrs. Bingley and the radiant joy of Mr. Darcy. As to their respective partners, it was frequently observed how Mr. Bingley had acquired steadiness along with a wife, while Mrs. Darcy was complimented primarily on her great good fortune. No one, besides those immediately concerned, noticed how little the two couples intermingled or exchanged words. Even the dancing, where tradition dictated that each friend dance with the other’s bride, was stiff and formal, and the men returned gratefully to their own wives after one short quadrille. By the end of the evening, as the Bingleys and the Darcys retired to their separate chambers, it was as if an armed truce between two great forces had been negotiated with difficulty, to last the duration of one night, with the hostilities scheduled to resume at dawn.
Elizabeth undressed quickly and sent the maid out. She peeped around the door to the bedchamber, saw it empty, and tiptoed to the enormous bed, climbing the two steps and throwing back the bedclothes. Her impatience, while tempered with a lesser but gnawing degree of trepidation, threatened to overwhelm her; nor would it help matters to keep him waiting. Before she had registered the soft knock at the door, or recalled bidding him enter, there he was, standing at the foot of the bed, its height giving her an advantage she rarely enjoyed. Her breath caught in her throat. “It was good of my sister to allow us to spend our first night here,” she said.
“Yes.” Fitz, attempting to behave like a civilized man in the presence of his bride, was incapable of uttering anything beyond monosyllables.
“I have never known my sister to hold a grudge,” Elizabeth said, “and she would deny it even now if pressed, but the fact is, only your Mr. Bingley’s wishes, as her husband, prevailed on her to allow it.”
Fitz stood at the edge of the bed and forced his higher organs of brain and vocal cords to function. “He is not my Mr. Bingley. And now that we are related, you may call him Charles.”
“Charles, then. He has forgiven you, but she has not.”
“Forgiven? What grievous sin have I committed now?”
“It is not a new one. I expect you are quite done with errors of any kind, and I must face the trials of marriage to a paragon of virtue. No, Fitz, it is merely that very old, worn-out matter of having separated Jane from Mr.—from Charles last year.”
“I had hoped,” Fitz said, “that Charles could have kept that information to himself. But surely Mrs. Bingley will overlook it, now that they are married. May we consider this further on the morrow? I confess I may commit a serious error if I am not soon permitted to fulfill the terms of our marriage vows.”
Elizabeth smiled at her imposing husband and the significant protrusion at the front of his nightshirt. “So I see,” she said. She knelt in the bed and extended her hands in welcome. “Would it shock you if I said I am in danger of committing the same error, or whatever is the equivalent for a woman?”
Fitz laughed and gathered her in his arms. “You cannot shock me. And I don’t think there is an equivalent error for a woman.” He kissed her mouth, starting with chaste closed lips but progressing easily to the play of tongues. Elizabeth followed his lead without shyness or hesitation. When his hand moved from caressing her back to her side and then to her breast, she made no protest or attempt to block.
“Oh, Fitz,” she said. “I’m so glad we have time for what you once called ‘a good long revel.’”
Fitz’s heart seemed to come to a complete stop in his chest. “What did you say?”
“A good—Oh, Fitz, that reminds me. I hope this is not the room with the door that doesn’t close properly. Would you mind very much just making sure?”
“So it was you,” he said softly. He released Elizabeth from his embrace as his urgency receded and sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, sorting out his conflicting thoughts. How often had he wondered, and hoped, and dared to imagine she would not be disgusted. Yet now he had his wish, he felt an odd emotion, one rarely experienced since boyhood. It was not so strong as shame; closer, perhaps, to modesty. Was this what ladies felt, or were supposed to feel—an absurd embarrassment at having their nakedness or affections revealed?
“I hope you are not too dreadfully disappointed that it was not Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said.
“Of course not,” he began, outraged, then saw she was laughing at him still. Marvelous, sweet perfection of a woman. He cocked an eyebrow, just to let her know he was not deceived, or cowed at her presumption. “But surely you were surprised.”
Elizabeth nestled beside her husband. He seemed troubled in some way that she didn’t quite understand. She put her arm around his shoulders in comfort—or tried to. Lord, he was big! “It was not so very bad, you know. If seeing you unclothed had given me an aversion, I would not have accepted your proposal. Even after I visited Pemberley.”
“But it was not only me you saw,” he said.
“No,” she said, permitting a slight quiver of laughter to escape. Not enough to wound, but merely to sting, like the first breath of ammonia to rouse a fainting lady. “Is that what’s bothering you? That I saw Mr.—Charles—as well? I confess I was a little taken aback. But while my attention was at
first directed toward him, because of the hopes I had for my sister’s happiness, ultimately my memories are all of you.”
Fitz said nothing, his face settling into that cold stare, an expression of hauteur that Elizabeth recognized now as self-protection.
“Can you doubt it?” she whispered. “For although Charles is a very well-formed man, appropriate for a respectable four or five thousand a year, your far more magnificent appearance confirmed my every idea of the grandeur of a large estate, a house in town, and a clear ten thousand pounds.”
That startled him into action. “Elizabeth! Have you any idea—”
“Of how low, indecent, and offensive I sound? Goodness, yes! I was hoping to laugh you out of your gloom but saw nothing less than brute vulgarity would serve.”
“You are wonderful!” he said, turning to face her. “And so long as you didn’t mention to anyone else what you saw, I suppose I will simply have to live with your teasing. A very fair price to pay.”
“Well, I did confide in my friend Charlotte.” She sighed at his blank look. “Mrs. Collins. Just to make sense of what I had discovered. She has brothers, you see, so she was able to dispel any minor worries I had.”
“I am ruined,” Fitz said with a groan. “Collins will have spread the word of my indiscretions all over the south of England at the very least.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth said. “Charlotte would never share so intimate a piece of news with her husband. Theirs is merely a marriage, not a friendship. Besides, had he learned of it, you can be sure you would have seen him at Pemberley within the week, having rehearsed the most accommodating ways to bend over backward, and with his obsequious speeches all committed to memory, hoping to enjoy a similar pleasure to that of Mr. Bing—Charles.”
Fitz permitted himself a snort of laughter. “True enough. Yet my aunt de Bourgh had knowledge of my private associations in town.”
Elizabeth looked uncomfortable. “There I am afraid Charlotte may well be the source of her intelligence, but not in the way you think. Mrs. Collins must do what she can to improve her husband’s prospects, which he is unlikely to accomplish through his own abilities. Charlotte has become friendly with Miss de Bourgh, and it is perhaps from her that your aunt was apprised. But I swear to you I told no one else—except Jane, later on.”
Fitz pursed his lips and scowled. “Now I comprehend why Mrs. Bingley is angry with me! But why, Elizabeth? I thought you wanted them to marry.”
“Fitz, listen to me. Jane knew it before I said anything. Charles told her last year.”
That explained a great deal, Fitz thought. No wonder Charles had been so certain of Miss Bennet’s regard. “As I should have told you, I suppose.”
“No, Fitz. That is yet another area where my sister is far superior to me. She accepted the love between you two far more readily than I did. I imagine it’s because she was truly in love with Charles, whereas you and I were at odds. I do hope you will always tell me everything you ought, but something like this, a particular friendship between two gentlemen—a man would be breaking his confidence to his friend if he spoke of it, even to the woman he is planning to marry. But if you had told me, once we were engaged, I should not have thought any less of you. Rather the reverse.”
“Then, my love, you would be suspending your excellent judgment in partiality to an undeserving husband.”
“Fitz, you misunderstand. At the risk of your taking exception to my plain speaking, I must tell you that I savored the image of the two of you embracing. In fact, I was hoping you would make up that friendship.”
“I take it you do not wish to enjoy our honeymoon alone?” Fitz said, grinning.
This is more like it, Elizabeth thought. She clouted Fitz’s chest in mock rage. “On the contrary. If you recall, I requested that you secure the door.”
Fitz rattled the doorknob to Elizabeth’s satisfaction and returned to the bed. His manhood had revived, she was relieved to see, his shirt tenting out and his walk rather stiff-legged.
Their conversation had given her confidence, once it was his pride that needed bolstering. “No, please,” she said, stopping his hand as he reached to snuff the candle. “May I not see you? You are so very beautiful.”
“My love,” Fitz protested at the strange request. “That is more for the man to say, I would think.”
“I do not believe either party can claim a monopoly,” Elizabeth said. “That I say it of you does not in the least prevent you saying it of me. In fact, I rather hoped you would. But perhaps you require a better foundation for so definite an opinion. I know your dislike of deceit or empty flattery, and I will therefore help you along.” With the nonchalant bravery of the forlorn hope storming the ramparts of an impregnable stronghold, she lifted her gown and pulled it over her head in one swift motion.
Never had Fitz’s schooling in self-command been more necessary to him than now, at the sight of her exquisite nakedness. Although he had often pictured to himself the delicate beauty of her form, he was unprepared for the reality of curves and flesh. Her breasts were small but perfect globes, the aureoles large circles of palest fawn, the nipples prominent and pointed. She had the slender waist and hips of his most fervid imaginings, but with the slight belly and the bowed shape that so distinguishes the female from the male. Tendrils of dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, in counterpoint to the lush growth between her legs. There was even a tiny trail, like a feminine version of Charles’s, leading down from her navel. “Beautiful is a poor, inadequate sort of word in the face of such splendor,” he said. “My love. Will you allow me to—”
“It is fair to assume my permission is granted, with so clear an invitation,” Elizabeth said, her voice trembling only a little. She gasped as he took her at her word, fastening his mouth on her breast, his tongue running frenzied circles around the nipple. “But will you not show yourself to me?”
Fitz disengaged with difficulty. “You wish me to remove my shirt?”
“Please. It is uncomfortable to be revealed to you so clearly while you are hidden from me. A metaphor for our courtship, don’t you think?” This time she dared to laugh, although the sound had the brittleness of incipient tears. “And I should like to compare memory with actuality.”
Fitz could not afford to waste so much as a second in indecision or vacillation. Kneeling before his goddess, his weight making a deep depression in the feather mattress, he whipped his shirt over his head and flung it with force into a corner.
Elizabeth fell back on her elbows, her mouth agape. “Oh. Oh! I would have thought recollection to enlarge and embellish over time, but I see if anything I underestimated.”
Fitz noticed the direction of her fixed and glassy stare. “Surely you are not afraid of me?”
“Of you? No. But of that enormous instrument of torture, most decidedly.” She smiled, but the candlelight flickering in her eyes showed glittering terror.
Here, at last, he was on familiar ground. “It has been thought by some to be an instrument of pleasure.” He laughed softly, purring at her the same way he would gentle any creature that bristled at the approach of man—stroking and smoothing until the standing hair was flat, the fighting posture relaxed into calm. “Much depends on the proficiency of its owner.”
“And we neither of us perform to strangers,” she said, shocking him yet again, despite his chivalric denials—and making him desperate to have her.
Yet now, at the very last, he must delay. “My love,” he said, holding himself away from her, every muscle aching with the effort. “Your beauty makes it difficult for me to use the restraint a lady requires. Forgive me if I cause you any distress.” His need must have shown in his face, because she blinked rapidly several times and nodded her acquiescence.
“Truly, Fitz, you cannot hurt me.” She pulled him down to lie beside her, aiming her breast at his mouth for him to suckle again, and guiding his little finger inside her. “Feel how ready I am for you.”
Wet, warm. Tight but yielding
. Fitz growled, like a dog picking up the scent of home at the end of a long journey.
She arched her back, neatly removing her breast from his lips and directing his attention to the other. “Oh yes, Fitz. Oh, I do love—” She stopped on a gasp of horror and pushed at him with such force that he knew he must have pressed too deep.
He took his mouth from her. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, Fitz. I must say one last thing. Please don’t moan like that. I will make it as brief as I can. I just want to caution you that, although all the authorities on the subject teach that a wife must never express her feelings for her husband in words, I expect that certain sentiments will emerge during the course of the evening and I don’t want you to take them to heart.”
Fitz laughed, despite his pain. “That is, words of love may pass your lips?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered, raising her eyes to his face, then lowering them as her concentration was once more broken by the large appendage below. Taking a deep breath, she resolutely looked away. “Marriage is so unequal a situation, a lady is compromised merely by accepting a man’s proposal. To declare to her husband the depth of her passions is to put herself so greatly in his power as to prevent any possibility of forming an equal partnership. Now, I intend to follow this advice when we are in company—indeed I will endeavor to tease and make sport of you with even greater freedom, because the position of wife allows far more latitude and far less necessity to moderate my language than mere acquaintance—but here, in the seclusion of the marriage bed, I cannot guarantee such discretion, and I don’t want you to presume more from my carelessness than it warrants.”
“It was kind of you to warn me,” Fitz said. “But I am all too well aware you often say things you don’t mean.”
“Now you are laughing at me.”
Ann Herendeen Page 30
