Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  Darcy stands stunned and anxious as she steps close, taking the offered hand and bestowing a gentle kiss and caress. No words are necessary, the gesture a declaration of caring and acceptance. He understands this although the dream-like atmosphere and months of longing despair prevent him from instantly grasping it. His hand is on fire! In fact, his whole body is aflame, jolted by waves of heat emanating from her soft lips and fingers. His soul is renewed, and he knows it is a miracle purely and completely. The beautiful face that has haunted his dreams is now lifted upward. He touches her cheek tentatively and the world ignites.

  For a horrifying second he suspects she will flinch or slap him or vanish into the mist. Instead, she closes her lovely eyes and leans minutely into his hand. Nothing in all his eight-and-twenty years has prepared him for the sensation of her velvety warm skin cupped in his palm. It is the most erotic, exhilarating experience of his life! At that instant, the sun lights her glorious face, rendering her mien angelic. It is a benediction from God Himself! Only her flesh anchors him to the ground.

  Relief overwhelms and, with eyes closed, they surrender to the sublime delight of a tender touch. This is love! A profound heat rushes from their connected skin to the roots of their loneliness, disintegrating forever the walls of misunderstanding.

  Time halts. They are dazzled. Enchanted in the rays from Heaven.

  “I love you,” she whispers.

  He inhales sharply and jerks as if stuck by a pin, eyes flying open. “Say it again,” he pleads softly.

  She smiles, “I love you… Fitzwilliam.”

  He shuts his eyes briefly, sighing with a sibilant moan. Then he flashes the brilliant smile she has so rarely seen, eyes sparkling and the palest blue. “Elizabeth. Lovely, precious Elizabeth,” he breathes as delicate fingertips trace a line of fire across her jaw and chin, finally lingering on her lips.

  She holds her breath. He must kiss me! Her mind screams, I will die if he does not and likely die when he does! She trembles as he gazes at her with heart exposed and raw emotion written on his visage.

  Oh, Lord, how I long to kiss her! His well-honed discipline and reserve dangles by the thinnest thread. Years hence he will recall this struggle as one of the harshest of his life; his very soul wars with the agonizing need to crush her to his body as he kisses her thirstily against the desire to show her the honor and respectability that is her due. How he manages to control his urges will remain a mystery. With a visible shudder he withdraws a pace, clasping both her hands securely in his.

  “Elizabeth,” he begins huskily, pausing to clear his throat, “Elizabeth, there is much to say, much for me to apologize for, although I do not deserve your forgiveness. I did not plan this… rendezvous, and it is not how I intended to proceed in winning your affection. I wanted to court you properly and allot you time to improve your opinion of me and maybe, if I was so blessed, to have you love me. I never entertained the notion, even after my aunt restored my hope, that you felt a fraction of what I do.”

  She squeezes his fingers, smiling up into his eyes. “I do,” she murmurs with a nod.

  He exhales a happy sigh and shakes his head slightly in amazement. “Elizabeth, clever phrases and spontaneous conversation are not my forte, as you can attest. Therefore, Fate has gifted me with this adventitious opportunity and, considering how atrociously I botched my well-rehearsed proposal, Fate has proven the wiser.” They both smile and laugh faintly. “Simplicity appears to be Fate’s recommendation. Therefore, on that note…”

  He grips her hands tighter and, without leaving her eyes for a second, he bends onto one knee. She releases a wavering sob as tears well over. Beaming, he asks, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I love you fervently and with all that I am. Will you honor me by becoming my wife?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, you know I will!”

  Then she is in his arms and it is indescribable. There is no doubt the embrace is vastly more intimate and considerably longer than propriety would dictate. They do not care. Oddly, although perhaps not, there is only a hint of sensual passion; that will come later. Currently they merely delight in the closeness of the other, the engrossing sensation of belonging and unity.

  Her face presses against his hard chest as she encircles his waist. A faint voice in her head wonders how she can be so brazen and improper. How can this form of intimacy feel absolutely correct so immediately? His radiating heat, heart pounding powerfully, and sturdy arms that encompass her body and keep her upright, all combine to create a haven of love and protection that surpasses imagination.

  He encircles her lissome frame with stunned amazement. She is so small! Nearly from the instant his eyes touched hers at the Meryton Assembly, Elizabeth Bennet has loomed larger than life, to his reckoning. Her vibrancy, sharp intellect, and bold presence offset her svelte physique. As if designed specifically, her head rests perfectly on his breastbone and tucks exquisitely under his chin, while his arms easily surround her, broad hands flattening on her back. With a shock, he recognizes her fragility, coupled with an overwhelming strength. He could snap her bones facilely, yet she grips him with an unbelievably strong clench.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispers hoarsely, gently pushing her away from his body, “do you think your father is home? I must speak with him and I cannot wait any longer.”

  She looks up at him. He wipes the tears from her cheeks, eliciting fresh waves of heat so that she laughs shakily. “Yes, he is at home.”

  He offers his arm, “Come then. We should not linger here any longer.”

  They walk in silence, arm in arm, and steal glances at each other. Strangely, neither feels shy or uncomfortable, simply suddenly acutely aware of the other’s presence and their unchaperoned companionship. She cannot resist focusing on his exposed neck and chest, as well as noting how the damp linen of his shirt clings to his muscles. His eyes betray him by continually resting on her braided hair, her delicate shoulder line, and the flash of an ankle when she lifts her gown.

  “Do you prefer to be called ‘Fitzwilliam,’ or do you have another name?” she inquires abruptly.

  “My full name is Fitzwilliam Alexander James Darcy. James was my father’s name and Alexander after an ancestor. No one has ever used either. Fitzwilliam was my mother’s maiden name. It is the surname of my uncle, the Earl of Matlock. Consequently there are quite a few ‘Fitzwilliams’ about at family gatherings.” He laughs, a sound still startling to her ears but beautiful. She mentally notes to tell him so, but he continues. “My cousins are both often addressed as Fitzwilliam. Col. Fitzwilliam is my cousin. Did you know this?”

  She is genuinely surprised, “No, I did not. Nor did I realize you had an earl for an uncle. Mother will be impressed.” She laughs and he smiles.

  “Richard, Col. Fitzwilliam, is two years my senior, but we grew up together and have always been friends as well as relatives. Anyway, my family all call me William. It is what I prefer, although I rather think you, dearest Elizabeth, could call me anything and I would find it delightful.”

  She blushes.

  “Your family is so illustrious,” she says teasingly. “Lords and ladies abounding!”

  He flushes and grows somber. “Yes, well, I fear my Aunt Catherine has proven how a title does not indicate worth or an assurance of proper manners. Fortunately, you will discover my uncle and his wife quite different. They will adore you, I am certain.” He gazes at her with a bright smile, rendering her breathless. Her steps falter in her rapt adoration of his face, providing the need for him to steady her with one hand to her elbow and the other around her waist, his face then mere inches from hers.

  “Are you alright, Elizabeth?” She nods, unable to speak, and neither of them moves. She has always been captivated, even in her annoyance, at how penetrating his gaze is. He has the bluest eyes, fierce as a raptor and brimming with intelligence; yet she notes that they darken somewhat when he stares at her. Previously she had erroneously decided it was disapproval and disdain. Now she understands it is enthrallment, lov
e, and… passion? Desire?

  She blushes and tears her eyes away, resuming her steps. Clearing her throat gruffly, she says, “Proper manners or otherwise, having peers of the realm as relatives will win you points with my family! Mother, especially, will likely faint dead away, so be sure you lead with that fact.” Her laugh fades when she glances to see him trailing a step behind her, his expression grave. “Mr. Dar… William? Whatever is the matter?”

  He meets her eyes and smiles slightly. “I love hearing my name spoken by you, Elizabeth.”

  “How providential that you do since you will be hearing it so uttered for the rest of my life!” She unthinkingly reaches a finger to the tiny furrows between his brows, rubbing lightly. “What troubles you, William?”

  Catching her hand and kissing her fingers, he holds on and resumes walking. After some ten minutes of silent contemplation, he speaks, “I am well aware of the fact that I made a poor impression on the citizens of Hertfordshire, aided partially by Mr. Wickham but primarily due to my own surliness. Your father has no reason to approve of me as a suitor, wealth or family connections notwithstanding. Nor do I wish him to render his approval based on those inconsequentials. It is imperative, Elizabeth, that he knows I love you and deem your happiness of the utmost importance.”

  They are now within sight of Longbourn so he halts, staring into the empty windows of the manor. She touches his chin with her fingers, drawing his gaze to hers. “William, my father is a reasonable man. Be honest, as I know you only can be, and say to him what you have said to me. He will not refuse you.”

  He searches her eyes, still frowning mildly. “Does he know about Rosings?”

  “No one knows about that but us.”

  His brows arch in surprise, “Not even Miss Bennet?”

  “No, I never told anyone. Did you?”

  “Only Georgiana. She extracted the information as only she can.” He smiles fondly. “In truth, I was a bit of a wreck after Rosings, and she was worried.” He shakes his head and shrugs the unpleasant memories aside. A moment later he laughs.

  “What?”

  “It is humbling. I manage a vast estate and intricate affairs of business domestic and abroad without flinching, yet I am daunted by the prospect of a confrontation with a country gentleman.” He looks at her, eyes sparkling with mirth, and reaches to caress gentle fingertips over one cheek. “Of course, not one of those ventures has ever been as vital to my existence as this one.” He squares his shoulders purposefully, squeezes her hand, and turns toward the house, “Come, Miss Elizabeth, my love, destiny awaits!”

  Hand in hand, they meet their fate.

  “Enough, Mr. Darcy! Release me! I am famished, your child begging for food, no doubt. Not surprising if his appetite is like his father’s.”

  He laughed and rolled away from her side, untangling his legs from hers. “Very well, although I believe it patently unfair to blame me for this. She could very well have her mother’s stubbornness and be demanding nourishment without further delay.”

  Lizzy harrumphed, already busily removing victuals from the basket and tossing them randomly to her husband. She attacked the chicken with relish, thoroughly enjoyed the apple pie, gagged on the honeyed carrots, and flatly demanded Darcy discard the smoked salmon as far away as humanly possible. She ate quickly, honestly thinking she would perish in seconds if not fed, and then required a half hour of absolute immobility to keep it inside. Darcy stroked her forehead and encouraged her to sip some wine to settle her stomach, speaking soothingly in his resonant voice until she fell into a doze.

  He watched her sleep, marveling as he always did at how lovely she was. He laid his hand gently on her still flat abdomen and wondered. The signs of pregnancy were all increasing; however, until she felt the baby quicken, they had judged it best to delay formal announcements. The doctor was scheduled to examine her the day before they departed for Netherfield, Darcy insisting the doctor approve the long trip. In addition, they were hoping he could definitively confirm her state so they could freely share their private joy. Georgiana knew, of course, and Richard, but they had promised to be silent.

  Society would dictate that he pray for a boy, an heir to Pemberley. In truth, he wished for a girl. A little angel with chocolate eyes, curly chestnut hair, and a pert nose. Nonetheless, the health of the child and his wife were the principal preoccupation. Lizzy, aside from sporadic nausea and mild lethargy, seemed unaffected thus far. Her appetite, as recently evidenced, was humorously vacillating. One moment she was queasy and literally the next second she was ravenous and weak.

  Mrs. Reynolds had ordered to have small trays of eatables placed in nearly every room of the manor so the Mistress could nibble whenever she felt the urge. Lizzy had not actually been ill since the day her memory was restored, so Darcy did not fret overly. Inevitably, she managed to eat enough, and the medical book assured him that all she was experiencing thus far was perfectly normal.

  Thankfully, her extreme moodiness had disappeared. Mornings were not her best time; therefore, their romantic interludes had ceased for what he hoped was a temporary duration. Not that he could complain in that quarter as overall her amorousness was unaltered, if not slightly increased. He had quickly reorganized his daily schedule to coordinate with her. Now he rose while she slept, went riding, or worked in the stables or at his desk for several hours before joining her for breakfast. For the bulk of the day he attended to business throughout the estate, rarely coming home for lunch, but returning mid-afternoon to convene for tea, which generally led to a pleasurable liaison before dinner.

  He smiled with supreme contentment. No, Mr. Darcy had absolutely no cause for woe regarding the physical expression of their love. He never had. As previously stated, barely had her father given them his blessing when Darcy discovered, to his mingled humiliation and gratification, the sensual response they evoked in each other. Lost in delicious reverie, he lightly ran fingertips over her belly and hips, dipping into her navel, unaware that she had roused and was observing him.

  “Have you traveled off to Mars or Jupiter, beloved, or somewhere closer by?”

  He started at her voice and then laughed. “I no longer have the yearning to fly to the outer reaches of the heavens, dearest. Heaven is to be found here.” He leaned over, kissed her stomach where he imagined their child rested, and then stretched out, gathering her into his arms. He kissed her forehead. “Do you feel well?”

  “Yes, thank you. In fact, the remaining muffin smothered in honey is calling to me.”

  “Perhaps you should rethink that. Honey on the carrots made you retch.”

  “That was carrots, not a muffin, and quite some time ago. These matters change with the wind!”

  He chuckled, lifting up and reaching into the basket to retrieve the desired treat. Pulling off small bites, he fed her, watching carefully for a negative response.

  “What were you musing when I woke? You truly appeared a million miles away.”

  “Not so far as all that. More accurately some one-hundred-fifty miles, as I was revisiting our previous reminiscence of first kisses upon the occasion of your accepting my proposal. I have always been profoundly gratefully that we stood on the only side of Longbourn without windows. I am certain your father would have withdrawn his consent at the least, if not strangled me on the spot.”

  Lizzy laughed. “No fear of that, William, because he would have keeled over with a heart seizure first at the sight of his innocent daughter behaving so wantonly.”

  Darcy laughed but flushed brightly, the entire episode still a cause of amusement and embarrassment for him.

  Darcy waits in the courtyard and paces… and paces… and paces.

  The interview with her father went well, sort of. Mr. Bennet evaded final consent, pending hearing Elizabeth’s opinion. Knowing how she feels for him, as stunning as that revelation was, he should not be anxious. Yet he is. What he had not previously comprehended was the deep love Mr. Bennet held for his second daughter. Darcy
had erringly regarded Mr. Bennet as rather foolish, lazy, and uninvolved as a parent.

  Yet, within minutes of entering the study, Mr. Bennet put him on the defensive and displayed a keen intellect and unswerving devotion to Elizabeth. Realizing that this actually placed them on equal footing, Darcy altered his usual aloof, commanding approach. Instead, he relinquished all pride and bared his soul to the older gentleman. Mr. Bennet listened, nodding occasionally, but displayed little emotion. Then he calmly dismissed Mr. Darcy, giving no answer, and requested to speak with Elizabeth alone.

  Her smile and warm pose as she entered her father’s study did hearten him, but he could not erase the echo of Mr. Bennet’s initial claim, blurted in his surprise, that Lizzy had previously asserted her hatred of Mr. Darcy. Thinking of those words made him flinch anew and pale in terror. Air and space were essential to quiet his irregular heartbeat and frayed nerves.

  So now, he paces. She is taking so long! What if Mr. Bennet says no? What if he convinces Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy is unworthy of her, which he is? What if she tells him about Rosings? What if the spell of English mist over a sun-kissed moor is now broken and she realizes she does not love him? What if she does not even like him? What if… what if… what if?

  Oblivious of all but his own misery, he abruptly hears a sharp giggle and glances up to see four pairs of eyes staring at him from the house. Oh, this is too much! Blushing furiously, he keeps walking past the edge of the house to the small garden beyond. He roughly picks a bloom and sinks onto the stone bench, fidgeting until the poor flower is mutilated.

  Lizzy kisses her father’s forehead, whispers a heartfelt thank you, and sprints from the room. She heads toward the parlor, logically deducing he would be there under barrage by her mother. Only imagining what horrors her family is subjecting the poor man to, she dashes in, pulling up short when her rapid scan of the room comes up empty of her betrothed.