Mr. Darcy's Secret Desires: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  And the way he looked at her…Elizabeth felt warm, despite the cool morning air.

  "Mr. Darcy," she murmured, returning his smile. "I missed you at breakfast. You look freshly bathed."

  For a moment she was sad she had not taken a tray in her room. Perhaps she would have been there when he had the bath filled. Before she could edit her thoughts, she said as much. "If I would have known, I could have had breakfast in bed and helped scrub you clean."

  She knew her error immediately. Darcy stopped, mid-stride, and his jaw clenched. Oh dear. She had offended him. She turned back to her correspondence on her desk, too shamed to meet his eye.

  "I'm sorry, I just meant to be helpful. At Longbourn, all the girls had to bathe on the same night. There would be terrible rows over who got to go first, and who had to help whom wash their hair."

  She glanced back up at him, uncertain, but Darcy seemed to have recovered from whatever had shocked him. He smiled affectionately down at her.

  "Ah, well, no fights over such things here, now."

  "No, I am sure not," Elizabeth said, still slightly embarrassed. Had he known what she'd really meant? Had he been displeased?

  He came up behind her chair, bent down, and kissed the top of her head.

  No, he must not be upset. But when did her husband ever become upset? He was the quietest, most even-tempered man she knew.

  "I went for an early-morning ride." Darcy sat on one of the small, yellow ladies chairs in the corner, his tall frame making the chair appear child-sized. "And you'll never guess what I saw."

  Elizabeth froze. It had been a week since her unfortunate walk in the woods. She had seen Mrs. Mills once at the market, and Elizabeth was certain her face had turned the color of cherries. Then, unfortunately, she had remembered the color of Mrs. Mills'…backside after Mr. Mills had worked his hand over her, and Elizabeth had felt even more inflamed and ill.

  She'd barely been able to look the woman in the eye, stumbling through a greeting before excusing herself. And that night, when she had closed her eyes, Elizabeth could not control the images that took hold of her imagination.

  Nor on the next night. Or the next.

  Sometimes she thought of Mr. and Mrs. Mills—though she did try very hard not to! But worse, what she could not seem to stop doing of late, was picturing herself and Mr. Darcy in that very same wooded glen. Or imagining her husband, flipping her skirts up and—

  "Are you alright, Lizzy?"

  Elizabeth glanced up, her mouth dry, her chest tight, her entire spirit shamed. That she would think these things in the privacy of her own bed was one thing. To be so taken with them in broad daylight and in front of her husband was another!

  She had a problem, and she had no idea whom to turn to.

  "I—yes, I'm sorry, darling. What were you saying?"

  Darcy gave her a funny look, but he simply smiled and said, "I was telling you what I found, when I went for a hard ride this morning."

  And then he reached behind his back and pulled out her blue shawl!

  "Oh my," Elizabeth gasped, standing and walking over to him. "You found it! Where was it? I lost it on one of my walks."

  "You lost it?"

  Elizabeth smiled stiffly. She had lost it, that was not quite a lie. "The wind was quite jealous of its beauty, and stole it from me."

  "The wind? If all of Nature were conspiring to spirit anything away, I would imagine it would be you, Mrs. Darcy. Not some old piece of cloth." Mr. Darcy smiled and shifted in the chair, looking up at her. For a moment she thought he might—he looked as if he might want—her to sit on him?

  On his lap?

  "It's not old," Elizabeth said slowly, confused by the playful but intense expression on his face. "And I treasure it, because you gave it to me."

  "It is nothing, compared to you," he said, his burning blue eyes captivating her.

  Elizabeth shifted on her feet, wondering if he had simply found the scarf—or had Mr. Mills found it? And returned it to his master? Certainly Mr. Mills hadn't seen her in the woods.

  Had he?

  Elizabeth swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat.

  Even if she had been discovered—which she was almost certain she had not—the gamekeeper certainly wouldn't admit that to Mr. Darcy.

  Oh dear, would he?

  She said nothing, nor did Mr. Darcy. He just handed her the carefully folded silk, holding it up to her as she stood next to him in that ridiculously tiny chair. Elizabeth flushed, then took the silk and bent down to kiss his cheek.

  That was allowed, was it not? She was still not used to the easy affection she knew some married couples shared. She could remember her mother carelessly reprimanding, cajoling, begging and shouting at her father—but she had never seen them simply kiss.

  His skin was soft against her lips. His valet must have just shaved his jaw.

  She straightened up, but Darcy grabbed her hand, holding her down, trapping her in this bent-over position so that their faces were almost touching and she could feel his breath, clean and minty, fanning across her lips.

  She inhaled, shaking, wanting him to kiss her.

  "Is that any way to reward your husband? When I practically had to slay dragons to retrieve your prized possession?"

  Elizabeth's eyes widened. Who was this strange, playful man?

  "I—no?" she whispered. Did he want her to kiss him?

  He answered her unspoken question by pulling her hand toward him, firmly enough to tilt her off-balance. She fell into the space they shared and their lips met.

  He didn't pull away. His lips, warm and firm and smooth, pressed against hers. Then opened.

  Elizabeth tried to say "oh." She might've said "mmm." She couldn't quite remember, because suddenly her husband's arms were around her, pulling her—oh sweet Lord—pulling her right onto his lap!

  Not like Mrs. Mills. Obviously Elizabeth was fully dressed, and not straddling her husband. (Could one straddle a gentleman? She doubted it!) But she was suddenly perched sideways on his hard thighs, her legs kicking free of the floor, and he snaked his right arm behind her back. His left hand came to her chin, and for one strange, wondrous second, he held her there, gently but firmly. And even though Elizabeth knew she could break free from his grip at any moment, simply by turning her head, at the same time felt trapped—utterly captivated—almost as much by the commanding look in his stern eyes as by the firm pressure of just his thumb and forefinger on her chin.

  "Lizzy, do you mind me holding you like this?"

  His gentle words were so at odds with the strange, new fierceness in his eyes that Elizabeth could only blink for a moment, confused. Perhaps she had begun to imagine herself as Mrs. Mills and her husband as that other man. Perhaps she had begun to think her secret fantasy was coming to life—

  But no. She had no need of fantasies, after all. Life was perfect.

  And, she reminded herself, so was her sweet, gentle Mr. Darcy.

  "No," she answered honestly.

  "And do you mind me…kissing you like this?"

  He moved her body so she faced him a bit more, turned her cheek gently so that he could slowly, sweetly kiss her bottom lip. Elizabeth closed her eyes, shaking. It was a strange juxtaposition of sensations: Mr. Darcy's warm, firm kiss. His hand moving up and down on her back. His other hand suddenly on her lap, and then around her. She was wrapped in his arms.

  She sighed, leaning into him, into his kiss.

  But also: they were in her small parlor. A maid or her sister could walk in at any time.

  "The door—" Elizabeth said, pulling back and turning to look behind her.

  "—is locked," her husband said, now taking her face in both hands and pulling her to him with an urgency that surprised her.

  Oh, thought Elizabeth. He…planned this.

  Was this normal? Or did he know what she had seen?

  Guilt took hold of her heart, and thoughts whirled in her mind. But then her Darcy took hold of her bottom lip, sucki
ng on it in a manner she was not accustomed to. She opened her mouth—to breathe? to exclaim?—but then his tongue took advantage and entered her. He took possession of her mouth. His hand fisted in her hair, loosening her pins. He did not seem to care that her hairstyle was ruined, and suddenly Elizabeth was finding it hard to worry about that, either.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured, "My sweet Lizzy.”

  "Mm?" she tried to reply, but she was lying backwards against his arm now, and his wide, firm chest was pressed against her bosom. His kisses were taking her breath—her thoughts, her very senses!—away. The whole world…the birds outside and the dogs barking from somewhere very far away…the wind…it was all receding.

  Here, now, there was only her husband. Darcy drew back from their kiss, and Elizabeth was amazed to see that his chest was heaving. His blue eyes were brilliant against the shadows of the room, and his gaze was unyielding, stern, beautiful. His dark hair was wild, as if someone had been pulling it.

  Good Lord, had that been her?

  "Lizzy," he whispered, a sound so rough and close she could almost feel it brush against her skin.

  And then, while he stared at her face—her eyes, her lips, her open, panting mouth—his fist curled tight, then tighter, in her hair. He did it purposely, she realized, because he was watching her reaction. Studying her.

  And then it began to hurt, just a pinch, until she realized he was pulling her head back—he wanted her to raise her chin, lean back against him, give him access to her throat.

  She tilted her head back, moving with his hand, watching him from under her lashes.

  "Good girl," he murmured, still holding her hair, but it didn't sting anymore. Instead, there was just a strange, wondrous warmth where before there had been the momentary pain.

  He kissed her cheek, running the very tip of his tongue along her jaw. She shivered, clutching his shirt involuntarily, and a noise rumbled low in his throat. Lizzy closed her eyes as he began to suck on her neck. She had never felt like this before. Even in bed, when Darcy had spread her legs, touched her so she grew wickedly wet, he had never—he had never looked like this.

  He growled against her skin, and she felt him growing hard beneath her.

  He had never felt like this before.

  She wriggled against his length as the space between her legs suddenly felt warm, and slick, and empty.

  "Not yet," Darcy groaned as he moved her back, draping her across his arm, his lips moving down the exposed skin, to the top of her breasts.

  Not yet what? she wondered.

  As if he could read her mind, he kissed her one more time—hard, possessive, consuming—and then pulled back, his fist tight again in her hair.

  "Not yet. You don't get to come yet," he growled.

  Before she had time to wonder what, exactly, that meant, Darcy jerked the front of her gown and chemise down—almost exposing her breasts! She didn't have time to even gasp before he'd lifted her breasts, exposing them to the cool air, and then taken the tip of the closest one in his mouth.

  Lizzy gasped, his mouth hot and insistent on her. He had kissed her there before, in bed; done this same act, lightly. But now. Oh Lord help her, now Mr. Darcy sucked so hard she thought she would faint or die from the shameful pleasure. She could not control the strange, breathless panting or moans and then—

  He bit her!

  "Mr. Darcy!" Elizabeth cried, but even as it hurt she realized…she liked it. Oh my, she loved it. And what he did immediately after. He soothed the sting with kisses, sweet, hard suckling that somehow sent heat lightning straight down to her core and made her thighs press together with longing.

  Then his fist in her hair tightened, imperceptibly, and pinpricks of pain blossomed at the roots. But, she marveled, it was just small, welcome discomfort. As if his grip were telling her, I am in charge, of you, of your pleasure. Yield to me…

  She lay back on his arm, watching as he released her breast and leaned against the back of the chair. Elizabeth wondered what sort of picture they would make: him, grand and dark and sprawling, larger and taller than any man she had ever met. And her, laying across his lap like a rescued damsel, or a wanton woman.

  Her hair pulled loose.

  Her dress pulled down.

  She realized: Mr. Darcy had to have spoken with Mr. Mills. There was no other reason for him acting like this. Was he trying to teach her a lesson? This thought burrowed its way past her bliss, poking a hole in the floating bubble of pleasure she had allowed herself to ride away on…

  Mr. Darcy ran his free hand over and over her breasts, tugging on a nipple so suddenly she gasped, then letting it go and driving her crazy with the lightest of touches.

  "This freckle," he murmured, watching his hand trace gentle, invisible patterns across her breast. "I adore this freckle." He bent to kiss it. "And this one." Another kiss. "And this one…"

  He kissed her mouth, and she felt his hand snaking its way up her skirts, across her thighs, to her core.

  "Let me," Mr. Darcy said. "Open yourself to me."

  Was it a command? A plea? She could not tell, his voice so low, so rough. It was as if he were overcome, by emotion, by lust.

  By me, Elizabeth thought with pure surprise.

  And even though it was Mr. Darcy who held her tight, prone and in his arms, Elizabeth felt a strange surge of…power? This giant man, this great man of the world, this handsome man whom every woman wanted—he wanted her.

  He wanted her so much, he was stripping her naked in the middle of the day.

  Underneath her, she could feel his hardness growing. She wondered if she was hurting him, sitting directly on it, so she began to sit up and move off of it.

  His hand clamped down on her thighs, as strong as iron.

  "Don't move," he growled.

  Elizabeth could feel her eyes grow wide, and she watched in wonder as he moved his lips, found the freckle he was apparently fond of, and began to suck directly on her smooth flesh, above her breast.

  "I want to leave a mark here," he said suddenly, looking up at her with heavy, hooded eyes.

  Elizabeth couldn't catch her breath, and while she stared in secret wonder and joy at her husband. He pushed her dress and chemise up. He bared her knees, then looked up and grinned wickedly and slowly…and his hand followed the quivering muscles of her thighs, until he parted her legs and touched her.

  There.

  At her core, between her folds.

  Just like the husband and wife in the woods.

  His touch felt so good. Stronger and more confident than how he usually touched her. She had to struggle to keep her eyes open, as he parted her open and worked magic with his fingers.

  But…how did he know what she secretly wanted? Had Mr. Mills seen her, said something? Was all of this some strange message to her?

  "How did you find my scarf?" Elizabeth blurted out, panicked.

  "Your scarf?" Darcy stopped touching her, blinking as if coming out of a trance.

  "I was just—the wind blew the scarf from my hands—and I wondered if you found it. Or did someone else find it?"

  Darcy froze, one arm around her back, his other hand still touching her near her core. He stared down at his limbs, as if he had not been in complete control of what they were doing, as if he just now realized the picture they painted.

  "I—I apologize," he said stiffly, seeming to come back to himself. Or rather, come back to the proper Mr. Darcy she was accustomed to. "I should not have touched you like that. Here. You are uncomfortable. I should not have—"

  "No!" Elizabeth said. "I am fine. I am more than fine. I just thought—"

  "Elizabeth, if you don't want me to touch you, at any time, you can just say so. You don't need to talk about trivial matters like the blaste—like your shawl. I would never force you to do anything—"

  At that exact moment, there was a knock at the parlor doors. Elizabeth gasped, struggling to cover her chest and push down her skirts. Darcy tried to help her, but their han
ds tangled, their heads bumped, and as they both attempted to stand at the same time, with a great crack and crash—the chair beneath them collapsed!

  "One moment!" Mr. Darcy shouted as the person in the hall began banging on the door.

  Elizabeth groaned and slowly climbed off Darcy's lap. She was about to laugh at herself, the chair, him—all of it—when she turned and saw her husband's face.

  He looked…frozen.

  Angry.

  Devastated.

  "Will," Elizabeth said, still sitting at his feet on the floor. "Fitzwilliam, please, look at me."

  But even as he extended his firm hand and helped her to her feet, he would not look at her.

  "Darcy," Elizabeth tried again, clutching his arm.

  The banging on the door increased, with two maids now asking if they were alright. He gave her one cold look and said, "Your hair." Elizabeth numbly tried to pin it back while he went and unlocked the doors.

  And then walked right through them.

  Elizabeth

  Mr. Darcy was gone the rest of the day. And night.

  Elizabeth and Jane spent a pleasant hour after dinner sewing the smallest, most precious bonnet and dress Elizabeth had ever seen. Jane had chosen a lovely, spring-green color that either a boy or girl could wear.

  Elizabeth tried very hard not to be miserable. "Have you thought of names?" she asked her sister.

  "Of course," Jane said, a serene smile on her face. "But Charles has sworn me to secrecy."

  Elizabeth smiled. "As long as you promise not to name a girl after Charles' sisters."

  Jane laughed. "You wouldn't love your niece, even if she were called Caroline?"

  Elizabeth made a face, but before she could respond, there was a knock on the parlor door and Mr. Darcy came in. Elizabeth smiled widely at him, even as she felt herself coloring. They were in the very same parlor where, not four hours ago, she had almost lost her senses to her husband.

  "Good evening ladies." He nodded his head and Jane smiled pleasantly, unaware of the tension flowing between Elizabeth and Darcy. Then he glanced over at the scene of their earlier indiscretion. Elizabeth tried not to look mortified.