The chair—or what was left of it—had conveniently disappeared.
Someone had put a very large vase in its place, at present.
"Mr. Darcy, you're wearing your greatcoat," Elizabeth noted with surprise. She did not feel like she could demand to know his whereabouts—but why not? Where had her former self disappeared to, the young lady who would impertinently ask Mr. Darcy so many questions?
"I did not know where you had gone to," she said, feeling ill at ease with her own timidity, and with her husband's standoffish behavior.
Darcy cleared his throat and refused to meet her eyes. He stared down at the baby garments, and Elizabeth wondered what he was thinking.
"My apologies, Elizabeth. I received word that the wife of one of our tenants was very ill. They have four small children—I sent for the physician and wanted to ensure everyone was as well as they could be."
Lizzy rose, her hand on her chest. "Who was it? Mrs. Greenwall? Mrs. Sanderson? I wish you would have told me. I would have been happy to assist you!"
Finally, Darcy met her eyes. His blue gaze was cool like ice. Did he not think her capable of being the true mistress of Pemberley? Did he not wish her to be his helpmate? Elizabeth felt herself begin to shake, with some sort of anger and fear and dread. This was not what she imagined marriage to be. Especially to a man whom she loved!
Especially after what they had done together, this very afternoon, on the now-destroyed yellow chair.
"It is Mrs. Greenwall, and she is well now. Or, she will be."
"I would have helped you," Elizabeth said, her voice quiet and more hurt than she would have liked, especially in front of Jane. "I could have at least prepared a basket with food and medicine. Even if you would not want me at your side."
For the first time, his gaze softened. "I will always want you at my side, Elizabeth." He glanced briefly at Jane, who kept her head down and seemed to have decided to focus on sewing and solely on sewing.
"And I admire your compassion. But I promised Charles I would take care of his wife while she visited. I can't have you—or your sister—exposed to any illnesses. Especially with Jane being in the family way."
Elizabeth glanced at her sister. Of course, this made sense; she felt her ire and hurt settle. Slightly.
"You missed dinner," she said, when she could find her voice. She dare not look up at his face again. She would not be able to stand it, if she found his eyes still cold and hard against her. "May I have Cook bring a tray to our rooms?"
Mr. Darcy's muddied boots shifted slightly, as she kept her head down. "I have already arranged it. And now I should—remove these boots. I shall bid you ladies goodnight."
Elizabeth looked up, only after his boots had disappeared from view and she heard him walk out and shut the parlor door. She turned to find Jane studying her.
"Well, that was interesting," Jane said.
Elizabeth found herself pacing in front of the fire. She had never been the most devoted seamstress, and she had no inclination to pick up needle and thread now. "What did you find interesting? My husband's complete lack of communication, or lack of faith in me?" She was unable to remove the bitterness from her words.
Jane just hummed and tied a knot in her thread. "Actually, I was speaking of your behavior."
"Mine?" Elizabeth stopped short, staring at her sister. "Whatever do you mean?"
Jane finally set aside her sewing. "Lizzy, I say this with all the love in my heart: you have changed."
Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. "Changed?"
"Yes. I have never in my life seen you so quiet and unopinionated."
"Me! Unopinionated!" Elizabeth said. She was uncertain whether to be offended that Jane thought her previously opinionated, or offended that she was no longer that way.
"Yes!" Jane replied, just as passionately. "I know you are nervous, being newly away from home, and being in charge of an estate as grand as Pemberley. But you are allowing these fears to cow you. Mr. Darcy did not set out to marry a woman who had no thoughts for herself. You stood up to him for over a year. You refused his first proposal—how many women do that for a man as handsome as Mr. Darcy? Not to mention, a man who has ten thousand a year?"
Elizabeth fell into the chair next to her sister. Her pride demanded that she argue against these accusations—but that would have been foolish.
"You are, as always, correct," Elizabeth finally said.
"I am not always correct." Jane smiled and squeezed her sister's hand.
"You are. You are kind and generous and correct. Not to mention beautiful. I fear you are perfect, and there is no way I can argue with perfection."
"Stop it, Lizzy. You are just scared! And that is perfectly normal. But if you refuse to give your opinions, and Mr. Darcy is naturally reticent, then you both will have a much harder time of forming a truly happy union. You are in love, but even those in love need encouragement—I learned that lesson before marrying my dear Charles. You, my love, must learn it now."
"So you are saying I should...?"
"Go to him!" Jane laughed. "I am exhausted, anyway. I will see you in the morning."
"Yes," Elizabeth said, smiling sadly. "And I have only one more day with you."
"Ah, one more day for this visit. Next, you must come to Netherfield, for soon I shall be round and lazy and will demand foot rubs and chocolates."
Elizabeth grinned. "I shall be happy to provide exactly one of those options."
And she kissed her sister goodnight and fairly ran up the stairs to find Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth
The maids had prepared their bedchamber for the evening. A fire danced and flickered in the fireplace, warding off the early spring chill. The bed's heavy coverlets were turned down. And Elizabeth saw her husband's muddy boots in the corner, awaiting his valet's touch.
But…where was Mr. Darcy?
His dressing-room door was partially open. She heard a splash of water and it all came back to her: that Darcy had bathed this morning, after a hard ride. The footmen must have left the tub here, and then her husband had ordered another hot bath after his day with the Greenwalls.
She almost called his name, but then corrected her timid instincts: she would not tip-toe around her own house. Her own bedchambers. Her own husband.
Perhaps—perhaps she would surprise him. Their conversation from the afternoon came back to her. She could help him bathe. And she would just ask him if Mr. Mills had said anything.
Elizabeth slipped her shoes off and padded across the thick carpeting, pausing at the dressing-room door. She looked in, feeling a bit like a child trying to catch a peak of St. Nicholas. But the gifts she wanted were ones only her husband could—
Oh sweet Lord.
Elizabeth froze, her hand touching the door. She did not dare move. She did not dare breathe.
Because her husband…was naked…in the bathtub…
Touching himself.
His broad back was to her, his curled hair wet and longer than usual. Even though the tub was more than half-full, Darcy was so tall that his bent knees came up out of the water.
Elizabeth swallowed hard, taking in the scene. The back of neck was wet. His thighs were massive, more muscular than she had realized. And his right hand was clasping his…manhood…which was huge. Throbbing.
She had never had the chance to study it before, and she found herself wishing she could move closer. She watched the way Darcy gripped himself, and he seemed almost—almost violent. He moved his hand up and down his shaft with a firm grip that she would have been terrified to use on him—
Her heated thoughts cooled suddenly.
Why was he doing this? Alone?
With a groan, Darcy leaned his head back against the tub's high, curved edge. His eyes were closed and Elizabeth's nipples tightened as she saw her husband bite his bottom lip. His hand worked harder, faster, impossibly rough. "God, yes," he groaned, his manhood erupting suddenly. Elizabeth's mouth felt dry. Is that what happened? In
side of her?
And should she be more ashamed to have seen it? Because she wasn't ashamed. She wanted to watch him do it again.
Elizabeth shook herself from her trance and backed away. Did he do this often? Did all men do this? He took pleasure—alone?
On one hand, Elizabeth felt slightly better. Darcy had promised her he would never be like some of the men they both knew, who kept mistresses in town. But.
Why would he not come to her?
Did she displease him?
Elizabeth felt like an automaton as she moved to their bedroom door, opening it and then calling his name, as if she had just arrived. He answered from the interior room, and before she knew it he was standing beside her, wet and warm, his banyan clinging to his broad, damp chest.
"Shall I call the maid to help you undress?" he offered.
She could barely say yes—or no. She wanted to say no. She wanted to ask him to do it. She wanted to ask so many questions, most importantly: why would he prefer his own hand to her entire body?
She must be doing something wrong.
And today, in the parlor, on that silly, awful chair: he had seemed so different. Did he want something different? From her? From this marriage?
It was only after she was in bed and the candles were out—after Mr. Darcy kissed her chastely on the cheek and turned to face the wall—that Elizabeth wondered: did she want something different from herself?
And their marriage?
Darcy
He didn't know what he had expected from his marriage, but it wasn't this.
Darcy had insisted on accompanying Jane, her footman, and her maid all the way back to Netherfield. No one had expected him to do that. When they had arrived, even Charles had told him, repeatedly, that he had gone above and beyond the call of duty.
"You are more than a brother to me!" Charles had said gratefully, hugging him and grinning, his cheeks as red as his hair.
Of course, Darcy berated himself as soon as the Bingleys gave him a room for the night. He cared for Jane, of course. She was his wife's dearest friend and, to be honest, her most respectable sister. And Bingley was one of his oldest friends.
But he hadn't done it for them.
Or Elizabeth, though she'd smiled demurely when he said he would make sure her sister returned home safely.
No. He was a coward. A coward. Because the only reason he had left—fled—Pemberley was to escape his wife.
His lovely, perfect wife.
Whom, God help him, he wanted to ruin.
He had almost lost control with her. When he'd pulled her onto his lap—in the yellow parlor, her sanctuary, of all places—and accosted her. She'd let him, of course. She was innocent in all ways. She didn't know that most men wouldn't finger their wives' cunnies in a nearly public room.
Darcy groaned as he walked toward Pemberley from the stables. He'd only stayed one night at Netherfield, telling Charles and Jane he wanted to return to Elizabeth. But that was a lie.
Or a partial one.
He wanted to return, rip her clothes off, worship her body, make her scream—
He wanted to keep her in bed for days.
He wanted to tell her, show her, the truth of his deepest, most secret desires.
But he would not be able to bear it if—if she looked at him differently.
If she looked at him with disgust, with horror. And even worse than that, she might let him do any number of things, because she loved him. Like the damn yellow chair. He had thought she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Her cheeks had been flushed like a rose in bloom. Her skin heated, the scent of her—the scent between her legs—filling his mind and throat. He'd been salivating, ready to throw her to the floor and feast on her.
And then she'd—she'd brought up the damned scarf.
Politely.
As if she were making conversation.
And then he had looked at his wife, and she had seemed—nervous. Agitated. Even frightened.
My God. He was a monster. Ravaging a young girl, an innocent—and he had barely scratched the surface of what he wanted to do with her. To her. And she was too kind, too earnest, too young, too sweet to object. Plus, despite his attempts to hide what he had done for the Bennets, Elizabeth had been smart enough to discover that he had paid for the vile George Wickham to marry Elizabeth's youngest sister.
Saving Lydia—and all her sisters—from ruin.
Darcy had not wanted Elizabeth, or anyone, to know of his actions. But she knew. And she was grateful. Perhaps too grateful.
Did she want to please him—at the expense of her own desires? Her own decency?
He should be happy with his love match. He adored Elizabeth beyond measure. She was intelligent, humorous, wise and kind. And beautiful, so achingly beautiful to him. He was blessed in every way in life.
He did not need to spread his lusts to his wife.
He could keep them hidden. He could end them, put them from his mind, for once and for all.
But it was easier to do that, if he limited his exposure to his tempting wife. He'd been avoiding her, and now he knew he had to stop. He had to be the one to lead them in their marriage, and find a way forward.
Elizabeth was his future.
Everything he secretly desired to inflict on her—that had to be his past.
To give himself time to think, Darcy had told Elizabeth he would remain at Netherfield for a few days, and then visit her parents while he was near Meryton. But he found, after one night, he could not bear to be away from her. He could not stand the distance growing between them, and he himself had made it worse.
So he'd ridden hard the next day, switching out horses at an inn. And now here he was, back at Pemberley. Excited, exhausted, thrilled to find his wife—
And she was nowhere to be seen.
And it was after nine o'clock at night.
He'd interrogated the steward and the housekeeper, but to no avail. Mrs. Reynolds said she'd met with Elizabeth that morning, to plan dinner and moving furniture for the summer. She'd gone for a long walk in the morning, visited the Greenwalls in the afternoon, and her maid Annie had sworn that she'd helped the missus into bed not an hour ago.
"She told me she hadn't slept well the night before, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps she's reading in the library?"
He'd dismissed the terrified girl, agreeing. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt or wake the household, but when he'd walked into their bedchambers and found a fire burning, candles lit, and an empty bed—he had panicked.
He knew was it was like to lose loved ones. And he felt—he could not deny—the distance growing between him and his wife. He would find her. Speak with her. They could have an intimate marriage of the mind, if not the body. And not in the way he secretly desired.
Darcy ran his hand over his face, then through his hair. Elizabeth was probably in his library, curled up on the great, leather couch near the fireplace. It was one of her favorite spots, and he could picture her there, having fallen asleep, as she had done so many nights before.
He could take a moment, compose himself, and then go find her. Carry her to bed. Sleep chastely next to his beautiful bride.
Darcy took a deep breath and loosened his cravat. He'd sent his valet away, wanting a moment of privacy. He took a moment to relieve himself and wash away the first from the road, the cool water bracing against his heated flesh.
If only it was as easy to cleanse his soul.
He sat on the small settee—Why was all the furniture so blasted small? he grumbled to himself—and removed his boots. It was only then, as he looked to his right, that he saw a small book, laying open on the side table.
He would not have looked at it—he was more honorable than that, he told himself—but it was Elizabeth's handwriting. And there was still some small, admittedly insecure, part of him that wondered, Would she leave him?
Everyone else he loved had, though he knew his parents' untimely deaths weren't constructed to leave him. Georgiana falling in love
with Wickham when she was no more than a child wasn’t about him.
But still. Early in his life, he had to harden himself due to the fact that everything he thought he had—everything he knew he loved—could be lost. So easily. So quickly.
It couldn't be a letter to him, what he saw so close to his right hand. But then he saw his name—and then he saw—
Darcy's eyes widened, a steady, rushing drumbeat filling his ears.
He had to blink once, twice. And then he could not look away.
Shame, he told himself. But still. He picked up the book, already loathing his weaknesses—
"Good God," Darcy breathed, clutching the small journal. "This cannot be."
The page began, mid-sentence.
cannot erase the images from my mind. I have not written of what I stumbled upon, for shame—not of what Mr. and Mrs. Mills were doing, but shame of my own character, for standing hidden in the shadows, and watching them.
I have not spoken of it—if only I had never let go of the scarf! If only the winds had not been so strong. If only I had not wandered so far—
But it is useless to reprimand myself now. And in truth, I have kept hoping that the memory would fade. If I did not speak of it, if I did not write it, and soon I would forget it. It means nothing, does it not? I wanted to ask Jane her advice, but she is all things good and wholesome. And who else is there to speak with? No one.
What would my dear Darcy think, if he knew what I had seen?
If he knew what I did?
If he knew that—I cannot stop thinking of it? And imagining he and I, in their stead?
I shall write it out once. And after this I shall burn these pages, burn the memory from my life. I am happy. I shall be happy. I have no need—no need of these strange things.
Mr. Darcy swallowed hard. He knew he should not be reading these private thoughts. He hated his own actions—but his wife was tortured! And thought she could not come to him! And if his tenants had done something, hurt her somehow…
He felt a murderous rage sweep through him. He would never allow Elizabeth to be hurt. In any way. He might be sinning by reading her private thoughts, but if it gave him a way to help her…
Mr. Darcy's Secret Desires: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 4
