by Delaney Jane
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed deeper, but she said nothing as Charles bowed to them both.
He left quickly.
Lizzy sat on the bed beside Jane, leaning back against the pillows. She closed her eyes. There was a smell to her, something faint and musky, not at all like the sister Jane was used to sleeping beside.
“How are you feeling?” Jane asked. Perhaps Lizzy was falling ill.
Her sister jumped. “No, how are you feeling?”
“Better.”
Lizzy looked into Jane’s eyes, searching for a truth she would never find. Jane’s armor was good enough that not even her closest sister could see beneath it. At this moment, she was glad for that because she had begun thinking all sorts of improper thoughts.
Satisfied with the lie in her eyes, Lizzy turned from Jane. “Shall I read to you?” She picked up the book Charles had left.
Jane took it, smiling to soften the move, and tucked the book into the pile on her nightstand.
“I’ve had enough of books for now.”
That night, after much assuring her she felt fine, Elizabeth finally allowed Jane to get out of bed and take a walk. It was only down a set of stairs and into the parlor where the others played cards.
Lizzy set Jane on the couch, where she tried to hide how winded she was from just that short walk. Charles left the game table and sat beside her, the space between them far enough that no one said a word, but close enough that Jane felt the tightening in her belly.
A discussion between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley continued, the two of them debating the merits of balls in the country.
Jane did not care for the topic. Lizzy, it seemed, did not either, as she rolled her eyes when only Jane could see, but was roped into the conversation by Miss Bingley. Leaving them to it, Jane turned to Charles beside her.
He was close, his body angled toward her. His clothes today were light, his shirt white, his jacket and breeches gray. The breeches were snug and soft-looking, hugging his thighs and—
Her face flushed so deeply she must have looked ill again. Charles took her hand from her lap, holding it between them on the couch.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked quietly.
The others went on with their conversation. The Hursts playing cards.
Jane could not meet Charles’s eyes, but she said she felt well, just tired. Her hand lay in his, his thumb brushing her palm, making her warmer.
When she could finally look up, he was watching her, something hot in his eyes making her breathless. He licked his lips and her stomach clenched, lower.
“Had—had you read that sort of book before, Mr. Bingley?”
“Charles,” said he. And then his face pinked. “I had. Not that one, but others like it.”
It would have been stupid of her to think Charles was as innocent as she. He was a man. A rich, beautiful man. He must have lain with other women in his lifetime. Where it was a ruined reputation for women, it was a rite of passage for men.
“I can read you other stories if you prefer.” He must have mistaken her disappointment for discomfort.
She had let him see behind his mask. It may have only been small glimpses, but she had seen the real him, the one he hid from society. Would it not be fair if she never let him see the real her?
She was a terribly curious creature, though she hid it well, but she wanted to see how his face changed, how his lips would move, what his voice would do to her when he read a book like that to her.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “What if I do not prefer?”
Something flashed in his eyes, and his lips parted. “If you wish it,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
It would have been fine, but when she stood, Lizzy rushed to help her, and then Darcy called on Charles to accompany him on a ride.
Jane slept fitfully, listening for the return of the horses. They came late at night. She had been dozing when she heard the horses, followed by the men’s voices speaking in hushed tones. All she could hear were the deep mumblings as they made their way inside.
When they reached the stairs, Darcy’s deep voice bid a good night and then was gone. For a long moment, Jane held her breath.
He was standing outside her door. She couldn’t hear him, but she could feel his closeness. She longed to call to him, invite him into her bed, but there were more reasons against that than for.
So, she just lay there, listening. Finally, she heard him sigh. Her door had been cracked open, the light from a hall candle spilling across her floor. She watched his shadow block the light. Too quietly for her to hear, her door eased open.
Her desire for him to come to her, to join her in bed, was so strong that it terrified her and she closed her eyes and pretended to be sleeping.
His boots crossed the space in near silence, his shaky breathing the only disturbance in the room. She felt when he stopped beside her bed, and willed herself to remain still, to breathe evenly and deeply.
It seemed to last a lifetime, that moment.
She heard him move, fabric rustling, and she tried not to stiffen. His fingertips brushed against her cheek, her jaw, his thumb grazing her lips.
Thank goodness it was dark because she felt the heat creep up her neck.
And then he was leaving, his boots hitting the floor hard as though he were running.
Jane opened her eyes and stared at the empty doorway, her cheek warm from his touch, his scent lingering in her room.
The next morning, Lizzy woke her early and asked if Jane was well enough to travel. The look of desperation in her sister’s eyes was enough for Jane to ignore the heaviness in her limbs and the desire to sleep a little longer. Whatever was plaguing Lizzy, Jane would not prolong it further.
And so, before breakfast had been served, Jane and Lizzy climbed into a carriage that Charles was kind enough to offer when Lizzy told him they would dearly love to return home. Jane was wrapped in a thick blanket, a scarf around her neck, and a bottle of tonic beside her.
Caroline and Louisa had bid them farewell inside where it was warm and the scent of fresh baked bread was wafting from the breakfast parlor. Mr. Darcy had offered Jane and Lizzy a curt nod before joining the others.
But Charles walked them outside, helping them into the carriage and making sure Jane was tucked in and dry. Elizabeth leaned out of the window to speak with the driver. Charles remained by the open door, tucking a loose corner of the blanket inside.
Jane could still feel his fingers on her cheek, her lips. He seemed out of sorts today. Perhaps he knew she had been awake and thought she was running from him?
How could she tell him that she wasn’t without letting on that she had been awake, in case he didn’t know?
She lowered her voice, feigning a sore throat, and leaned toward Charles. “I meant to tell you,” he bent closer to hear her better. “I borrowed that book. I will return it when I’ve finished.”
He knew to which book she referred. For a moment he only stared at her, that hot something flashing in his eyes again.
And then Lizzy climbed in. He bid them a safe trip. She turned at the end of the drive and saw him watching her, and she smiled.
Chapter Seven
Meeting Mr. Wickham
The commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
As it rained too much for any visits to Meryton, Elizabeth Bennet had spent the better part of a week trapped inside Longbourn desperately looking for anywhere she could be alone. It was in these rare moments of solitude that Elizabeth would read novels of a naughty sort and let her fingers explore her nether region. She had brought herself to climax several times, but nothing like what she had experienced at the hands of Mr. Darcy, not even when she used the smooth wooden phallus he had lent her.
And it was not as though she had much time for practice.
She and her family were currently playing host to a Mr. Collins, the very man to which the estate of Longbour
n would fall when her beloved father passed, hopefully not for many years. He came to repair some ill will felt between Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins’s father, and while he had triumphed in this with Mrs. Bennet, he had yet to impress Mr. Bennet or his daughters.
To the younger Lydia and Catherine, Mr. Collins was boring, and where he was not wearing a red coat like the men who so recently had been the object of their affections; they could not find it in themselves to suffer his droning speeches.
Jane, who never spoke a bad word against anyone, said nothing against Mr. Collins. Mary might have found him interesting, but she was just as into herself as Mr. Collins was to him.
To Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth, Mr. Collins was an idiot. He was daft and rigid—and no doubt just as clueless and wooden in bed… and unfortunately for Lizzy, he was there to find a wife. It was his way of making amends with the Bennets, apologizing for inheriting their home. It was also how he planned to make himself well settled at his home in Hunsford, at his benefactor’s prompting.
Jane, as Mrs. Bennet had made clear to him, was already spoke for, but Elizabeth, whom Mrs. Bennet liked the least of her children, was free.
Elizabeth only guessed at his intentions because of his constant nearness to her. She bothered with it as much as she could bear, her only form of solace, when she could not find anywhere to read alone, was in thinking of a man she had met nearly a week ago.
She and her sisters, and Mr. Collins, had walked to Meryton to see their aunt. It was there they came across a new recruit for the militia; a Mr. Wickham. Dashingly handsome, and so well spoken as to make a comment on the weather seem a great tale, Mr. Wickham had caught the eye of several of the Bennet sisters.
While Elizabeth was quite taken with him, and her newly discovered sexual appetites waking certain parts of her in his company, it was an odd interaction she had witnessed that kept her staring out the window watching the rain splash into the yard making mud of the dirt.
While the little party spoke in Meryton, just near her aunt’s, there came the sound of horses. Upon them sat Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.
The former greeted the party and then went immediately to Jane, engaging her in a conversation that only the two of them could be part of.
Mr. Darcy greeted the party as well, his eyes catching Elizabeth’s and holding them a moment longer. In that small moment, heat spread from between her thighs, where she became wet. She would have been embarrassed for her reaction toward him, but not long before she had spent four days at Netherfield while Jane rested in sickness. In those four days, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy had become very well acquainted indeed. While no one else in the house was aware, she and Darcy took it in turns to set the bar for the other in terms of how far each was willing to go.
She had yet to see his hidden room, as he would blindfold her each time, fearing that she was not yet ready to see it. But he would bring out different objects for them to use in the nights when she came to visit him. Some brought great pleasure, others brought pain. She enjoyed all of it, tempting him to push things farther, beyond what he thought she could handle.
When it was her turn to show him what she would do, she left him gasping and, often, with marks that did not fade before morning. One night, she had tied him to his bed, facedown and oiled one of his wooden phalluses in front of his face. He had growled, but did not say no. So, straddling his thighs, she parted his buttocks and slid the phallus into him.
She’d watched in rapt enjoyment as he thrashed and moaned. He’d ended up tearing the bindings from the bedposts, rolling over, and pulling her cunt to his face. He’d thrust his fingers deep inside her and buried his face between her legs. She took him in her mouth, hard and fast, pumping the phallus into him, matching the pace of his fingers.
They’d come together that night, each of their mouths filling with the others’ juices.
The next day Elizabeth and Jane had left, Jane being well enough, and Elizabeth, fearful of her heart, wishing to be gone soon. She and Darcy said nothing of their nights together, made no indication that they were any closer than they had been when she first arrived, and she had not heard from him since.
Well that was not entirely true. Just a day after she had come home, she received a package containing books he thought she might enjoy and the wooden phallus.
When she saw him in Meryton, she had been shocked, and then all of her desires rushed through her, so that, had anyone been looking, they may have seen her face turn a dark shade of red.
Darcy had been looking, but not for long. He had turned to greet the man beside her, but upon meeting Mr. Wickham’s gaze, he turned an angry shade of red. Mr. Wickham, Lizzy saw, had gone ashen and turned his face to the cobblestones.
The meeting lasted no more than a few minutes, and then Darcy was rushing Bingley away. Wickham had left soon after with no words as to the odd behavior, and Lizzy was left to wonder.
She did not wonder long, for her sisters and Mr. Collins, had been invited to supper at their aunt’s the next night, and Mr. Wickham was there with many of his regiment.
Elizabeth had sat beside Mr. Wickham, and between comments on the meal, the weather, and the town, he divulged Elizabeth in a tale so horrid she could barely stomach her meal.
Back at home, when she and Jane were alone, Lizzy told her everything she’d heard.
Jane, at the end of this tirade, stared at Elizabeth, her mouth hanging open in horror and sadness.
“But, Mr. Darcy can not be so cruel,” said she.
“The details,” said Lizzy, “with which Mr. Wickham described the events could not have been made up. I am telling you, Mr. Darcy took the rectory and the inheritance left for Wickham all because he was jealous.”
While it hurt to believe it about a man she had been so intimate with, Elizabeth could hardly see how it was untrue. And the more she thought about it, the sicker she felt. Were it not for those nights together, Darcy would be a distant, cold, cruel man who thought her too low in society to speak to. It was only her desires that intrigued him.
“I do not know…” said Jane.
“He is a prideful man,” said Elizabeth. “If it be untrue, let him deny it.”
And he would have his opportunity to do any such denying soon. Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to their home soon after to invite the Bennets to their ball.
It had been a fortnight since that invitation, and the rain had lasted nearly as long. No Meryton, no aunt, nor officers, and endless days of Mr. Collins’s droning voice was enough to make anyone insane. So, when the day of the ball dawned clear and dry, there was enough excitement in Longbourn to drive Mr. Bennet into his library for hiding.
Elizabeth had decided the night before, staring out into the rain while Mr. Collins talking at her about some sermon or another, which she would find out tonight what was true and what was not. Both Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham would be in attendance, and she would simply make them tell her the truth.
She would corner Darcy somewhere no one would see them speaking so intimately. And Wickham she planned to spend at least the first two dances. It was not until Mr. Collins tugged on her strand of hair caught at her lip that she realized he had directly addressed her.
“What?” she snapped, and then smiled to soften the remark.
“I said, dear cousin, that it is my deepest desire that I should have your hand in the first two dances of the evening, if it please you, and, I daresay, it would bring me great pleasure.”
Seeing not a way out of it, Elizabeth agreed, though miserably. How was she to set about her mission while dancing with Mr. Collins?
Chapter Eight
The Netherfield Masquerade
I dare say you will find him very agreeable. Heaven forbid! – That would be the greatest misfortune of all! – To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! – Do not wish me such evil.
They arrived at the ball, which Lydia had bullied Mr. Bingley into making a masked ball, and it was as though stepping into a storybook. Can
dles glittered in the trees. Small trees covered in fake snow lined the stairs up to the great front doors. Actors on stilts dressed as beautiful fairies walked about the crowd waiting to get inside.
Elizabeth forgot her mission and Mr. Collins for a moment as she stepped through the doors and found the hallways and the ballroom decorated so extravagantly it may have been absurd were it not for the elegance and class with which it had been done.
The theme was a forest in winter, and the guests were to be woodland creatures. All around, women in gowns and masks strolled about as colorful birds, sleek cats, and simpering mice, while the men prowled as fierce lions, great bears, and tempting snakes. It was beautiful and mesmerizing.
“Your mask,” whispered Jane, her eyes bright blue behind her blue jay mask. Lizzy slipped her white-feathered mask over her eyes, completing her white swan.
She spent too long searching for Mr. Wickham, not seeing his face among the many red coats without masks, as they were not wearing costumes, only to be told by Charlotte Lucas, her dear friend, that he had gone to London on business just the day before. Completely frustrated, Lizzy took Charlotte to a quite spot while others still arrived and told her what she knew.
Charlotte was not as forgiving as Jane, and she was quick to wonder, along with Elizabeth, if it were not true. They spoke in whispers until Mr. Collins came for their dances.
He was not a good dancer. He was rigid and boring, and Lizzy’s face burned to be seen with him. It burned even more, though perhaps from anger, when she locked eyes with Mr. Darcy over the crowd. Even in costume she knew it was him. His dark eyes glared from the eyeholes of the wolf’s mask.
As soon as their dances were done, and despite his attempt to keep for her for the next dance as well, Lizzy tore away to find Charlotte. She told her of her suspicions that it was because of Darcy that Wickham was not in attendance. Perhaps their past was so volatile that Wickham was afraid to be here.
