The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Gently he clasped her face, lifting away from his chest so he could gaze into her eyes, pouring his love and trust in a look. Then he bent to her mouth, kissing with the lightest of pressures over each lip surface. Tiny suckles, airy grazes with the tip of his tongue, dainty nibbles with his teeth, and minor exhales brushing over her sensitive skin designed to arouse and tranquilize.

  Rapidly his alarm diminished. Allaying her anxieties was all that mattered now and he would happily assume the dominant role needed to confer the fortitude she currently lacked. He moved to her neck, applying the same tender nibbles and suckling kisses, while his competent hands roamed with firm pressure over her shoulders and arms. Her dressing gown ties were released, the supple fabrics yielding easily and falling to pool at her waist.

  He withdrew to gaze upon her. She was flushed, breathing with the heaviness of beginning passion, breasts firm and rising with each inhalation, expressive brown eyes half lidded. He adored this moment in their lovemaking, when the eddy of burgeoning desire transformed her into his transcendent lover. Elizabeth Darcy, his wife, was a beautiful woman and he never tired of observing her, but the current of happiness and masculine fervor that surged through him in response to her igniting sexual excitement was beyond measure.

  He pulled her gauzily draped legs over his, simultaneously reclining her onto the waiting pillows. Gracefully he shifted their bodies toward the middle of the generous Netherfield bed, burrowing deeper into the crisp cotton sheets covering the soft mattress. Propped on one elbow with fingers idly playing with the cascading tresses of her hair, he removed the pretty gown and robe and tossed them onto the floor, his hands caressing and stimulating. His burning scrutiny leisurely scanned the figure spread alongside him. Hunger shone from his eyes and he licked his lips much as a predator anticipates his hunted meal although love and protection drove his appetite. “Fitzwilliam,” she murmured, arching into his arousing touch in expectation and desire.

  That was his signal, so he bent and kissed her hard.

  Their lovemaking took many forms and often she was the leader while he blissfully remained passive to her pointed assault. Typically, she welcomed and yearned for his masculine virility to be at full peak and in command. He had long since relented any fears of crushing her svelte body with his athletic build, knowing she was more than capable of handling his weight pressing into her and his forceful maneuvers as they loved. His prowess so vigorously expressed drove her to heights of insane arousal, and her wanton response was a potent impetus for him.

  Tonight she asked for his strength and devotion, both easy for him to give. So he held on to her lips with the penetrating kiss and rolled onto her body until his clothed form swathed her utterly. Lizzy flung her arms over his shoulders, snaking the right under his shirt with hand pressed firmly onto the ridges of his spine below the dip between his shoulder blades. The left clutched his head, fingers twined through his thick hair and holding downward pressure as she returned the feverish kiss with equal intensity.

  Never ceasing the delicious attention to her mouth, he grasped her legs and drew them over his waist before traveling his hands with a steady pressure over her silky skin from hips to waist to rib cage and the soft swell of flattened breasts. Long minutes were devoted to titillating play as their passions raged and hunger for more overwhelmed, until Darcy released a guttural groan and gasped her name hotly against the tender space below her earlobe.

  “Fitzwilliam, you have far too many clothes on.”

  “Indeed you are correct,” he responded to her whispered words, chuckling breathily. Inhaling deeply to calm his pounding heart, he rose to kneel amid her bent knees. With a sensuous smile he released the remaining clasped button on his shirt, unfastened the cuffs, pulled the tails from his pants, and drew the garment over his head. He then flourished it over his head and pitched it into the darkness beyond the faint lamplight before removing his trousers in the same languid, seductive way.

  Darcy arched one brow. “An improvement?”

  Lizzy merely nodded while her eyes raked approvingly over his manly torso with lust and yearning unmistakable. Suddenly no longer in the mood to be a passive spectator, she threw her legs about him and tugged. She lifted to meet his advance and shouted his name as waves of pleasure thrummed through her body at their joining. Gleefully she submitted to the furious pace her husband set.

  Stamina was one of many marvelous attributes Darcy possessed, along with a divinely gifted ability to cater to their fluctuating passions as they made love. He discerned every sigh and moan, infallibly reacting with a blend of power and tenderness to best please her. With a masterful touch he provided all that she needed.

  Every sense was acutely alive in a manner that differed from any other situation. In a beautiful paradox they could vividly feel the sensations in each nerve of their own bodies and differentiate the multiple points where their skin met, while also melding into a single entity ablaze with pleasure until attaining a summit of exquisite glory and tumbling over together.

  Lying in a heap of pliant flesh, Darcy made no move to leave the warmth of his wife’s trembling body, and Lizzy had no wish for him to roll away. Instead, they absorbed the residual tremors and bursts of energy as they exhaled soft sounds of love between gentle kisses. The final shivers passed and he then lifted to smooth the hair from her face and look into her eyes.

  “You are amazing, Fitzwilliam. As my lover and as my husband. You are the only man who comforts me and offers unassailable protection.” She impishly added a tight squeeze to his rear for emphasis. “But mostly as my lover. I still fear I shall perish someday from how you set my heart to bursting.”

  Darcy felt a glow of egotistical satisfaction. All his accomplishments as the Master of Pemberley, or in any area of his life, paled in comparison to being able to ceaselessly gratify his wife. He knew that in some respects that was typical male arrogance and accepted that his manliness and virility were essential to his being. Yet knowing without the tiniest doubt that she attained pleasure of the highest order through him was the true test, and he thanked God daily for the competence to do so.

  He nuzzled his lips and nose over her soft skin, and huskily murmured, “I desperately desire to fall asleep with you in my arms, best beloved, which is all the greater reason why we should rise. Let us sit on the sofa, sipping brandies while you share what happened today.”

  Minutes later he had stoked the fire, poured two half-glasses of fine cognac, and settled their naked bodies onto the plush sofa nearest the blaze. A quilted coverlet draped over the legs lying across his lap and her back resting against the couch’s arm.

  She sipped the sweet liquid, caressed the strong fingers laced between her thinner ones, and smiled into his alert eyes. “It is as I said before. He said nothing of any significance or that was particularly disturbing. My distress was in the incident happening at all because I abhorred telling you of it.” She halted the retort with her fingertips to his lips. “Do not say it, Fitzwilliam, as you should know I would never entertain the thought of withholding information from you.” She ran one fingertip over the creases furrowing his brow. “What I abhor is being the bearer of any news that will unsettle you. Even something as benign as delivering a newspaper that announces one of your horses losing the St. Leger.”

  “That was hardly benign,” he grumbled irritatingly, still steamed over an episode some months old. “If Lord Hessing had employed a modicum of sense or listened to any one of us at the Jockey Club he never would have allowed Schreiber to jockey Lady Beth. She could have won and should have if the fool…” He stopped, frown erasing at the amused expression on her face. He shook his head, eyes closing briefly. “Very well, point taken. I shall attempt to contain my temper and listen calmly.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned for a kiss to his cheek, launching into a complete narration of the Wickham encounter, as best she could recall it.

  Darcy was unmoved by Wickham’s slurs against his personality, grudgingly acknow
ledging a certain truth to some of them. Nor was he disturbed by the false allegations as to the motive for their marriage. The truth of their mutual love was far too ingrained to be vexed by such ignorance and evil, although hearing Elizabeth’s firm reaffirmations was pleasing. He was angered that his sons, mostly Alexander, had been subjected to such lies, but Elizabeth assured him that Alexander was too young and too devoted to his parents to be influenced by vague words from a total stranger.

  What incensed him the most was the insolence in presuming an intimacy with his wife and son! He could easily strangle Wickham for that alone. Yet he knew it was precisely this reaction that motivated his childhood playmate to choose the words he did. Try as he might, Darcy could find nothing overtly threatening in talks of gardening and ducks and eggs at Hyde Park or inherited personality traits. The encouragement to Alexander to break the rules or cause mischief was annoying, but Darcy knew his son well enough to know that was unlikely. He interpreted those remarks as nothing more than Wickham wishing to aggravate his nemesis and bring turmoil into their family felicity.

  In the end he was forced to agree that there appeared to be no nefarious scheme attached to the encounter. He would remain cautious to be sure, but refused to permit his ire to erupt into full-blown fury. As Lizzy had wisely observed several days ago, his rage led to discord between them, which led to a victory for Wickham. The idea made his blood run cold, and he reflexively pulled Lizzy into his body for a tight embrace.

  “So in the end he was Wickham in top form,” he spoke into her hair, “spouting lies for the pure enjoyment of it.” He released a harsh laugh, tipping her backward to once again rest against the pillowed sofa arm. He stroked over her cheek, gazing intently into her eyes. “I suppose we both expected it. At least I knew he would not be able to resist cornering you for a few barbs in hopes that our love was not as strong as it is.”

  “Mr. Wickham, I am saddened to admit, likely has no concept of love. Despite my assertions to the contrary, he is probably congratulating himself on reminding me of how impossible our relationship. If it pleases him to do so it matters naught to me. We know the truth and neither of us would convince him otherwise even if we wished to try. But it is sad for Lydia to be bound to such an unfeeling man.”

  “Is that what yet troubles you?”

  “Partially, of course. I would wish more for my sister despite knowing how foolish she is.” She sighed. “But, no, there is more. Although now, here in the safety of your arms and after the marvelous expression of our love and this discourse, my vision seems all the more fanciful and ridiculous.”

  “Elizabeth, I do not understand.”

  “After we returned to Netherfield I was upset. We went for a walk, all of us, and I told Jane about Mr. Wickham. It helped to talk to her, unburden myself to a degree, but I was so dreading causing you any pain. I will confess, William, that for a few moments at least, I wished we were not always so honest with each other. But it was only a fleeting, cowardly thought as I longed to share the burden with you, knowing that you would ease my heart.”

  “Just one of the jobs I gladly discharge, beloved.”

  “I know and I love you for it.” She paused and inhaled deeply, her voice muted as she resumed. “It is like a dream that seems so real when you first awake with heart pounding and the sensations vivid. But then the more you try to bring the images into precise focus they become hazier still and slither away until all that is left is an impression that lacks clarity or power. This is like that. After I told Jane, as I was yet wrestling with my emotions, I looked across the meadow to a parked carriage. It was just sitting there, alone, not ominous in the least. Then, for a breath of time only, I imagined I saw a face.”

  She was staring into the distance, brows wrinkled with concentration. Darcy examined her closely, but she did not appear to be anxious. Rather she looked confused and mildly irritated.

  “I cannot think for the life of me why I would imagine him at that moment. There is no connection whatsoever, except that they are both men who have caused us pain in profound ways.”

  “Who? Who did you imagine?”

  She turned back to him, peering unblinkingly into his baffled eyes. “The Marquis of Orman.”

  Darcy drew in a sharp breath, lips pressing together until nearly invisible, and the spasm that jerked through his jaw was marked. “Are you sure?” He choked out in a low growl.

  “No! William that is the point! I am the exact opposite of sure. I could not describe what I think I saw if my life depended on it! That is what gave me a headache and has distracted me all night. Not Mr. Wickham, but the struggle to bring coherency to what is now only a vague impression of a person we shall never forget. I knew I had to tell you, but it does seem rather stupid since I cannot recall the tiniest detail that lends credence to speaking his name.”

  “Yet his is the name that surfaced in your mind when you saw… whatever it is you saw. Why?”

  “I do not know! Except that, if you examine it from a certain perspective, they are, as I said, men who have caused us pain. Perhaps on some unconscious level dealing with Mr. Wickham has unearthed frightening memories of Lord Orman.”

  “Tell me what you saw, as much as you can recall.”

  “A carriage, plain and nondescript, sitting on the road some distance away. No movement from the coachman. I did not think much of it initially. Then I detected movement from within. A hand, I think, holding a walking stick and tapping on the ceiling to alert the coachman. William, it truly was the barest glimpse. Perhaps not even that. Did I see a face? I want to say I did, but all I remember is pale flesh holding a cane, a flash of gold, and dark eyes. Orman’s name seared through my brain and I doubled over in pain. That part was real. The pain. But Alexander was there with dandelions, and Mrs. Hanford and Jane expressing concern, and as quickly as it was there it was gone. The carriage too. Lost in the dust and I saw nothing else.”

  Darcy had risen from the sofa and was standing stiffly before the fire, his face etched with perturbation and fingers fidgeting. “You may judge it nothing of import, Elizabeth, but I do not. It has been years since your last nightmare of Orman. There is no logical reason for you to conjure his name or image unless something you saw in those fleeting seconds reminded you of him. Granted, that is not proof it was him, but I will not assume it of no consequence either. You are not typically a fanciful woman.”

  “What did you last hear of the Marquis’s activities?”

  Darcy shook his head curtly, voice hollow in his abstraction. “Rumors mostly and I do not attend to gossip. I know he was ill and weak for a long time. Talk of the extensiveness of his injuries varied, many wildly incorrect, as I know since I was the one who inflicted them. No one has seen or heard from him since he left Derbyshire. He retreated to his estate on the southeastern border of Dartmoor and apparently never leaves. He has not been to London at all. I heard once… Wait!” He pivoted sharply, face gray and drawn. “Wickham lives in Devon! What part again?”

  “Exeter, I believe, but that is north. It is too coincidental, William.” But the faintness of her tone belied the assertion. She suddenly recalled the vague comments by Lydia, as she and Jane had discussed just that afternoon.

  “I do not believe there is anything coincidental about it. Rather, it is rational.” His voice rose, words rushing over each other. “News travels eventually over the breadth of England. Wickham hears of the incident with Orman, learns he resides miles away, and plots a course of revenge with the one man in the entire country who can not only fund it but has more hatred toward me than he does.”

  Darcy was pale and rigid with rage. Wrath caused his heart to pound painfully and every muscle to ache from clenching. His voice was flat and icy cold. Lizzy jumped up, crossing to where he stood immobile, and grasped his face between her hands, forcing his darkened eyes to meet hers.

  “William! Get control of yourself! You are leaping pell-mell into unfounded conclusions. No!” She interrupted his response befor
e it was uttered. “You listen to me. All you say could, and I stress could, be a possibility. But my frayed vision is not proof of anything. Nor is Wickham accosting me for ludicrous maligns against you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging fiercely and pressing her warm body into his chilled skin.

  “Elizabeth,” he mumbled from the depths of her neck, “I cannot ignore this.”

  “I know. And you should not. But nothing has really changed. Tomorrow Kitty will be married and the day after we will leave for London. Once there you can exert all your considerable influence to discover what, if anything, is really going on with Mr. Wickham and Lord Orman.”

  “We need to know for certain. You do understand this, dearest, do you not?” His eyes pleaded with hers, hands steely where they rested on her waist.

  She nodded. “Of course…”

  But he was already looking over her shoulder, eyes haunted as he drew inward, seemingly forgetting her presence. “I should have killed him when he was under my blade. Swift and conclusive. I was a fool to leave him alive, more dangerous than before.” He paused, inhaling expansively. His brow creases deepened, his timbre low and questioning as he asked, “What could they be planning? Orman has few friends and none who are idiotic enough to collaborate with him. Especially against me. A scheme to damage the estate? Pemberley? Wickham would love that!”

  He paused again but quickly shook his head. “No, that is unfeasible. Wickham knows nothing of Pemberley finances or management and the Manor is too well protected. Orman does not have the wealth or influence to damage the estate. They cannot harm me in that way.”

  Lizzy gasped, fingertips digging into his shoulders. “He would… he would not try to… injure you? William! I…”