Mr. Darcy, the Beast

by Valerie Lennox

  “But you wish to stay in pain,” said Elizabeth. “It’s some sort of penance?”

  He sighed.

  “Did you mean to visit the penance upon me? Upon every member of this household?”

  His lips thinned. At once, he crossed the room to the bath, moving quickly. When he got there, he divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat in moments. He began to untie his cravat. “So, you want to bathe me, then?”

  “I want to help you not feel pain,” she said. “I think it is the pain that drives you to be so cruel.”

  He yanked off his cravat and pulled his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it.

  She swallowed, unnerved at the sight of his bare chest, which she had not ever seen. He was scarred there, too. The line of it traveled down over his collar, over his chest, fading out only above his belly. But he was also powerful and muscled and… well, rather pleasant to look at.

  He gave her a wide smile, noticing her discomfort and enjoying it. “This is what you wished, is it not?” He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them off.

  Her eyes widened.

  He was not wearing any smalls. He was entirely naked beneath his trousers, and she could see everything, including his male part, which was…

  She had seen male parts on statues before, and his seemed wrong in some way. It was rather too large, and it was sticking out of his body in an odd and somewhat frightening way.

  She was so caught up in staring at it that she almost didn’t at first see the other mass of scar tissue, at the top of his leg. It was pink and ugly and painful to even look at.

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” she cried out when she saw it. “It must be that which needs massaging.”

  “I can think of a number of things I wouldn’t mind your massaging,” he said in a very deep voice.

  Her face went red again.

  He climbed into the bath. “Did I say that I wasn’t going to apologize to you anymore?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing any smalls?”

  “I suppose I should apologize anyway. I don’t know what I’m about. I thought to scandalize you, I suppose, scare you away with my nakedness. But you don’t scare easily, do you, madam?”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, I must say that your, er, member is a bit frighteningly formed.”

  He laughed, delighted, surprised. “What?”

  She was blushing again. “I don’t think it’s supposed to… stand up in that manner.”

  He laughed again, throwing back his head, sliding down in the bath so that his face was nearly submerged.

  “Why are you laughing?” she said. “And really, you should allow me to massage the area that is hurt. I don’t even know why we’re continuing this conversation.”

  He stopped laughing and simply grinned at her. “It probably shouldn’t be standing up, in fact. It’s entirely a compliment to you.”

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head.

  “That’s good,” he said. “If you are so wide-eyed with your fortune-seeking husband, he’ll be quite convinced of your innocence.”

  She looked away.

  He was quiet.

  “Let me help you,” she whispered. “Let me ease the pain.”

  “You don’t need to bother with me, Elizabeth,” he said. “You will be gone soon enough.”

  Her first name on his lips did strange things to her insides. The fact that he was naked was similarly disconcerting. She could see part of his chest uncovered in the water, his strong arms. She felt out of sorts.

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he continued gently, “but I don’t deserve it. And look at how I’ve taken this sweet gesture you’ve made toward me and turned it vulgar. You are good, Elizabeth, but don’t waste anymore of your goodness on me. Go and read before bed, relax after this difficult day we’ve had.”

  She knelt down so that she was eye level with him. That was a bit better. She could no longer see so much of his bare skin. “I think you’re simply trying to avoid feeling better.”

  “I will enjoy the bath on my own,” he said. “I promise.”

  “I think you’re afraid of letting me help you.”

  He drew in a shuddering breath, looking at her. “You don’t know what you’re asking. You want to massage my upper thigh?”

  “If that’s where it hurts, then yes.”

  “No.” He shut his eyes, letting out another laugh, but this one was wild and high-pitched. When he opened his eyes, he shook his head at her. “No.”

  “Why not? Because I would see your weakness and you would—”

  “Because you are leaving me, and I am going to turn you over to some other man, and you do not belong to me anymore. It would be… improper… to allow such intimacy.”

  “You’ve never given a fig for propriety since I’ve known you, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Elizabeth…”

  “You keep doing that,” she said, and her voice wavered a bit.

  “What?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Calling me by my first name. Shall I call you Fitzwilliam?”

  His jaw twitched.

  “Fitzwilliam, I am going to reach across the bath and put my hands under the water, and—”

  “No, you are not.”

  She reached over the side of the tub.

  He grasped her wrists. “Leave me.” He was begging her.

  “Let go of me,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be improper unless you make it improper.”

  He laughed that wild laugh again.

  “Aren’t you at least curious to see if it would, in fact, ease some of the pain?”

  He went slack, his grip on her wrists loosening. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

  “I can be rather stubborn, Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you didn’t know this about me.”

  “No, I think I did,” he said quietly, looking up at her. “Your stubbornness is my favorite thing about you.” Then he shook his head. “No, that’s not true. My favorite thing about you is the way you say ‘Fitzwilliam.’”

  A thrill went through her. This was intimate. This was… She licked her lips. “I’m not leaving you.” She thrust her hands under the water.

  “Yes, we established that,” he said.

  “No, I mean, I’m not leaving Pemberley. I’m not going home. I’m staying here. I’m staying married to you.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Her fingers brushed his skin under the water.

  He gasped.

  What had she just touched?

  He made a funny noise and then he grasped her hands again, but not to stop her, to move her. He guided her fingers through the water, and then she felt the smooth lumps of scars against her palms. “Oh,” she breathed.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He leaned his head back to expose his neck to her, and it was beautiful. He was beautiful.

  She explored the scars, gentle, careful, her fingers finding the edges of them.

  He shut his eyes.

  She did not know what she was doing. How to massage? How much pressure? Should she gather up his flesh in her hands? She was afraid to push too hard, so she only rubbed, her fingers gliding through the water.

  He made a humming noise, something on the edge of pain and satisfaction.

  She stopped moving. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” he murmured. “But don’t stop. It’s good.”

  So, she didn’t. She massaged, gentle and hesitant, for a very long time, until her fingers cramped, and then she stopped, sinking down to sit next to the bath.

  She was soaked, somehow. Water had traveled down her sleeves to the bodice of her dress. The floor was wet. It was soaking through her skirts.

  He moved. She could hear the water gurgling around him.

  She lifted her gaze to find his.

  He reached a wet hand out of the bath to cup her cheek. “Elizabeth…”

  She leaned into his touch. It sent warm rivers of sensation th
rough her.

  “Why are you good to me?”

  She covered his hand with her own, holding it against her cheek. She could feel that his fingers were wrinkled from being submerged in the water, and that made her smile, and it made her feel close to him in away she hadn’t before.

  “I’m not a good man,” he said.

  She opened her eyes. “Maybe you should try to be one.” She turned her face, pressed her lips into his palm.

  He groaned.

  She leaned closer, her face closer to his. She wanted to kiss his lips again. This time she wouldn’t run away.

  “All right,” he breathed. “If I were a good man, I would make you leave me.”

  “Fitzwilliam—”

  “Go,” he said, his voice growing harsh. “I mean it, leave me.”

  “No, I won’t—”

  “You will.” He nodded at her. “The snow will melt, and you will go. Back to your home, back to your family, and far away from all of this. You will be better off without me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Darcy awoke the next morning, his leg did not hurt. Elizabeth had been right that heat and the massage were good for the pain. He had not been so completely without pain in a long time, and he lay under the covers, staring up at the ceiling, unsure of how to proceed.

  The pain was like a haze that settled over everything, and without it, he found himself musing over impossible things.

  She’d said she wanted to stay.

  Why would she say such a thing? It made no sense. She couldn’t want to stay. She couldn’t want to be with him. He tried to think of one single good thing he’d done for her, and he came up completely empty. Perhaps she’d said it only out of fear. Even with money, a woman whose marriage had been annulled had a certain status in society. It would not be easy for her.

  But surely, she must see that it would be easier than being here with him. He was a man drowning in pain and grief.

  Except it didn’t hurt right now, and he allowed himself to imagine it for several long moments. He imagined it just as she said, Elizabeth at his side as they hosted balls and dinner parties. He thought of her dancing, her laughing, her eyes catching the lights as she moved…

  She could be his, truly his.

  He thought of her next him in his bed.

  She would have let me bed her last night, he thought. God, he’d wanted her. The experience had been almost tortuously erotic. Certainly, it had some health benefits as well, but her hands on his skin, so close to him… He’d been so hard he thought he might explode.

  And she was so innocent. So sweet. So…

  Oh, Lord, he wanted her. He wanted her to be his, and he wanted her by his side while he slowly cleared out Georgiana’s rooms for their own children to take up residence in that nursery. He thought if she was there, he might be able to manage it. Maybe he could tell her about Georgiana, talk about his sister without the pain bubbling up in him and threatening to drown him in its torrent.

  Maybe…

  But hadn’t this all gone on long enough?

  Hadn’t he done enough to Elizabeth? Shouldn’t he let her be, at long last?

  He got out of bed and half-dressed himself without his valet, only because he was amazed at his range of movement without pain. Perhaps a hot bath every night would nearly banish the pain. Perhaps she was right, and he was keeping himself in pain as a sort of penance for his many sins.

  But she was right that his pain made him horrid, and he took it out on his staff and his friends and on her as well.

  He needed to consider that others didn’t need to suffer.

  His valet came to help him finish dressing and then he went down to breakfast, where Elizabeth was already pouring herself a cup of chocolate.

  He looked at her, and all he could do was smile. He gazed at her, the silly smile on his face, and everything slowed down.

  She turned to look at him. She smiled too. “Mr. Darcy. You’re looking well this morning.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am loathe to admit it, of course, but your ministrations seemed to have been most effective.”

  “Truly? Is the pain less?”

  “A great deal less.”

  “Then you must let me to do it again then,” she said.

  He let out something between a gasp and a laugh. “You…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure you’ll soon be on your way. The snow must be melting.”

  “It’s not, in fact,” she said. “A wind has come in, and it’s drifting badly. Haven’t you looked out the windows this morning?”

  “I have not,” he said. “Snow drifts, you say?”

  “High as a horse in some places,” she said. “Looks as though you’re stuck with me.”

  “Oh, well, somehow I’ll muddle on,” he said, winking at her.

  Her smile widened and her cheeks flushed, and his heart hurt because she was so beautiful. “I wish you wouldn’t keep talking about sending me away. I don’t think you can force me, after all. You did marry me. You can’t toss me aside at a whim.”

  “Well, I don’t think that’s strictly true,” he said. “I probably could do exactly that, if I really made up my mind to do it.”

  “If you made your mind? Then you have not done so?”

  “I mean to,” he said. “I mean to, but you make it all so very difficult to be a good man, Mrs. Darcy.”

  “Oh?” She laughed. “How is that?”

  He reached out and brushed her cheek.

  She sighed, closing her eyes. “I think there are a great many ways that you could be a good man that don’t involve getting rid of me.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” he said. “Keeping you here is selfish and cruel to you.”

  “You ought to let me decide that for myself.”

  “You seem to have gone rather mad, madam, pardon me for saying so.”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, I think I may have.” She laughed again. “I don’t know what it is about you.” And then she closed the distance between them and put her lips on his, like it was nothing, like they kissed over breakfast every morning.

  * * *

  “Did I ruin your dresses, then?” Darcy was looking through Elizabeth’s wardrobe.

  She was sitting on her bed, watching him, feeling just as mad as he had accused her of being. She had made up her mind to leave already, and changing her mind was folly. She was not the sort of woman to fall for a man like this. Why had she fallen for him? Because he wanted her?

  What a stupid bit of vanity on her part.

  “I had them mended,” she said.

  “Oh, good,” he said.

  “Some are still being mended,” she said. “Even now, as we speak.”

  “I see,” he said. “I am very sorry for what I did to your clothes. It’s unpardonable.”

  “It is,” she said. “Quite.”

  “You shouldn’t forgive me for it.”

  “I know that,” she said. “Who says that I have?

  “Ah,” he said, inclining his head. “Perhaps you have not.” He turned away from the wardrobe to peer at her on the bed. “What am I doing in here? Why have I followed you into your bedroom? I should go.”

  “Don’t,” she said. She patted the space next to her on the bed. “Sit with me.”

  He hesitated, and then he did it. He sat quite close to her. Their shoulders brushed.

  She peered at him. He was looking straight ahead, and in profile, she couldn’t see the scars on his face. She wondered what it would have been like to have met him before he had lost his sister, before he had been hurt.

  “I should go,” he said again.

  “Perhaps,” she murmured.

  He stood up.

  She stood up too. “Fitzwilliam?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Do you think that if I did forgive you, you would let me?”

  He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Could you let it all go? Could you try to be happy,
to be…” She cocked her head. “What horrible sin is it that you’ve committed that you don’t think you deserve forgiveness for anyway? Did you kill that man, that Wickham?”

  He grimaced, and his voice was tight. “For heaven’s sake, must you say his name?”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” he said. “But if I had, I certainly wouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

  She regarded him, unsure what she thought of that answer. She tried to fathom the idea of having killed a person and being glad of it. She couldn’t. Of course, Mr. Darcy had said that he hadn’t killed Mr. Wickham. Could she believe him? “Well, then… what is it?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going.” He started towards the door.

  She caught him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Whatever it is, could you let it go? Could you try to be happy with me?”

  He caught her gaze with his own and then he looked away, studying his feet. “I… want to be happy with you, Elizabeth. I don’t know if I can even explain how much I want it.”

  “So, then, you’re saying—”

  “But I don’t know if I’m capable of it.” He pulled his arm away from her. “I don’t know if it’s something I could ever let go. The evidence of it all is permanently etched into my face, do you understand?”

  She reached up and caressed his scars.

  “Don’t do that.” His voice wasn’t strong.

  She kissed him again.

  He offered only token resistance, and then he gave himself over to the kiss. He caught her about the waist and pulled her body against his.

  They kissed in a fury, like the wind that raged outside the windows.

  She felt as if she was being torn apart by it, as though it was too much for her to handle, as though it might break her. And yet, all she wanted was more of his mouth and more of his hands on her, and she urged his fingers higher on her back, telling him to unbutton her dress.

  He sighed, his mouth on hers, and he did as she asked. His fingers worked at her neck, one button at a time, and they kissed and kissed and kissed.

  She seized handfuls of his shirt and pulled them out of where they were tucked into his trousers. She put her hands under the fabric, flat against the warmth of his stomach.

  He grunted. He tugged on her dress.

  She pulled her arms out of the sleeves, revealing her stays and her shift beneath. Her heart started to beat wildly. This was happening.