She shivered as she slipped into her nightgown, and so moved nearer to the fire. Beautiful as it was, it was not very practical on a cold December night. As the darkness marched by, she was determined to stay awake, but her idle brain was making it more and more difficult. Deciding a book might aid her vigil, she pulled on her robe and made her way to the library.
The candlelight made the house look different, but she quickly found her way, and with a single turn of the handle entered Darcy’s inner sanctum. It was an impressive room that was split into two open sections, each having several comfortable chairs and tables. At one end there was a grand fire-place with the remnants of a dying fire still burning, and at the other end sat Darcy’s magnificent desk. In the middle of the room, a tall bookcase jutted out, almost touching the richly decorated ceiling. Darcy had proudly boasted to her that the library contained over twenty thousand titles, and of his love of the solitude he was able to find here. He’d also imparted that he found the aroma of the leather bindings, one of his most-comforting smells. It was clearly his favourite room in the house. It had taken several generations to amass its contents, and seeing the row upon row of books, Elizabeth could easily believe it. She looked forward to spending many happy hours secluded here, curled up in one of the big chairs, lost in the works of Shakespeare or Lord Byron. It was the perfect place to find something to keep her awake, maybe a lively play by the bard, or a rousing canto or two from Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy.’
The only light in the room came from the weak glow of the dying fire, and her single candle. Elizabeth held the candle closer to the spines, thus enabling her to make out the words. Spying a small leather-clad book with no visible title, she placed the candlestick on the nearest table, and pulled it from its resting place. How intriguing she thought, eager to discover its worth. It was certainly well-worn, though the leather was still pungent. It deserved further investigation she decided.
Darcy sat motionless, afraid his vision would disappear. Night after night he had dreamt of Elizabeth coming to him, to confirm their love as only a man and woman could. Tonight was no different. He must have drunk deeply for his apparition to appeared so real; When she turned to set the candle down, its light illuminated her features, and he realised it was no dream. Frozen, he held his breath, afraid she would hear his heart pounding as it thumped against his ribs. He watched her, mesmerised as she ran her hands over the soft leather of the book. Then something fell to the floor. As Elizabeth turned to look where the belt of her robe has fallen, he perceived the sheerness of her gown. The hint of her breasts, and the curve of her hips beckoned to his senses. The impact of such a vision caught him unaware, and he drew in a sharp breath. Knowing his presence had now been announced, Darcy realised he must say something.
“Not tired Elizabeth?” he said, trying to hide the desire in his voice.
Elizabeth was startled at the realization that she was not alone, but thankfully, it was the shadowy outline of Mr. Darcy and not a servant. His chair was tucked into a recess by the fire, but Elizabeth could see he was dressed in only his breeches, boots, and white linen shirt, which was open at the neck. She fully appreciated what a fine specimen of masculinity her husband was, and his remaining clothes did nothing to hide the rippling muscles concealed within. She observed the half empty glass in his hand, and correctly surmised he’d been drinking. Remembering the gown she had donned before coming downstairs, Elizabeth felt conscious of her state of undress, so she neither retrieved the belt nor pulled her robe together.
“On the contrary sir, I was looking for a volume to revive my flagging spirits,” She replied.
“Well, you have plenty to choose from in here madam,” then he paused to determine what she held before continuing,
“Although I believe that particular volume is not suitable for a virgin maid.”
Piqued by his words her spirit rose, after all she was still a virgin maid by his design. Had she not waited these past three nights for him to come to her? She could not let his comment pass unchallenged; Recollecting his earlier comment, and that actions spoke louder than words, she closed her eyes and lifted the book to her nose, letting the pleasant aroma of old leather invade her senses. Peeping through her lowered lashes, she could see he had moved, and now perched on the edge of his seat. No longer was he holding the glass, instead his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. Elizabeth lowered the book to her breasts, held his gaze, and boldly replied,
“I think this will suit me quite well sir.”
For a moment, she thought he had not heard her utterance, but in the next instant he rose from his chair and closed the space between them. Taking her by the shoulders, he shook her until her dark curls scattered in disarray. His gaze was piercing, but she could not fathom if it was with anger or desire. Either way, his presence and touch made her heart race.
Slowly, so as to leave her in no doubt of his intention, Darcy bent his head and took possession of her lips, capturing her mouth and forcing her to accept his exploration as his hands slid under her robe. Letting the book tumble to the floor, Elizabeth brought her arms up and entwined her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. She knew she wanted more, and with naive urgency she arched her body against his. The taste of the brandy he had imbibed earlier, transferred to her as he plundered her mouth again and again. Elizabeth relished the heat from his palms as they travelled to her hips, pulling her lower body into contact with his. He awoke a craving in her wherever he touched, burning its way through her body, radiating from her thighs and beyond. Darcy could not deny it; his desire for her was unmistakably evident. He tore his mouth from hers, and began to trail kisses down her neck and shoulder. Everywhere he touched left her body throbbing, aching for more, and she cried out,
“Oh Fitzwilliam.”
Instantly he was still, and in a cold voice of steel he spat,
“No madam, it is your husband!”
-
Follow
Following
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Martine Jane Roberts 