Work Text:
Not since Ramsgate had Darcy felt such violent anger toward another person. Then, he had been occupied with his concern for Georgiana and the actions required to separate her from the pernicious influence of Wickham. Now, with Lady Catherine's invective still seeming to echo from the walls of his study, he had no such employment. Her accusations—and, yes, threats—occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. How bitter, how poisonous had been her remarks! And yet he was forced to acknowledge, with a renewed sense of shame, that many of them had once been uttered by his own lips in only slightly less offensive language, and directly to the lady who was their subject.
No wonder Elizabeth had rejected him with such scorn, he reflected. It was not the first time he had entertained the thought, but never with so forcible a demonstration of the justice in her censure. The painful irony of his chastising the impropriety of her relations without examination of his had never been more keenly felt. Darcy considered ruefully that while her connections were unequal to his own on the whole, his acquaintance with the Gardiners required him to allow that Elizabeth's were the superior at least with respect to aunts.
More than an hour was spent in agitation; the mood of his thoughts was by turns a thorough disgust with Lady Catherine's vulgar improprieties and a gratified admiration of Elizabeth's courage and composure in withstanding them. But gradually he came to dwell less and less on the former except as the means by which to consider the latter. Possessed of an excellent memory, his aunt had been able to recite the confrontation at Longbourn almost in its entirety. This report granted Darcy the first glimpse of hope he had known in many months: Elizabeth would make no promise to refuse him.
. . . . .
That evening he retired early though remained unable to settle within his rooms. His mind would not be averted from the revelations of Lady Catherine's visit. It seemed such a small premise upon which to renew his hopes and yet he could not quash them. He warned himself to be cautious, that Elizabeth's repudiation of his aunt's demands could hardly be construed as any kind of declaration. She had not indicated that she would accept him should he make another offer to her, only that she would not agree to relinquish her right to do so.
But for all his reasoning, all his attempts at rational explanation, hope would rise. She had said that his wife must have such sources of happiness as to have no cause to repine. Surely a speech of such clear approbation must mean he had at last secured her good opinion. His own affections had neither altered nor diminished with time; rather they had increased in magnitude and strength. If Elizabeth would now consider him—if there were but the smallest chance that she could come to love him—Darcy would wait. He would wait gladly.
At length he prepared himself for bed; though possessed by great emotion, he was nonetheless practical. Nothing could be accomplished at this hour, and little would be accomplished at all without rest. He snuffed his candle and lay down, determined to compose himself for sleep. As had often happened since the summer, his thoughts turned to more pleasant memories of Elizabeth: of coming upon her so unexpectedly in Derbyshire and the brief hours they had been in company there.
It had seemed to him a miracle to find her at Pemberley that day. He had thought it improbable he should ever see her again, let alone be provided an opportunity to show her how he had attended to her reproofs. Whatever had been his intentions at that first meeting, it had taken but half an hour for him to discover that it was impossible to return to indifference. Elizabeth Bennet had woken something within him of which he had been wholly unaware. The more acquainted he became with her—her mind, her character—the more it had flourished, rooting so deeply in his heart that even the loss of her could not wither it.
He thought of how differently his return to Pemberley would have unfolded had she been not Miss Bennet but Mrs Darcy. Their conversation would have been filled not with awkwardness and embarrassment but affection and delight. He would have been allowed not merely to bid her a polite goodbye in the presence of her relations but to walk with her into the house and the privacy of their rooms.
And now before him lay the cherished prospect that this might come to pass. That Elizabeth might welcome his love. That she might consent to be his wife. In his arrogance at Easter he had been sure of it. Now he was sure only that he hoped.
The shape and tenor of his thoughts began to soften into reverie as he imagined this possible future. At Pemberley they would share their nights as well as their days. In their private apartments there would be none to please but themselves; they could speak and act without reserve. He could sit at her feet when he was weary and lay his head against her knee to rest. Her warm fingers would gently soothe away the ache at his temples. He could set down Mr Darcy for those privileged hours and be only Fitzwilliam, who belonged to her.
With a soft sigh he turned to lie on his side. He could almost feel Elizabeth's fingers combing through his hair in the movement of his head against the pillow. Darkness erased the distance between the truths of daylight and the yearning of his heart. The hand splayed before him on the sheet rested across one of her small feet. When he remarked that his palm was nearly as large as her whole foot, she laughed and wriggled her toes against him. Smiling, he lifted his head to look at her and the tenderness in her expression stopped his breath.
Her fingers slid from his hair to curve against his cheek and he turned to press his lips to her wrist. She smelled deliciously of lavender and mint. Darcy allowed his hand to slip under her nightgown and over the delicate bones of her ankle. He caressed her calf and the sensitive hollow behind her knee, delighting in the slight flutter of her lashes at his exploration. His heartbeat quickened. They were so close, their bodies almost intertwined, and the air between them grew warmer, laden with promise. He raised the hem of her nightgown with both hands, letting the fabric skim across her skin in its own caress. When it sat atop her thighs, he leaned forward and placed a kiss against the slope of one knee, then the other, a little higher. Looking up he saw her lips were slightly parted as she drew quick, shallow breaths.
Once more he pressed a kiss just above her knee, this time open-mouthed. He blew lightly across the dampness left on her skin. Elizabeth shivered and watched him with dark eyes gone even darker. He placed a hand on each of her knees, tracing their curves with his thumbs. "May I?"
"Yes," she said on a sigh.
He shifted to kneel in the space between her legs and saw a flush bloom on her cheeks. At his gentle pressure, she allowed her thighs to fall open. The fabric of her nightgown rose higher still and gathered in the space between them. To tease her—and himself—he trailed the pads of his fingers softly along the velvet skin there until they met the barrier of cloth. Then he drew them away. Elizabeth's pulse fluttered rapidly in the shallow dip at her throat. His own throbbed through every part of his aroused body, settling in a heavy ache at his groin.
Before his marriage Darcy had read enough and heard enough of the coarse talk of other men to have gained an understanding of the essentials of coupling. He had known of the wetness and salt of a woman's body, that she might take pleasure from the act as much as a man, that there were many ways for such pleasure to be given and received. With my body I thee worship, he had vowed to Elizabeth when they wed, yet how little had he understood the ravishment to which such worship could transport him. Every sound, every tremor of delight from her fed and heightened his own desire as though they were two strings played by a single bow. Even now when his arousal was full and complete, erect against his belly, he anticipated her pleasure almost more than his own. All of his pleasure was bound up in hers.
With unhurried movements he again set his hands on her thighs. Now his touch was firmer, more deliberate. This time when he came to the barrier of her nightgown his fingers slipped underneath it and stilled. Elizabeth widened her legs in silent invitation and whispered his name. Darcy could scarcely breathe. His unsteady hands grasped her hips to bring her closer. The motion drew her nightgown even higher, past all decorum or modesty, until she was bared to his avid gaze: swollen and slick with desire.
He drew a shuddering breath and the heady, exotic scent of her passion excited him further. The subtle curves of her flesh seemed to him so beautifully formed, like the crests of gentle waves rendered quiescent. Under his fingers her parted folds felt soft and dense as rose petals newly blossomed. She gasped as he entered her, pulling at him like the insatiate tide. When he withdrew she reached for him, guiding his face to hers and kissing him with abandon. All her long, dark hair fell about her shoulders, fragrant with rosemary. Darcy grew dizzy with scent, with sensation, with lust.
They broke from their kiss, breathing heavily. Elizabeth licked her lower lip and offered him a coquettish smile. She set her hands upon his shoulders and bore down just a little, just enough to convey her intent. He laughed aloud, overwhelmed with elation. "I adore you."
"Show me," she said boldly, a siren's command.
He held her gaze as he sank again to the sea within her. Head bent like a supplicant, he closed his eyes and devoted himself wholly to her pleasure. The slippery heat of her body set him aflame; his sex strained against the confines of his nightshirt and robe. To touch her in this separated way was an exquisite torment, driving him as he tasted her and drank deeply. Elizabeth intoxicated him more than any spirit ever could.
With his mouth and hands he brought her to a fever of ecstasy. She arched against the cushions at her back, her slight form taut and eager. Her small heels dug in at his ribs as her hips writhed in response to his every motion. One of her hands cupped his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. She surrounded him so completely he lost all sense of himself as distinct and when she cried out in release, he moaned with her, exultant. The echo of her climax jolted all through his body and left him trembling.
Breathing in ragged gulps, he rested his cheek against her thigh as her limbs grew lax around him. He felt her trace the shape of his ear and looked up to find her smiling, flushed and lovely in sybaritic satisfaction. She urged him to his knees to drop kisses on his brow, his jaw, and finally his still-wet lips. His own need was no longer subsumed by hers and it gripped him with a wild urgency. He opened his mouth against hers, kissing her roughly, beyond thought and desperately seeking relief. She matched him, holding him to her with one hand while the other slipped through the opening of his robe and under the hem of his nightshirt.
He was with her and he was alone. When she touched—he touched—the hot, aching length of his sex he could not contain the moan that rose in his throat. Darcy arched helplessly into the tight grip, the firm strokes. It was too much. He was so close to the precipice that the very breath he drew into his lungs burned. Elizabeth's mouth roamed over his face; Elizabeth's breath whispered across his lips; Elizabeth's voice murmured against his ear, "I love you."
And in the circle of her arms, in the darkness of his bed, Darcy stifled the sounds of his pleasure against her throat, against the pillow, as he spent himself into her hand, into his.