Page 26

A gentle breeze blew through the window, left open on this first warm day of the year.

William got up to shut the window—the nights were still cold—and turned on the radio before he sat down for the evening.

He was wondering where his wife might be when she appeared at the parlor door and entered the room, stopping behind his chair.

“I think I’ll go up and get my bath.” She ran a hand over his hair and patted him on the shoulder.

As if I were a pet . The thought made him irritable.

“Mmm,” he said. Then, a thought occurred… “Elizabeth?”

“Yes?” She turned, that beatific smile blooming across her features. As always, it stole his breath.

Perhaps her comment had been an invitation to accompany her? The words “May I join you?” sat right behind his lips, but they wouldn’t break through the years of reserve or the fear of rejection.

“Did you need to ask me something, William?” she asked after a few moments of silence.

“Ah, do you like the new tub?”

“Oh, yes!”

He put down his paper, ready to get up.

“It’s so relaxing to close my eyes and rest after a long day like this one. I’ll never take that luxury for granted.”

He sat back in his chair. Silly of him to think she was inviting him to go with her.

“Enjoy your bath,” he said, resigned.

“Enjoy your paper,” she replied, all politeness.

William did try to finish the newspaper, but after reading an entire column without comprehending a word, he threw it down in disgust and slouched back in his overstuffed chair, chin in hand and scowling.

He was at a loss on how to proceed.

Elizabeth received his attentions, acquiesced to his every overture, but though she no longer acted nervous when he approached her, neither did she seem…particularly interested.

“Be patient,” he told himself. That was what Fitzwilliam had advised, but though William had always considered himself a patient man, his wife—a woman who turned his guts inside out with even the most casual brush of her hand or a friendly smile from across the room—made patience a Herculean task.

He could go upstairs right now, this evening, and make his demands, like he did more nights than not. He was her husband, after all. It was his right.

Right?

The truth was, one-sided lovemaking became less and less appealing as the weeks went on.

He leaned back, closed his eyes. He was an educated man, with excellent problem-solving skills and perseverance. This was just another obstacle to navigate. He knew how to get what he wanted.

What did he want exactly?

He rubbed his chin, rough like sandpaper with the day’s growth of whiskers. The absent thought that he should shave before going to bed floated across his mind. He tried to focus his mind again.

The realization overtook him in a giant wave.

He wanted her to want him the way he wanted her. That was the beginning and end of it. Since their honeymoon, his feelings had only deepened—with each night in their bed, with each meal they shared, with each morning they woke up under the same roof.

Damn it! How did I let this happen?

It was humbling to realize that falling in love—well, it had nothing to do with practicality at all.

He couldn’t make her love him—that was a fact. But he would do whatever was in his power to make her want him.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, bathing the room in red and orange rays of light, he headed toward the stairs with an air of grim determination.

A moment of indecision seized him when he reached the top step. Should he go into their room and wait? Or…

He stared at the door, listening as the water ran and then shut off. Above the sloshing sounds against the sides of the tub, her heard her humming.

Dear lord!

He swallowed, hard, and knocked.

“Yes?”

“May I come in?”

“Oh! Um, well, yes. I suppose.”

He opened the door, bracing himself.

The clawfoot tub was filled with bubbles, water, and woman. The air was scented with jasmine and citrus, turning it hot and exotic.

“Did you need something?” she asked.

“No. Yes.” After a frantic glance around the bathroom, he picked up a set of nail clippers. “Hangnail,” he said.

“Ouch.”

He turned and watched as she took a bottle off the shelf beside her.

“Would you like me to wash your hair for you?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

Before she could turn him away, he drew up a footstool behind her head and plucked the bottle from her hand. “Here.” He laid her towel across the edge of the tub.

“But, my towel—”

“I’ll get you another one.”

“William,” she admonished, “that’s wasteful. Mrs. Reynolds has enough laundry to do already.”

“That’s why I bought her an electric washing machine.”

She smiled and shook her head, then slipped beneath the surface disappearing under the blanket of bubbles.

She emerged, water dripping from her curls, transforming them into a deep ebony color.

He poured a capful of shampoo into his palm. He hesitated, then decided he was being foolish. He had washed a girl’s hair before. Granted, it was Maggie’s, and it was just the one time when Georgiana and Mrs. Reynolds were both ill, but he had done a fine job of it. Gi said so.

He put his hands into Elizabeth’s hair, piling it on top of her head, infusing shampoo into the mass of curls. “Lean back,” he ordered.

She complied, then closed her eyes.

He set about his task with focused diligence, enjoying the feel of her hair running through his fingers as he gently massaged her scalp.

“Mm. That’s nice. I feel like the Queen of Sheba.”

He smiled. “Who says you aren’t?”

That got a chuckle from her, which pleased him to no end.

“Sit up,” he said. “I’ll rinse you.”

Picking up the pitcher of water she’d filled, he gently touched her chin. “Look up.” He poured water down that column of lovely hair that just skimmed her shoulders.

“You have beautiful hair.”

“It used to be longer.”

“Oh?”

“I cut it when we moved to Kentucky. It’s easier to take care of less hair—less shampoo, less water, less bother—less everything.”

“Well, now you can grow it long again, if you like.”

“I already have a little. I sort of like the length it is right now. And I find I still have less time to care for it, because I’m busier than ever. Long hair is impractical for a married woman. Or so my mother says.”

“Hmmph.”

“All clean?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so.” He kept his hands in her hair, unwilling to let her go just yet.

“Thank you. I’ll pin it, to keep the bubbles out while I finish my bath.” She reached over and retrieved a long metal clip.

Deciding that was out of his realm of expertise, he sat back and wondered how she could secure every strand without seeing any of it. Her washcloth hung over the side of the tub, so he pushed it beneath the water and drew it up and over her back.

She straightened, startled, but then eased back when he said, “I’ll wash your back for you, too. While I’m here.”

He took an inordinate amount of time with it, listening as she talked about her plans for the kitchen garden near the house.

She wouldn’t change a thing inside to suit herself, but it seemed she had no qualms about changing the layout of the garden.

Tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, new herbs—she’d been reading about those.

And marigolds with the herbs, to keep the bugs away.

She hesitated only when he smoothed the cloth down over her hip and bottom and up over her shoulder, but then she went on, as if trying to ignore his wandering hand.

When he figured he couldn’t in good conscience wash her back any longer, he handed her the cloth, kissing the nape of her neck as he did so.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at him, looking up through her lashes, an adorable blush on her cheeks.

“Spic and span?” he asked.

“Spic and span,” she answered. “Thank you.”

Slowly, he stood up. “Well, I’ve invaded your private sanctuary long enough.”

“I’ll be finished soon.”

“Take your time.” He reached for the doorknob.

“William?”

“Yes?”

“It’s considerate of you to think of me, but you’re not invading my privacy.”

“No?”

“Of course not. This is your room.”

I t’s our room. When will you realize it’s ours now?

“And”—she said with an impish smile—“I got my back washed.”

He smiled back, a surge of hope rising in his chest, and walked out, shutting the door with a gentle click.

William paced the floor while he waited for Elizabeth to come to bed.

He took his pajama shirt off, put it back on, took it off again.

Glanced at his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye.

There were some benefits from farm work, even if it required he bathe before supper on those days he labored outside.

Yes, he decided—definitely shirt off. Elizabeth was no longer a blushing bride.

He was reading in bed when the door opened some minutes later. Her nightgown was a light lemon-colored cotton, trimmed in lace, covered by a white robe. Her hair fell in loose, damp ringlets.

She glanced over at him as she rubbed the locks of hair between her towel-covered hands. “What are you reading?”

“This? It’s nothing, really. Farmer’s Almanac .”

She hung the towel on the radiator and slipped between the sheets, turning the key on her bedside lamp. “Do you always read before bed?”

“Not always. When the girls were here, I—”

“Read to them at bedtime. I remember. You miss that time with them, don’t you?”

“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I do.”

“I could read to you.”

“You? Read to me?”

“It might be a new twist on your tradition of reading to the girls.”

“You mean novels?”

“I don’t just read books of interest to four-year-olds. I take pleasure in learning about a lot of things. Even”—she picked up the book on his lap—“the Farmer’s Almanac .”

“What do you like best?”

“Adventure stories. Classics.”

“Dime store Westerns?”

“Um…”

He laughed. “I couldn’t get enough of them when I was a boy.”

Elizabeth’s features broke into a relieved smile. “You’re teasing me. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.” She poked him in the arm.

“I imagine it is.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “It is easy to tell when you are teasing me.”

“How so?”

“Your eyes dance like candle flames.” He brushed a finger over her brow. “Sometimes you lift that one eyebrow as if to dare me to disapprove of you.”

“Despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Darcy, I do not dare. Especially when the corners of your lips turn up into that saucy smile you are wearing now.”

Before she could respond, his mouth covered hers. He couldn’t think straight when she was so near. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders and down his back, and suddenly, all he could think was to get that lemon-colored annoyance off that delectable, milky white skin.

“William,” she gasped, “what are you doing?”

“Taking off that infernal nightgown,” he growled. It stuck underneath her bottom, and he nearly tore it pulling it up and over her head.

“Don’t rip it! It’s my favorite!”

He was out of control, he knew it, but he also knew he was in no mood to stop—mutual lovemaking be damned.

“The lights are on.” There was a hint of shock in her voice.

“Damn it!” He reached over and turned out her bedside lamp and then turned to extinguish his own.

When he turned back to her, she was lying on her back, as if waiting. He covered her with his body, nudging her thighs apart, and slid home.

He wanted to talk to her, to woo her with words that told her how perfect her thighs, how lovely her breasts, how the hourglass of her waist felt like a well-worn, beloved path for his fingers to trace.

But all the words were stuck below the tightness in his throat. An ungainly sound came from his mouth.

“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

His frustration knew no bounds as his desire betrayed his wishes, and he lost himself in his wife’s body—again.

Spent, he rolled away from her. They lay in awkward silence. Finally, he spoke.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine." She paused. “You always ask the same question—if I’m all right.”

“You always give me the same answer.”

“Because the answer is always the same. I’m fine.” She slipped out of the bed and drew her robe around her before disappearing into the bathroom down the hall.

He reached for his pajamas and put both pants and shirt on this time. When she returned a few minutes later, he was almost exactly as she had found him before, bedside lamp on and pretending to read.

“You are displeased.” She eyed him as she undid the robe and laid it over the chair back. He fought with himself not to look at her. He shook his head.

“I’m not. Not with you, at any rate.”

“I know you are annoyed, William. I can see it on your face. Since you and I are the only ones in this room, it is safe to assume that the person you are annoyed with is me.”

She pulled her nightgown over her head, tightened the drawstring neckline with a vicious yank, and crossed her arms over her breasts. “Tell me, am I doing something wrong?”

“What?”

“When we are…together—am I doing something wrong?” Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, but her lips were pressed into a firm, stubborn line. She got back into bed.

Darcy took a deep breath and tried to relax the scowl he knew must be on his face. He reached up and ran his thumb over her lower lip in a gentle caress.

“You are not doing anything wrong. I am not annoyed with you, but I am none too pleased with myself.”

“Why?”

“Remember, the morning after our wedding?”

“Yes.”

“I said lovemaking would get better, especially for you.”

“You did.”

“I’m annoyed with myself that it hasn’t become so. I think I must be the one doing something wrong.”

“But it has become better.”

He shot her a dubious look. “Has it?”

“It has. You hold me and kiss me, and it’s nice.” She covered his hand and pressed it with her own.

“Nice,” he mumbled.

“You shouldn’t worry so much. I am perfectly fine.”

He watched as she turned out her bedside lamp and snuggled down in the bed.

“Goodnight.”

He turned out his own light and reached for her, pulling her arm across his chest. If she liked to be held, he’d find a way to hold her.

And try to find a way to invade her thoughts and dreams the way she invaded his.