Page 15

HER WEDDING WAS a whirlwind. Elizabeth felt as if she barely had any chance to take it all in. It came and went through her, and then the wedding breakfast—held at Netherfield—was all boisterousness and too many conversations to count, and then it was the evening, and then it was her wedding night.

Mr. Darcy himself had been sort of a figure on the periphery all day.

They had stood together in front of the church, of course, but she had mostly looked at the vicar as she had steadfastly repeated her vows.

Sometimes, couples kissed at the end of the ceremony, but she and her new husband did not, as Mr. Darcy thought such a thing was improper and vulgar, and he would never engage in anything like that.

So, she had barely looked at him during the entire ceremony. She had walked up the aisle with him afterwards, her hand resting on his arm, but she had kept her gaze forward so as to see where she was walking.

Then, during the breakfast, they had been separated more often than not.

She had a few moments in her mind, looking up and finding his gray and stormy eyes resting upon her, and then being called away by some well-wisher who talked to her of how beautiful the wedding had been, how lovely her dress was, how nice the spread was set, and weren’t they blessed with such pleasant weather ?

So, now, it was right down to it, and there had only been the kiss at the engagement and then, the kisses by the tree, and otherwise, otherwise very little time alone, let alone touching.

Elizabeth knew what was going to happen, of course, and it was going to be very, well, bare, and she was nervous.

She had use of Jane’s maid to get into her shift, a fancy diaphanous thing, for the event itself.

Her hair fell down her back and her shift fell over the curves of her body, nothing at all beneath it, and she bounced on her toes as she looked herself over in the mirror.

She was not exceedingly plain, she supposed, but she was no rare beauty.

Something about her had made him want her, and she had no notion what it was.

Certainly, she knew how she’d used it to force him to ask for her hand, but that first moment, when he had seen her across the street and started for her, before the sight of Mr. Wickham had stopped him… what had made him want her?

She stopped bouncing to puzzle over Mr. Wickham.

She knew he was still about town, of course. Lydia saw him with Mr. Denny, but Elizabeth had not been in Meryton without the company of Mr. Darcy on any occasions that she could remember, and when Mr. Darcy was present, Mr. Wickham was not, as a general rule.

She wondered what the truth of all of that was.

The fact that Mr. Wickham stayed clear of her new husband could be down to his resentment of the other man, of course, but it also might mean something else.

Oh, why was she thinking about Mr. Wickham at a time like this?

She paced in the bedchamber, wondering if she had gotten the wrong impression of the way the evening was to progress.

She had thought her husband was coming to her.

Perhaps she was meant to go to him. If that was the case, then she needed to put something on over this shift.

She could not walk about the halls in it. It was utterly indecent.

She was about to ring for the maid and ask if she was meant to go to Mr. Darcy when there was a hesitant knock at the door.

Her heart stopped beating. She couldn’t breathe. “Yes?”

“May I?” came his deep voice.

“O-of course,” she said, breathless.

The door opened. He was in his small clothes with a banyan over it all, carrying a small lamp.

He looked her over, jerked his gaze up to her eyes, and stammered, “I got a bit lost, I think. I thought that you were in the room across the hall, but you weren’t, and then I didn’t know what to do, and I was about to have to seek someone out for help, wearing this, but then I remembered that it was this room and—” He let out a noise, sort of pained.

She paused too long and then said, very brightly, “It’s all right.”

He set down the lamp. He came further into the room, but not too close to her. He looked at the floor.

She bounced on her bare feet.

The silence stretched on.

“You, um, I hope you are feeling well?” he said, and his voice was very scratchy.

“Oh, quite,” she said. And then, idiotically, “We were blessed with good weather for the wedding today, which was fortunate.”

“Oh, yes,” he told the floor. “It could have just as easily been rainy.”

“Could have,” she agreed. A long pause. “But it wasn’t.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

Another dreadful gaping chasm of silence opened up between them, and she busied herself with running her fingers over the collar line of her shift, trying not to bounce nervously on her feet.

Then, they spoke at the same time.

“It occurs to me—” she said.

And he said, “I am making a hash of—”

Then they both stopped and looked at each other.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“No,” he said, gesturing. “Please. You speak first. ”

She took a deep breath. “I was only going to say that it occurs to me that we perhaps don’t have to do anything if you do not wish it.

I know we are supposed to, but I don’t really think anyone confirms it, do they?

And if there is something about me that is not pleasing to you in any way, or if you do not find me appealing as a woman or in a, erm, a carnal way—” What a word, Elizabeth?

Carnal? “Then I shan’t mind that, in the end.

I can understand that perhaps I am not, well, I don’t suppose I’m exceedingly plain, but I am no rare beauty—”

“Stop, stop.” He lifted both of his hands.

She cringed, lowering her head, her body flooding with embarrassment.

He came closer to her, very close. “You misinterpret my behavior. I’m not reticent, not at all.”

She didn’t say anything at all.

“You are, indeed, a rare beauty, Lizzy,” he breathed.

Her gaze jerked up to his.

“You think I did this, abandoned everything expected of me, set fire to all the expectations of my family, that my status demands, because I do not find you appealing?”

She swallowed. “Oh.” She was rather stunned. “But I…” She was struck with a foolish inclination to go and look at herself in the mirror again, to try to see it, whatever it was he saw in her.

“Of course you don’t realize,” he said with a small smile.

“If you knew what sort of woman you were, the sheer power you command, you’d likely be terrifying to behold.

It’s perhaps a blessing—no, it is not. You shall know.

I shall show you.” His smile widened. “But I am feeling much the same, truth be told, rather small and unappealing and unsure of myself. So, that is all right. We shall muddle through this together, then.”

“Muddle through?”

He reached down and took her hand, twining their fingers together and that felt comforting and familiar, for they had walked so often with their hands joined. His voice was soft and deep. “It is not so very complicated. ”

“Yes, well, I don’t have any notion of it, though,” she said. She shook her head. “No, I have some notion. I have been apprised of the mechanics of the—” She groaned, feeling her cheeks heat. “I only mean that if there is something I am supposed to be doing, I don’t know what it is.”

“I am supposed to be taking better charge,” he said, gently amused. “I am working myself up to it. I shall get there.”

“All right,” she whispered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for several long moments. He tugged on her hand and she let herself be pulled close, very close, so close that there was barely an inch between their bodies, so that the fabric of her shift and his banyan were slipping against each other.

“Should we kiss?” she said.

“Likely,” he said, chuckling a little. He lifted their twined hands and brought one of her knuckles to his mouth. He pressed his lips into it, a pleasant sort of warmth. “Perhaps you’ll take charge, then.”

“I can’t!” she protested. She ducked down her chin, her voice small. “I only mean that I don’t know how.”

“As it happens, I don’t either,” he said and then he bent his face down and captured her lips with his own.

The kiss was shockingly good, warm and slippery, and he let go of her hand to gather her into his arms and she pressed both of her hands into the warmth of his chest, feeling his firm skin beneath the thin layer of his undershirt.

His hands splayed out on her back, and they seemed so large, her own body so small. It was a dizzying sensation, but quite pleasant. She melted into him, her whole body feeling as if it was turning somewhat liquid.

The kiss went on for some time, not really one kiss but many, kisses that flowed into each other, one beginning as the other ended, and he crushed her tightly against him, and she seized handfuls of his shirt, his banyan, and he practically lifted her off her feet as they grew closer and closer .

When he finally pulled back to look down at her, she felt different, transported, flowing, somewhat insubstantial. His lips looked reddened from kissing her. She could see it even in the scant lamplight. He gazed down at her with such a look on his face, one of utter adoration and regard.

She gazed up at him, flooded with that insubstantial feeling, as if he was the one solid thing in the wide world, and as if she must cling to him to stay upright.

They moved across the room together, as if of one accord, neither communicating aloud their intention, but both seeming to know what they were about. He backed up, still holding her in his arms, until they arrived at the bed.

He sighed, reaching up to trace the outline of her jaw with one, thick finger, and then he sat down. She stayed standing, but he pulled her against him, bracketing her body with his spread legs. Eye level with the collar of her shift, he began to untie the lacings.

They were decorative. They didn’t need to be undone. She could pull the whole thing over her head without untying them.

But when he parted the garment to show himself the valley between her breasts, she liked it. He brushed his fingertips over the soft skin there, dipping down towards the softness of her belly. He still had that look of awe on his face.

A little shy smile overtook her features. She felt small and soft and utterly feminine, a feeling she realized she didn’t have often. She was feminine, of course, but she was not used to being this , to being an object of desire and beauty, to being admired. It was heady and delicious.

Staring at her flesh, he shrugged out of his banyan, and then reached back with one hand and pulled his shirt over his head in a sort of absent movement, still gazing appreciatively at her.

His shoulders and chest were bare now, and she sucked in an audible breath at the sight of his bare skin, barely illuminated in the low light. The swells of the muscles in his shoulders were barely gleaming .

She felt a little off-balance. She put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

Then, she liked the feeling of the way his flesh gave under her fingers and she began to explore, touching him, liking the way he was both firm and soft, bared and vulnerable and yet stronger than her, broader than her, more, well, male .

He looked up at her, and he gave her a mischievous sort of smile, boyish, like he had been given permission to do something forbidden but quite enjoyable, and then he moved aside part of her shift so that the sleeve fell away from her shoulder and bared one of her breasts to him.

The air kissed her bare flesh, and she gasped. He let out a hum of rumbling appreciation. Her body tightened at the sound of it. She liked that he was pleased at the sight of her.

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the tip of her, kissing the sensitive peak, which hardened in response.

She sighed.

His hand came up to cup her. “God, but you’re lovely,” he breathed.

She shuddered at that.

He let go of her, leaning back on the bed, hands behind himself, propping him up as he gazed up at her, drinking in the sight of her. “Take it off?”

She bit down on her lip, feeling mischievous and permissive as well, and she nodded. She gathered up the skirts of the filmy fabric and tugged it up and over her head.

He sucked in breath through his teeth as she revealed herself to him. Then he stood up, pulling her bare body flush against him, kissed her soundly, and nodded at the bed. “Lie down.”

She did, on top of the covers, hands at her sides, clenching her hands into fists and releasing them as he removed his small clothes and climbed in beside her. He eased his arm under her shoulders, and there was more kissing.

The sensation of her bare skin against his bare skin was something she was unprepared for. It was exquisitely pleasant .

He touched her, too, his fingers finding the sensitive tips of her breasts, spanning her waist, her hips. He brushed his fingers over her upper thighs and then, there, he found the secret center of her and she writhed into the bed as he explored and teased.

When he finally moved over her, their bodies horizontal on the bed, his over hers, she was open and swollen and eager there. He slipped easily all the way deeply inside, and she sheathed him, and she felt—oh, she did not know how to describe how she felt.

It was as if she had been made for him, her body made to encase that part of him.

He had been made to enter her, fill her, to…

complete her? It seemed foolish, of course.

She had not been incomplete before, or she had not thought so, but she felt a sense of completion in their joining, and a sense of finding something that she had not realized she was missing, a sense of being found and connected and tied to him.

It was wholeness, and it was exultant.

After, she did not want to let go of him, and he tucked her in against his body, and she fit in against him just perfectly. They slept in each other’s arms and woke still entwined and warm and connected.