Page 4 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Neither could have said afterward who moved first—perhaps they both did, drawn together by some force greater than either could resist. One moment they were looking at each other in the lightning-illuminated darkness, and the next, his lips were on hers, soft and questioning.
The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle exploration. Elizabeth had never been kissed before, had nothing with which to compare the sensation, but something deep within her recognized it as right. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, seeking an anchor as the storm raged around them.
He deepened the kiss, his arms drawing her closer, and a warmth entirely different from that of shared body heat flooded through her, chasing away the last of the chill. All thoughts of propriety—that constant companion of her upbringing—scattered like leaves in a gale.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing unsteadily, he rested his forehead against hers. “I should apologize,” he said, his voice rough-edged. “But I find I cannot bring myself to regret it.”
“Nor can I,” she admitted, surprised by her honesty.
His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, the touch reverent in its gentleness.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, her name a caress on his lips.
“You must know that whatever happens between us tonight, you are already my wife in all the ways that matter to me. Tomorrow will merely formalize what circumstance and choice have already decided.”
His words settled something within her—a fear she had not fully acknowledged until it was addressed. Not a seduction, then, not a taking of advantage, but the beginning of something that would be sanctified by vows and ceremony as soon as daylight allowed.
“I know,” she whispered, her fingers threading into his hair, drawing him back to her.
This time when their lips met, there was no hesitation, no tentative exploration. There was only certainty and a hunger that surprised her with its intensity. His hands traced the contours of her body through the thin fabric of her shift, igniting sensations she had never experienced before.
“Tell me if you wish me to stop,” he murmured against her skin. “At any moment.”
She nodded, though she knew with perfect clarity that she did not wish him to stop.
Strange, how in this moment of utter impropriety, she felt more certain than she had about anything in her life.
Her world had been upended, her future cast into uncertainty, yet here in his arms, she found a clarity that had eluded her through all the tumult of the previous days.
His lips found the sensitive spot below her ear, then traced a path down her neck, drawing a soft gasp from her.
Each touch, each kiss, ignited something primal within her, something she hadn’t known existed until this moment.
Her hands, tentative at first, grew bolder, exploring the breadth of his shoulders, the firm planes of his chest through his shirt.
When his fingers found the ties of her shift, he paused, lifting his gaze to hers in silent question. In the darkness, she could feel rather than see his eyes searching her face, looking for any sign of doubt or reluctance. She nodded, her breath coming faster now.
Slowly, with the reverent care one might use when handling a priceless manuscript, he untied the garment, easing it from her shoulders. The cool air raised gooseflesh on her exposed skin, but it was quickly banished by the warmth of his touch.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered, the words carrying such sincere admiration that Elizabeth felt a sudden, bewildering confidence despite her state of dishabille.
She should have felt mortification, exposed as she was to a man’s eyes for the first time. Instead, she felt a strange, heady power. This man—this proud, handsome, wealthy man—looked at her as though she were the most precious thing he had ever beheld.
Emboldened by this realization, she reached for his shirt, tugging it upward.
He assisted her, removing the garment to reveal a broad chest lightly covered with dark hair.
Elizabeth’s fingers traced the contours of his muscles, fascinated by the contrast between the smooth skin and the rougher texture beneath her fingertips.
“You are rather beautiful yourself, Mr. Darcy,” she said, a hint of her usual teasing tone returning.
His lips quirked into a smile that transformed his usually stern countenance. “Fitzwilliam,” he corrected. “If we are to… that is… I would prefer you use my given name. ”
“Fitzwilliam,” she repeated, testing the feel of it on her tongue. It suited him, somehow—formal yet unexpectedly intimate. Although she wondered if he would simply go by “William.”
He drew her to him again, skin against skin now, and the sensation was overwhelming, like nothing she had ever experienced.
His kisses grew more urgent, and Elizabeth matched his passion with her own, surprising herself with her boldness.
His hands explored her body with increasing confidence, finding places that made her gasp and arch against him.
Lightning flashed, illuminating them for an instant—tangled together, breath mingling, eyes dark with desire. Thunder followed, but Elizabeth barely noticed, too consumed by the storm brewing between them.
Their remaining garments fell away, cast aside in the darkness.
She knew she should feel shame or at least trepidation at being completely bare before him, but instead, she felt only a burning curiosity and an almost desperate need for connection—for proof that she was not entirely alone in the world.
She focused on his face—the tenderness in his eyes, the almost reverent set of his features—and found herself relaxing, accepting him more fully.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips. “My Elizabeth.”
She hadn’t known it could be like this—this feeling of completion, of being utterly joined with another person. She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him closer, wanting to feel the full weight of him, the solidity of his presence.
Outside, the storm continued to rage, but within their small sanctuary, Elizabeth found a different kind of storm—one made of shared breaths, whispered endearments, and the ancient rhythm of bodies moving together.
For these precious moments, she forgot her fears, her uncertain future, and the harsh realities waiting beyond the door.
There was only this—only him, only them, only now.
In the quiet aftermath, as their breathing slowed and reality began to seep back in, Elizabeth waited for regret or shame to overtake her. Instead, she felt an unexpected peace. Whatever happened tomorrow or the days after, she had chosen this moment for herself.
Fitzwilliam gathered her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I will marry you,” he said quietly, not a question but a solemn vow. “As soon as it can be arranged.”
Elizabeth looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of reluctance or noble sacrifice. She found none—only certainty and something that looked remarkably like tenderness.
“Because of what we just did?” she asked, needing to be sure.
He shook his head slightly. “Because of who you are. I have admired you for longer than you might suppose. Even in Hertfordshire, when you seemed determined to think the worst of me, I found myself drawn to you; I couldn’t keep my eyes from you.
I fought against it, I admit, but what happened between us tonight merely hastens what I believe was inevitable. ”
His words washed over her like a healing balm. Not obligation, then, but genuine desire. Not a burden shouldered, but a path willingly chosen.
“Then yes,” she said simply. “I will marry you.”
Relief flooded his features, followed by a smile so genuine it transformed his usually stern countenance. “Tomorrow,” he promised. “I will secure a special license first thing in the morning.”