Page 8 of Mr. Darcy's Storm of Temptation

Finally, she gave up. Wrapping a shawl around her nightgown and sliding her feet into her slippers, she left her room. Perhaps a book would provide distraction. She would just select one quickly and return to her chamber.

The library door was ajar, candlelight within. She hesitated, then pushed it open, intending to apologize for the intrusion and retreat.

Mr. Darcy stood by the window, coat discarded, cravat loosened, a glass of brandy in hand. He looked wonderfully disheveled: his hair mussed as if he had been running his hands through it, his shirt partially unbuttoned. When he turned at her entrance, his eyes widened.

"Elizabeth." Her name came out strangled. "You should not be here."

"Forgive me." She clutched her shawl tighter, acutely aware of her state of undress. "I only meant to fetch a book. I did not know anyone would be... I shall go."

"No, wait." He set down his glass, taking a step toward her before catching himself. "That is, you need not leave on my account. This is your home for now. I am the one who should not be wandering about."

"You could not sleep either," she observed softly, venturing a few steps into the room despite her better judgment.

His gaze traveled over her, taking in her loose hair, the white nightgown visible beneath her shawl, her slippered feet, before he forcibly looked away. "No. Sleep eludes me when you are near."

"And when I am far?" The question escaped before she could stop it.

"Then too," he admitted, his voice rough. "You haunt my dreams, Elizabeth."

She should leave. Every rule of propriety demanded it. Yet her feet remained rooted to the spot. "Mr. Darcy, we should not..."

"We are alone," he said quietly. "Call me by my name. Just this once."

"Fitzwilliam." The intimacy of his name on her lips made her breath catch. "This is madness. If anyone were to find us..."

"I know." He moved closer, drawn to her as if by invisible threads. "Yet I cannot seem to make myself leave. Nor send you away, as I should."

"Why?" She met him in the center of the room, maintaining a proper distance though every fiber of her being yearned to move closer. "Why is this so impossible between us?"

"Because you are a gentleman's daughter who deserves every protection society affords. Because I nearly ruined everything with my pride and arrogance. Because I would not have you touched by scandal."

"Yet you torment us both with this distance," she said, tears pricking her eyes. "I do not understand what I feel, only that it consumes me."

He groaned. "Elizabeth, you will undo me entirely."

"As you have undone me." She took a shaking breath, knowing she stood at a precipice. "Your letter undid me first. It destroyed everything I thought I knew, showed me how blind I had been. And these days here have shown me something else entirely."

"What?" His voice was barely a whisper.

She looked up at him, gathering all her courage. "That I have been deceiving myself for months. That my feelings for you have undergone a change so complete, so profound that I can no longer deny the truth." She paused, her whole body shaking. "I believe I am in love with you, Fitzwilliam. No, I know I am. I love you."

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his breathing harsh. "Say it again."

"I love you," she whispered.

His control cracked. He pulled her against him, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was nothing like she had imagined. This was months of longing, of misunderstanding andseparation, poured into the connection of their lips. She gasped against his mouth, and he immediately gentled, though she could feel him shaking with restraint.

"Forgive me," he said against her lips. "I should not take such liberties."

"Do not stop," she begged, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders. "Please, I have wondered for so long what this would feel like."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she felt something hard pressing against her belly through the thin layers between them. She should have been shocked, mortified, but instead she pressed closer, instinct overriding propriety.

"Elizabeth," he groaned, trailing his lips to her throat. "My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. You love me. After everything, you love me."

"I do," she gasped, her head falling back. "Though I fought it, denied it, tried to convince myself otherwise."

"As did I," he confessed. "I tried to forget you, to overcome this attachment. But you have bewitched me, body and soul."