Page 2 of Mr. Darcy’s Storm of Temptation (Seasons of A Steamy Pride and Prejudice Variation)

The Blue Room was magnificent, but Elizabeth barely noticed the elegant furnishings.

Her body still hummed from the carriage ride, every nerve ending alive and over-sensitized.

She could still feel the ghost of Mr. Darcy's body pressed against hers, could still smell him on the coat she had reluctantly surrendered to a maid.

"This way, miss," the young maid urged. "We must get you out of those wet things."

Behind the dressing screen, Elizabeth's fingers fumbled with her fastenings.

The wet fabric peeled away from her skin with obscene sounds that made her blush furiously.

Her breasts felt full and heavy, her skin pebbled with sensation, and then there was the wetness between her thighs that had nothing to do with rain.

He saw me. He saw all of this.

The thought should mortify her. Instead, it sent another pulse of heat through her core. She heard Mr. Darcy's passionate declaration again: "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

The way he had looked at Elizabeth in the carriage suggested those feelings had not only survived but intensified.

But as much as she wanted him, she knew the danger of allowing one's future to be ruled solely by passion.

Her parents had married for passion, and now they barely tolerated each other.

She felt a passionate connection to Mr. Darcy now, but how could she know for certain there was more between them, enough to build a future?

And how could she remain objective enough to learn this when her body continually betrayed her?

"Mr. Darcy has instructed that you are to have whatever you need," Sally said, holding out a silk dressing gown. "I am Sally, miss. I shall be attending you during your stay."

The dressing gown was sinfully soft against her bare skin.

Elizabeth tied it with shaking fingers, intensely aware that she wore nothing but her chemise beneath, and that was still damp, clinging to her curves.

She was nearly naked in Mr. Darcy's house, wearing silk he had provided, and the thought made her dizzy.

"A bath is being drawn, miss," Sally continued. "And we shall have your dress cleaned and dried, though I fear the mud stains may prove stubborn."

The bath was torture and bliss combined.

Elizabeth sank into the hot water, her sensitive skin protesting and welcoming the heat simultaneously.

She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse.

Behind her lids, she saw Mr. Darcy's eyes, black with desire.

Felt again his hand at her waist, burning through wet fabric.

Her hands moved of their own accord, one sliding up to cup her breast. She imagined it was his hand, his fingers brushing over her hardened nipple. A soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, and her eyes flew open in horror.

Merciful heavens, what kind of wanton creature have I become?

She scrubbed herself vigorously, trying to wash away these shocking impulses. But every touch of the cloth against her skin only made it worse. By the time she emerged from the bath, she felt raw, exposed, as if her very soul was visible on her skin.

The dress Sally had laid out was exquisite: dove gray silk that whispered against her skin with every movement.

It was cut lower than anything she owned, revealing the swell of her breasts, the long column of her throat.

Whoever she had borrowed this gown from had a slighter figure than Elizabeth.

Even with the addition of a shawl, the bodice clung to her breasts and hips in a way that made Elizabeth's breath catch.

"You look lovely, miss," Sally said, arranging Elizabeth's still-damp curls. "Mr. Darcy will be pleased his sister's gown fits so well."

Mr. Darcy will be pleased. Would he be pleased with how well the gown fit? Or how well it didn't? She remembered his eyes on her in the carriage, the way he had looked at her like a starving man at a feast. Would he look at her that way tonight?

Do I want him to?

The answer that whispered through her mind terrified her with its certainty: Yes.

When she descended to the drawing room, her legs shook with each step. She paused at the doorway, suddenly unsure. But then Mr. Darcy looked up from his conversation with Mr. Gardiner, and his reaction stole her breath.

He went completely still, his glass halfway to his lips.

His eyes traveled over her slowly, burning a path from her face to her décolletage to the curve of her waist. When his gaze returned to hers, the naked hunger there made her knees weak.

He set down his glass with a hand that visibly shook and rose to his feet.

"Miss Elizabeth." Her name came out rough, almost guttural. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I trust you are recovered?"

"Perfectly, sir." Her voice sounded breathy, foreign to her own ears. "Thanks to your hospitality."

He moved closer, and she caught his scent: clean linen and sandalwood, the faint hint of brandy on his breath. This close, she could see his pulse jumping at his throat, matching the wild rhythm of her own heart.

"It is nothing." His eyes dropped to where the pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, lingered there. "I only regret that you suffered such distress practically at my doorstep."

"Hardly your fault, Mr. Darcy. Unless you claim dominion over the weather as well as the estate?"

She had meant it lightly, but his eyes darkened to near-black.

"If I had such power," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate register that seemed to vibrate through her bones, "I would have brought you here by far different means."

The implication in his words, in his tone, made heat flood her cheeks. She swayed subtly, and his hand came up as if to steady her, stopping just short of touching.

"Brother?"

They sprang apart at Georgiana's soft voice. Elizabeth's heart pounded so hard she was certain everyone must hear it. Mr. Darcy's jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping there that she found mesmerizing.

Dinner was exquisite torture. Mr. Darcy had seated her on his right, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Every time he moved, she caught his scent. Every time he spoke, his deep voice seemed to resonate in her very bones.

He was different here at Pemberley: confident, commanding, yet still attentive. She watched him interact with Georgiana, saw the affection in every gesture, and something deep in her ached with want. This was a man who loved deeply, fiercely, completely.

What would it be like to be loved by such a man?

The thought came unbidden: You already know. He said as much in his proposal. And in sending his letter. He loves you still. You can see it in every look, every careful gesture.

"Your man says the carriage can be repaired," Mr. Gardiner reported, "but not until the wheelwright can come from Lambton. Perhaps two days?"

Two days. Elizabeth's pulse skittered wildly.

"You must stay as long as necessary," Mr. Darcy said immediately, though she caught the subtle roughness in his voice. "Pemberley is at your disposal."

When he passed her the salt, their gloved fingers brushed. Such a simple touch, yet electricity shot up her arm. She saw his hand shake subtly as he withdrew it, saw him curl his fingers into a fist beneath the table.

"You play, do you not, Miss Elizabeth?" Georgiana asked shyly. "Perhaps you would honor us after dinner? My brother says you play beautifully."

Elizabeth's eyes flew to Mr. Darcy. Color rose in his cheeks, but he did not look away.

"I told Georgiana of the evening at Rosings," he explained, his voice carefully controlled. "You played with such feeling, despite my aunt's interruptions."

"You were listening?" She had thought him engaged with his book that evening, deliberately ignoring her performance.

"I am always listening when you play." The words emerged raw, unguarded. His eyes widened subtly, as if surprised by his own admission. "That is, I enjoy music, and you play very well."

"My brother is too modest," Georgiana interjected innocently. "He told me your performance moved him greatly. He said you play as you do everything, with passion and spirit that cannot be contained."

Mr. Darcy's knuckles went white where he gripped his wine glass. Elizabeth felt heat flood her face, her chest, pooling low in her belly. Passion that cannot be contained. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.

In the music room after dinner, Elizabeth's fingers shook on the keys. She could feel Mr. Darcy behind her, not touching but close enough that she felt his body heat, felt each breath he took. Her skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending attuned to his presence.

She chose a piece that had always reminded her of him: complex, layered, beginning in a minor key but resolving into something beautiful and triumphant.

As she played, she thought of his letter, of the journey they had both taken from pride and prejudice to this moment of what?

Understanding? Attraction? Something deeper?

When she finished playing, Georgiana's enthusiastic praise barely registered. All she could focus on was Mr. Darcy's quiet "Beautiful" and the way his eyes were not on the pianoforte but on her face, her throat, the curve of her shoulder exposed by the low neckline.

"You are good with her," he said when Georgiana went to fetch sheet music, his voice low and intimate. "She has had few friends. It means a great deal to see her so at ease."

He moved closer as he spoke, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the curls at her temple. Her whole body canted toward him involuntarily, like a flower seeking the sun.

"She is lovely," Elizabeth managed, though her voice came out embarrassingly breathless. "So open and amiable. Nothing like..." She stopped, horrified.

"Nothing like her proud and disagreeable brother?" His voice turned self-mocking, though she caught a flash of real pain in his eyes.

"I am sorry. I should not have..."

"No." He relaxed with visible effort, his hand coming up to rake through his hair in a gesture that was utterly unguarded, utterly appealing. "That was your opinion of me. I earned it through my behavior in Hertfordshire. Why should you have thought differently?"

"Because I was blind," she said softly, turning on the bench to face him fully. "I let Mr. Wickham's lies and my own wounded pride color everything I saw. Your letter opened my eyes."

He stepped closer, close enough that her knees brushed his legs through her skirts. This angle forced her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, baring her throat to his gaze. She saw his eyes drop to the exposed column, saw him swallow hard.

"What do you see?" His voice was rough velvet, dark and dangerous. "When you look at me now, what do you see?"

Everything, her mind whispered. I see everything I was too foolish to see before.

"I see a good man," she said aloud, her voice shaking. "An honorable man who..."

"Honor." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "If you knew the thoughts I harbor, Miss Elizabeth, you would not speak of honor."

Her breath caught. "What thoughts?"

His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, not quite touching. She could feel the heat of it, the tremor in his fingers.

"Thoughts that would ruin us both," he whispered.

Footsteps in the hall shattered the moment. Mr. Darcy stepped back so quickly he nearly stumbled, raking his hand through his hair again. Elizabeth turned back to the pianoforte, her whole body shaking.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of charged glances and careful distances. Every time their eyes met, Elizabeth felt that pull, that inexorable draw toward him. Her body felt foreign to her: heavy, languid, aching in places she did not have names for.

When Mrs. Gardiner finally declared herself exhausted, Elizabeth both dreaded and yearned for what came next. Mr. Darcy escorted them to the stairs, and she deliberately lagged behind.

"Thank you," she said when they were momentarily alone. "For everything. Your kindness today..."

"It was not kindness." He stepped closer, backing her against the newel post. Not touching, yet trapping her between wood and his body, breathing in his scent, drowning in his proximity. "Nothing I do for you could ever be mere kindness."

"Then what?" she whispered.

He cupped her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. The touch sent lightning through her veins. She parted her lips.

"Necessity," he said roughly. "Compulsion. Madness, perhaps." His thumb moved to her lower lip, grazing it. "You have unmanned me entirely, Elizabeth. Every thought, every breath, you consume me."

Her name on his lips, not Miss Elizabeth, but Elizabeth, made her knees buckle. She gripped the banister for support, and his other hand covered hers there, his body shifting closer until she felt the heat of him all along her front.

"Mr. Darcy..."

"Fitzwilliam," he corrected, his voice raw. "Say it. Just once."

"Fitzwilliam."

His eyes closed as if in pain, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. His breath brushed her lips, a tremor running through his body.

"Elizabeth!" Mrs. Gardiner's call from above shattered the moment.

Mr. Darcy pulled back, his hand sliding from her face slowly, reluctantly. The loss of his touch left her cold, aching.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth," he said, her name a caress.

She climbed the stairs on legs that felt like water, gripping the banister to stay upright. At the landing, she looked back. He stood at the bottom, one hand pressed to his mouth as if he could still feel her there, watching her with eyes that burned with promise and torment in equal measure.

In her room, Elizabeth dismissed Sally quickly and stood at the window, pressing her heated forehead against the cool glass. She thrummed with unfulfilled need, with wants she did not fully understand. She pressed her thighs tightly, trying to ease the ache there, but it only intensified.

Tomorrow she would have to face him again. Tomorrow, when her defenses were already crumbling, when her body already knew his heat, his scent, the sound of her name on his lips a prayer and a curse combined.

She thought of his words: You have unmanned me entirely.

Heaven help her, he had unwomaned her just as thoroughly. And she was not sure she wanted to be saved.