Page 4 of Mr. Darcy’s Storm of Temptation (Seasons of A Steamy Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Sleep was impossible. Elizabeth had tried for hours, but her body would not quiet. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Darcy's face as he had almost kissed her in the garden, felt the ghost of his touch on her cheek.

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 and separation, 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."

Footsteps in the hall made them spring apart. A footman perhaps? Elizabeth's heart raced as she hastily straightened her shawl while Mr. Darcy stepped back, raking his hands through his hair.

The footsteps passed, but the spell was broken. The impropriety of their situation crashed over Elizabeth like cold water.

"I should not have come," she said, pressing her fingers to her swollen lips. "This was wrong of me."

"Marry me," Mr. Darcy said suddenly.

She stared at him, certain she had misheard. "What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, moving toward her with intention. "Not as I asked before, with insults and talk of degradation. But properly, as you deserve. Marry me because I love you beyond reason, because I cannot imagine a life without you, because you have made me a better man simply by existing."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears. This proposal, so different from his first, spoke to everything she had come to love about him: his capacity for growth, for humility, for genuine feeling.

"Yes," she breathed, then louder, "Yes, of course yes."

He crossed to her in two strides, cupping her face carefully. "Truly?"

"Truly," she confirmed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Though we must be circumspect. My aunt and uncle need to be told properly."

"I will speak to your father the moment we return to Longbourn," he promised. "We will do everything properly from this moment forward."

"And until then?"

"Until then, we must be careful." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "My control where you are concerned hangs by a thread."

She knew she should leave, return to her room, preserve what was left of propriety. But the ache that had tormented her all day had intensified to an almost painful degree. She had never imagined herself one so easily ruled by desire, but she wanted him.

"Fitzwilliam," she whispered, "before I go, I must ask you something. This feeling, this wanting I have for you. Is it very wicked?"

His eyes darkened. "Not wicked. Natural. Beautiful." He pressed his forehead to hers. "It is your body recognizing what your heart knows: we belong to each other. Though on our wedding night, I promise to ease it. To show you everything this feeling can become."

Elizabeth quivered at the dark promise in his voice. "Show me something now," she whispered, then immediately blushed at her boldness. "Forgive me, I should not ask such things."

"Shhh." He kissed her softly. "There is no shame between us. But Elizabeth, I would not dishonor you."

"A kiss," she bargained. "Just one more kiss to sustain me until we can be properly wed."

He groaned but complied, kissing her deeply, his hands framing her face as if she were infinitely precious. She melted against him, the pulse in her core growing stronger. When his tongue touched hers, she made a sound she did not recognize, wanton and needy.

"Please," she whispered against his mouth, not even knowing what she was begging for. "This ache, it grows worse. I feel as if I might die from it."

"Elizabeth," he groaned, walking her backward until she was pressed against the bookshelf. "You do not know what you ask."

"Then show me," she breathed, all modesty fleeing in the face of her desperation. "We are engaged now. Surely..."

His control visibly cracked. "Just this once," he said roughly. "Just to ease your suffering. But you must be quiet."

His hand slipped beneath her nightgown, fingers tracing up her thigh with agonizing slowness. She gasped at the intimacy, at the impropriety, but her body welcomed his touch with shocking eagerness.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "I need to see your eyes."

She met his gaze, seeing her own desperate need reflected there. When his fingers found her center, she nearly collapsed. She was wet, mortifyingly so, but he groaned as if it were a gift.

"Perfect," he breathed against her ear. "Your body knows me, Elizabeth. It knows you belong to me."

His fingers moved in slow circles, finding a spot that made her see stars. She bit her lip hard to stifle her cries, her hips moving instinctively against his hand. She could feel his arousal pressed hard against her hip, evidence of his own desperate need, and it only inflamed her more.

"There now," he encouraged. "Take what you need. Let me give you this."

The tension built impossibly, a coiling in her belly that threatened to snap. "Fitzwilliam," she gasped. "I cannot bear it."

"Let go," he commanded, his fingers moving faster. "Trust me, my love. Let go."

She shattered, pleasure crashing over her in waves so intense her vision went white. He captured her mouth with his, swallowing her cries as her body convulsed. She could feel him rock hard against her, his whole body rigid with the effort of restraint.

When she finally stilled, limp and panting, he withdrew his hand carefully, adjusting her nightgown with shaking fingers.

"What was that?" she gasped.

"Your release," he said, pressing kisses to her face. "The first of many I intend to give you when you are my wife."

She became aware that he was still hard against her, his arousal straining against his breeches. "But you have not found your own release."

"This was for you," he said firmly, though she could see the strain in his jaw. "Only you," he said roughly, setting her away from him with visible effort. "Now you must go. Now. Before I forget every honorable intention and take you right here."

She went on unsteady legs, pausing at the door to look back. He stood where she had left him, hands clenched at his sides, watching her with such naked longing it stole her breath.

"I love you," she said softly.

"And I love you," he replied. "More than life itself. Now go, before I do something we would both regret."

In her room, Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, still tasting him. Her body hummed with new knowledge. New pleasures.

Tomorrow she would face him in daylight, maintain proper distance, play the part of a modest young lady. But tonight, she was engaged to Mr. Darcy. Tonight, she had tasted passion and wanted more.

Soon, he had promised. Soon they would be married, and then all these feelings would find their proper expression. Her body knew what her heart had finally admitted: she belonged to Fitzwilliam Darcy, completely and eternally.