Page 21 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Chapter twenty-one
T he next morning found Catherine and her husband attending church with Elinor and Anne. All eyes stared from the pews as they entered like a dark cloud, sombre and clad in black. The whispers and tittering followed them until they took their seats near the front. Unfortunately, when they arrived at their pew, Mr Darcy awaited them. Catherine had hoped to avoid him and had not considered seeing him so soon. Though her husband knew about their thwarted engagement, she had never told him of the resentment that still lingered.
Her bitterness then followed Catherine to Barringer House where she was forced to introduce Sir Lewis to Mr Darcy and dine with the gentleman. She kept her eyes and her attention away from her near-brother, seeking to keep herself composed. She refused to let his presence ruffle her, even as the bitterness boiled underneath her perfunctory additions to the conversation.
Once Mr Darcy had gone and Sir Lewis was attending to some correspondence in his chambers, Catherine sought out Anne.
They were long overdue for a conversation, and Catherine could not see a way forward without having words.
She found her sister in the music room, sitting in front of the pianoforte, but with the appearance of someone who had no intention of playing the instrument.
“Lady Anne,” Catherine said as she entered the room.
With equal formality, Anne responded in kind, “Lady Catherine.”
The sisters stared at one another for quite a long moment. Neither wanted to speak, and since it was Catherine who had desired this chat, she would have to begin it, it seemed.
“How was your Season?” Catherine asked.
Anne shrugged and crossed her arms across her chest. “Busy. But you already know that.”
“Did you attend the theatre much?”
Lady Anne pursed her lips. “You know I did. I am not unaware that you and Lady Barringer exchanged letters frequently.”
The use of their mother’s old title made Catherine flinch. How did Anne find it so easy to replace their mother’s title so quickly? “It is not easy for me to call her that, yet.”
“And why not?” Lady Anne pressed. “It is her place. It is the correct form of address. She has been waiting many years.”
“It feels wrong—like we are erasing our mother right along with our father.”
Anne’s expression betrayed her distaste. “Our mother would not have waited any longer than the current Lady Barringer. I am certain her father-in-law was not long in the grave before she began making changes herself. It is the way of things.”
“And the way of things feels wrong,” Catherine argued. “You—you of all people, who has flouted the rules of propriety since you were born—”
“I do no such thing. I am only realistic. You—on the other hand—you followed the dowager’s rules like they were your religion.”
“Mother did not raise us to—”
Anne laughed heartily. “I cannot imagine how you plan to finish that sentence, because in any way you do so, it would be wrong. Mother did not raise us at all. We were raised by servants, Kitty!”
Catherine flinched at that. “How dare you—”
“No!” Anne did not allow her to finish again. “You put too much faith in her. You always have. Look at what she allowed to happen to you this winter past.”
“That was your doing, and yours alone. She wanted to see me happily married, as any good mother would.”
“Good mother—you exaggerate, and you know it. She cares nothing for our happiness, only our reputations, and you would do well to finally see her with eyes wide open.”
Catherine felt torn. The directives of her childhood had begun to lose their sharp rule over her thoughts, but she was too angered by her sister to relent. Anne was the cause of her pain and suffering—was she not?
Always a selfish girl, now only concerned with taking her place as mistress of Pemberley and having no apparent sorrow for their shared loss. Just like Elinor, Anne cared only about herself, it appeared.
“Pemberley is nothing to Rosings Park!” she declared.
Anne’s eyes widened with confusion. “If you think I desire Darcy for my husband because of his home, you know me little. I care not if Rosings Park was larger than any home in England, and I assumed that you felt the same.”
Confusion plagued Catherine.
“I assumed you loved Sir Lewis,” Anne said softly.
“And why would you assume that?”
“You married him, did you not?”
“Marriage has very little to do with love, sister—as I am sure you will soon find out. But, of course, that is not the sort of story people like to tell, is it? Life is not a romance novel, Anne! Marriage is an alliance. It is dignified. I have a place now, and a purpose. But I do not flatter myself beyond that. And neither should you.”
The pity in Anne’s expression enraged Catherine further. Could not Anne sense the pain she had caused Catherine?
Catherine scoffed. “Forget our mother. Eloise would never have done such a thing to me. Did I mean nothing to you?”
Evoking Eloise’s name to support her argument finally broke the hold Anne had on her temper.
“Our sister loved you for who you were , not what you would become or what name you would take when you married. And she certainly would never have compared residences in place of the gentlemen who dwell in them. And you know this. She loved you. Deeply.”
This nearly broke Catherine. Tears welled in her eyes.
“And I loved you too,” Anne said. “I did not mean to cause you pain. You must see it now—Darcy and I are so suited. Neither of us wanted to hurt you, but surely you did not want to marry him. You found it difficult to even speak to him. I was there—I witnessed your discomfort. You were only parroting our mother and seeking her approval, not seeking happiness. I have seen you with your Sir Lewis. You are content. I am certain of it. Why do you bring this argument to me now? I was supposed to marry this week—to a man I love and respect, a man who I imagine building a life with and having children with. Children I plan to nurture and love, rather than scheme and manoeuvre to my own will.”
Anne finally took a breath. Catherine could not hold back the tears that were falling down her face as a physical sign of her inadequacies and failures. It was the least dignified moment of her life—and Anne was witnessing it. Was it true? Had she only been a chess piece in her mother’s game? The thought sickened her.
Catherine could not respond. Instead, she took herself quickly out of the room, up the winding staircase, and into her own bed chamber.
Catherine could not settle herself. An equal rush of resentment and shame poured through her, and she felt woefully alone. If only Lewis had been there. He would have said the right thing. She trusted only him to fully understand her.
Hearing some sounds coming from her husband’s neighbouring chambers, she felt awash with relief. She knocked and immediately walked into his room, already speaking as she entered. She could barely catch her breath as she hurriedly attempted to update him on her latest mistakes. She had given her younger sister a set down, before their father was buried in the ground—days before what was to be her wedding day—and she was not even sure if she had accurately communicated why she had been so distressed, nor if it was even necessary.
“I am such a wretch, am I not?” She asked her husband with a very undignified pout.
“I would never say such a thing,” Sir Lewis responded.
“Not out loud.” She laughed.
“Not even in my dreams. You are as dear to me as any person has ever been.”
“Cease with your empty flattery. I am trying to be serious. I need you to tell me how horrible I am.”
“I am being serious.” That grin—that smug, delicious smirk.
Catherine rolled her eyes.
“You can rail at me and call me names for the remainder of our lives, and I would still choose you,” he said, soberly now.
“You never chose me,” Catherine said.
“Of course I did.”
She was uneasy with the direction of the conversation. It was one thing to be happy in their current situation and another to rewrite history.
Catherine replied, “Regardless of how we came to be together, I am happy you are my husband.”
It was significant for her to admit that much.
“We came together because you sent your lady’s maid to me. And because I could not refuse you. I will never deny you anything.”
If he would not agree that she was the worst possible human in all of England, she had better change the mood to something more playful. She was not comfortable with his empty worship. Flattery aside, his intent gaze and serious words made her physically anxious.
“Anything?” She grinned his grin.
Feeling slightly emboldened by the direction of their conversation, she approached Sir Lewis and stood very close, tilting her chin up and daring him to step closer. If he would not agree to punish her, she would tease him and goad him until he understood how she often felt at the hands of his own provocations.
“Anything, Catherine.” And she realized too late they were playing very different games. For his expression was as sincere as she had ever seen him, and it ignited a small spark of longing in her that she had been trying to silence for weeks now.
His dark eyes were watchful. His gaze was weighing her down.
His earnestness notwithstanding, she could no longer play at being lively. His eyes told her that he was not going to join her game. Catherine’s heart stirred at his words—traitor that it was. She could not fall in love with her husband! It was unseemly! Love was for ninnies and empty-headed debutantes.
Closer, closer, closer , that voice inside her head called. Sir Lewis appeared to be answering the same call, for he wrapped his arms around her waist and looked her intently in the eyes. The space left between them felt like an ember, ready to ignite the world and burn it down. Her hands itched to touch him and her lips to kiss him.
She could wait no longer.
Sensing once again that he waited for her, she finally answered the demand flowing through her, surging onto her toes to kiss him.
His body went rigid for a moment—and she nearly backed away in defeat. But just as quickly, he appeared to make a choice. His hands moved to the back of her neck, holding her still, and he slowly ran his thumbs across her jaw until they met her lips. A wicked grin overtook his face, and she felt nearly giddy. That mischievous grin that had irritated her for months was now the dearest smile she knew. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Catherine’s entire body turned warm under his inspection.
He slowly began inching the two of them backward until Catherine’s back was against the wall. One hand remained holding her cheek while the other began an exploration of her hair. He stood back with an expression of awe that felt so natural that she wondered if it was reflected in her own gaze.
He brought his lips to hers, angling her face for a deeper kiss, and she parted her lips. Their breath, intermingling, became faster and warmer.
After many minutes of gasping and frantic exploration, his tongue slid into her mouth and ran along hers. The movement was so small, and yet, it felt another world had opened up to Catherine—a sensation yet unexplored, a well of emotion that had been hidden away. A warmth spread low in her belly, an indication, she wondered, of things to come.
“Is this what you want?” He broke the kiss to ask her.
She was not interested in conversation, and nearly panted her response, “Naturally.”
“My girl.” He took her face in his hands. “Tell me how you would like this marriage to be. And be very clear.”
As usual, he asked for honesty, so she answered as such. “I wish to be your wife. Fully.”
And that was all it took.
His hands tunnelled through her hair, sending hairpins in all directions. With each ping, ping, ping she heard as they hit the oak floors, she grew more eager.
She gripped the lapels of his frock coat—to pull him closer or to steady herself, she did not know. And she began to feel a great loss of control—her inhibitions dwindling with every moment that passed. Her hair began falling down in long, golden curls that felt as intimate as the kisses. No one, besides Jones or Dawson, had ever seen her in such a state.
Hair down, her reticence collapsed around her.
He tasted like he smelled, like the gentleman who had become her closest ally and friend. And she kissed him with an abandon yet unknown to her, learning the shape of his mouth and the feel of his breath.
He moved to brush his lips on her cheeks and then lower, down her neck, urging her on and opening new doors in her mind.
“My lioness,” he purred, and she chuckled in a haze of want. She would accept the ridiculous moniker now, for she did feel wild.
Closer, closer, closer that feeling inside her shouted. And as if he had heard the demand, he began to tug at the closure of her redingote just above her waist. She reached between them and began to show him how to remove the hooks from the eyes, and then pulled at the concealed lacing beneath, opening her gown to reveal her chemise and petticoat.
If she had felt on display before, it was nothing to the way he looked at her now. He was wild too, and she felt every bit his prey as his eyes danced riotously upon his target. She knew not whether to cry in relief or laugh in amazement at their behaviour.
His frock coat and waist coat joined her clothing upon the floor, followed by his boots. He stood before her in only his breeches and shirtsleeves, his shirt opened to reveal his lean, muscular chest. She could see the outline of his strong arms. His masculine form and height made her feel more feminine than she had felt previously in her life. She felt emboldened by his interest in her and could no longer deny their shared desire.
She expected to feel more defenceless or exposed in this moment, but she only wanted to pursue these new instincts further—to coax them out and see them to completion. Regardless of her shaking hands, she was resolved to be his wife in every way.
She dropped her petticoat and lifted her chemise over her head, leaving her only in the barest of underclothes. He joined her in removing his slim breeches.
Catherine took in their new state of undress and smiled. She trusted him and herself in that moment as he pulled her closer and led her to his bed to lie down upon it. He moved to brace himself above her—gently, almost reverently.
Towering over her now with his solid arms beside her head, Catherine whispered that she was glad she sent for him that day in Kent. She would trust none other with her future than him.
He kissed her softly then and promised that he could have done no less than he had. That he had wanted her long before that moment.
When at last they came together as husband and wife, Catherine felt equally a sense of awe and comfort and passion that was foreign to her. He was her home. Wherever he went, she would follow. He had helped her find her voice, and in him, she found a shelter for her orphaned heart.
They lay together for some time afterwards, until their breathing regulated. Her head resting upon his chest, Catherine’s fingers still discovering the feel of him, his hands running through her hair—and she wondered if she would always be this happy.
And ever so quietly, Lewis increased that joy tenfold. “I love you, Catherine, my girl.”
An immeasurable pulse of comfort shot through her and left her without any reasonable response. She moved against him, holding him more closely and kissing him on his chest. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be the object of admiration for so great a man. His bewitching good humour. His kind eyes. He saw her as worthy, and the novel feeling overtook her. Her affection was also secured, but she could not find it in her to voice that thought—the moment felt too precarious, too precious.
“It is a rare occurrence indeed that causes you to be speechless, my dearest,” he whispered. “Perhaps I shall tell you that I love you more often.”
They both dissolved into laughter that eventually led to the soundest sleep of her life. Her last thoughts before drifting off were, I love you too .
Catherine woke in her husband’s arms. A soft knock from the interior door had roused her, signalling that his valet was going to enter.
“One moment please,” she called out. It must be nearly time to dress for dinner.
She was not eager to leave the warmth of the bed, nor the comfort of Sir Lewis’s arms wrapped tightly around her.
“Sir Lewis,” she whispered, and he squeezed her more tightly. His possessiveness forced a laugh from her.
“Lewis,” he growled.
“Fine. Lewis,” she said, kissing his neck and giggling against his rough beard. “Elliott is outside waiting to dress you for dinner. I need you to release me so I might return to my own chamber.”
“Tell him to leave,” he grumbled, moving against her and laying his face across her stomach. He kissed her belly in long, languid, open-mouth strokes. “I am going nowhere.”
“After my performance earlier, Anne will think I am hiding from her.” She attempted an escape but found herself sinking deeper into his embrace.
“Let your sister think what she will. Now that I have you in my bed, I shall not let you go.”
Catherine felt breathless against his ministrations. Her mind and body were in a peculiar battle for victory over the other.
“Stay,” he commanded, rising off of the bed. Catherine turned her face to avoid the sight of him with no clothing on. She heard the door crack open to the servant’s corridor, and Sir Lewis spoke in quiet tones to his valet, Elliott. The door shut quietly after a brief exchange.
“There. It is done,” he said smugly. “You shall not run from me now.”
He returned to the bed, and instead of crawling under the bedclothes, he pulled the blankets back. She fought against it, pulling against his efforts—and lost. She was left exposed, unclothed, and under his intent inspection.
Fondness and mischievousness permeated his expression. She felt her cheeks heat under his gaze and flipped over, turning her face into the pillow, attempting to hide herself from him. But that only seemed to rouse his interest. He lay on top of her, surrounding her from behind with his body, trapping her under muscled legs.
He moved to whisper in her right ear, “They will send a tray for us at six. I have no intention of leaving this bed until then.”
The whisper-soft promise of what was to come made Catherine’s body react in the most unladylike way—brazen and hungry and frantic. In that moment, she barely recognized herself. And she closed her eyes against the expectations of the world to embrace this new life fully.