Page 24 of Under Such Circumstances (Desperately Seeking Elizabeth #1)

THERE WERE REASONS that Richard did not and had not ever taken a virgin into his bed.

First of all, it was simply wrong, to his way of thinking. A woman’s virtue, rightly or wrongly, translated to a certain amount of currency. It was worth something, and once it was taken, the worth of the woman was less.

He didn’t exactly like that this was the case, and he’d even been in strong and passionate discussions about how it should be different, many of them involving courtesans and actresses—the kinds of conversations one has when one is very drunk and one thinks to take on all society’s ills.

So, the conversation would involve himself, other men with money or titles or influence or good breeding, and then ruined women—often quite intelligent ruined women who’d landed on their feet and were shrewdly handling their own finances at this point, selling their bodies in much the way that one might sell livestock or silk.

They would all talk about it, about how women were treated, about how things should be different, and they would all agree, but…

it didn’t matter, because things were not different.

Anyway, whatever the case, a woman’s virtue was worth something, and taking it for nothing, it was wrong.

He didn’t do it.

Men did do it, and he thought, when they did, they likely didn’t consider what they were doing to the woman, didn’t think of it from her perspective. But he’d been lectured too often by women to think otherwise.

And then, sometimes, in those conversations, women would say other things that led him to think that he should never do such a thing, not unless he was taking the virtue of his wife and he was cleaving to her as one flesh and all of that business.

Virgins attached.

Too many courtesans told the same story.

“Nothing like the way you love the man you lose your virtue to, is there?” they would say, laughing to each other. “Then you realize the way men are, of course, that we women fall in love and they don’t.”

This wasn’t true, the colonel knew. Men fell in love, desperately and foolishly in love, and the courtesans themselves plied this as their stock and trade.

It wasn’t about bringing a man to his climax, not truly, for anyone could do that to himself.

Courtesans made a man feel as if he could pretend to love them, and sometimes that line between pretend and real got blurred.

But too many of these women had fallen in with some man who had not seemed to reciprocate their feelings, it seemed. They had loved the man, and he hadn’t loved them back, or so they said.

The first time, it meant something to women.

On the other hand, that had been true for him, too, hadn’t it? Lord, that first woman he’d bedded, the way he’d loved her.

She hadn’t loved him that way. She had been twenty years his senior and she’d had a number of men just like him, rotating in and out of her bed. And to her, he’d been nothing special, just another young and eager prick to ride, and he…

Maybe it was nothing to do with being a woman, and everything to do with being young and inexperienced.

The first time, it meant something.

Whether you were a man or a woman. And once the first time was over, you never got that experience back. It could never be the first time again. So, it only followed that you didn’t just take that from someone, not without thinking about what it was you were taking.

Maybe the meaning-something had something to do with innocence, with not having had one’s heart broken and twisted and shattered and stepped upon again and again. For him, it didn’t mean anything to bed a woman, not anymore, but was that such a good thing? Was that anything to be proud of?

Maybe it just meant he was weathered and hardened and used up.

Anyway, it was a foolish thing to have done, to have been so intimate with Elizabeth Bennet and to think she would not have attached to him afterwards. So foolish. He could not believe that he’d not thought of it happening. He should have.

Of course, he had thought of only twenty objections to the enterprise, and none of the objections had stopped him. He’d wanted her so badly that nothing was going to stop him at that point.

And so, now, he didn’t even know what to do with himself.

He spent the next few days in an ecstasy of guilt, a blur of movement and social interactions that he managed to participate in whilst internally scolding himself at every turn.

Somehow, he found himself on the promenade with Darcy and Georgiana.

June was breathing down the backs of their necks, and there was no reason to be in London anymore.

It was the time of year to go to the country, to retire away from the streets and the crush and heat and to sit under the shade of tall trees dripping dark green leaves and sip lemonade and talk of going hunting or doing some activity, but end up doing very little, very little at all.

Summer was a time for idleness. They ought to be idle, not riding through Hyde Park.

Well, not even riding now, actually. At that moment, they were leading their horses, walking slowly all together.

“What if I said that I wished to marry her, actually?” Richard said to Darcy, out of nowhere, just voicing it aloud.

“You mean Elizabeth,” said Darcy, knowing who he was talking of immediately. “I was thinking we must go to see the Vicomte de Larilane, speak to him. If Elizabeth is his daughter, and he yet lives—”

“What?” Richard drew back, looking him over. This was all news to him.

“I told you of this,” said Darcy.

“You did not.”

“I have been feeling as if you are only listening to every tenth word I say recently,” muttered Mr. Darcy.

Richard grimaced. This was likely true. He kept thinking about how badly he had ruined everything. “Well, then, you have found her father?”

“As I have said to you.”

“I was preoccupied. Can you go over it again?”

Darcy was annoyed, but he did that. He explained how he’d come to conclude it.

“Well, there might be some other reason he was called Eddie,” said the colonel.

“Yes, it might not even be his first name,” said Darcy.

“Might not be who’s name?” piped up Georgiana, as she brought her horse flush with theirs. “What are you talking of?”

Darcy glared at Richard. “You are the one who brought all this up.”

“Yes,” said Richard, chagrined. “Apologies.”

“It’s that woman you’re always on about,” said Georgiana. “The one that Caroline talks about, too, or the sister of the one Caroline talks about, and the one that apparently, Mr. Bingley is courting now.”

Richard hunched up his shoulders, having done all of that just to get Elizabeth alone, just to bed her, and now feeling as if he was some sort of insane hedonist to have behaved in such a manner.

If he hadn’t felt so guilty about all of it, maybe he could have enjoyed it. She had been so very responsive, so pretty and soft, so eager and pliant. He still remembered the noises she’d made when he’d had his mouth on her, and whenever he thought of that, his trousers felt too tight.

“Yes, I know not how,” said Darcy, “but Bingley discovered that I had kept him from knowing about Miss Bennet being in town in the winter.”

“Did he.” Richard coughed.

“You did it?” Darcy turned on him. “Why?”

“What is it about these Bennet women?” said Georgiana. “That’s what I wish to know. They seem to have driven every man in my acquaintance entirely mad.”

And, by some strange twist of coincidence, there they were.

Both the Misses Bennets were walking towards them on the path, Mr. Bingley between them, Miss Bingley trailing behind the three of them, her expression pinched.

Richard looked everywhere except at Elizabeth, at the sky, at the trees, at his own shoes, at the buttons on his jacket.

He was dimly aware that Georgiana had called out a greeting to Miss Bingley, and that the two women—Caroline and Georgiana—were conducting an animated conversation, and that Bingley and Darcy were having some kind of stilted discussion that consisted of exchanging stiff greetings and then nothing further.

Richard looked at Elizabeth.

She was gaping at him.

His whole body lurched.

Her lips parted.

He thought about kissing those lips. He thought about how her lips had been puffed and reddened from his attentions and then he thought about other parts of her body that had been puffed and reddened, and he was immediately and violently aroused.

He wondered if anyone could see.

Worst thing to do would be to call any attention to his crotch, though. He wouldn’t even cover it with his hands. No, he’d simply do nothing.

Jane Bennet was speaking, her voice soft and lilting.

Darcy was grunting.

Bingley was huffing at Darcy.

Elizabeth was still staring at Richard.

He found himself saying, in a clear and bright voice, “Well met, then. Let us all walk together, shall we?”

“Oh, yes, what a lovely idea,” said Elizabeth, coming directly for him.

“We are walking in entirely opposite directions,” said Bingley.

“No matter,” said Caroline Bingley. “I do so wish to continue to catch up with Miss Darcy,” but she seemed to be saying that to Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth started to walk.

Richard came with her, falling into step with her. “You’re looking well, Miss Bennet.”

“Yes, so are you, Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She looked at him sidelong, giving him a knowing smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yes, it’s good to see you as well,” he breathed. He had the sudden urge to touch her. He was holding the reins of his horse with one hand, but he wanted to wind his other hand around her waist, pull her to him, hip-to-hip, press his mouth to her temple.

He didn’t do any of those things. He looked away, straight forward. Lord, his breath sounded labored, didn’t it?

“My sister is with Mr. Bingley almost every afternoon, you know,” she said. “I thought… if you weren’t occupied, perhaps we could see each other again.”

He glanced at her sharply. “Miss Bennet, you know that I—”

“I may have found your father,” broke in Mr. Darcy.