The evening was soon at an end for the Bennet family. Darcy’s blood boiled with the barely contained fury he felt toward the outrages Wickham had perpetrated against Elizabeth. He marveled at his ability to project some modicum of control over his roiling emotions as he tended to his wife and ordered the carriages. Mr. Bennet, with the assistance of Bingley, urged the rest of his family to offer their appreciation to Sir William and Lady Lucas and take their leave.
Once seated in the carriage, Darcy flouted propriety, taking Elizabeth onto his lap and cradling her in his arms as she buried her head in the crook of his neck. Confused and knowing only that something unsavory had occurred involving Elizabeth, Lydia, and Wickham, Bingley indulged his friend and stared out of the window in silence until they arrived at Netherfield. Once they had gained the sanctuary of the house, Bingley grabbed Darcy by the shoulder and inquired about the situation. Darcy glanced at the sleeping woman in his arms and, after a moment of indecision, consented to join Bingley in his study once he saw Elizabeth settled for the night.
When he pushed open the door to his wife’s bedchamber, Darcy saw that Sonia was waiting to assist her mistress, but he dismissed her, not wanting any hands other than his to touch her again that night. He undressed her with tenderness, and though she did awaken, he continued his ministrations, tucking her beneath the counterpane while speaking soft words of devotion and love, and stroking her face until she finally seemed to succumb to what he hoped would be a peaceful slumber.
Darcy swallowed down the lump in his throat and joined Bingley, who handed him a glass of brandy as he waited for him to begin his tale. Darcy began pacing almost immediately, draining his glass in several large gulps and offering it without comment to be refilled. His friend complied and watched with concern on his face as Darcy took up his customary position at the window, looking out into the darkness as he drank without tasting.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “That blackguard dared to touch my wife; he dared to kiss my wife, my beautiful wife, who carries my child, my heir, in her womb as we speak. She has never done anything to deserve such abhorrent treatment from anyone, much less the likes of George Wickham,” he spat. “I have sworn before God to protect Elizabeth, but instead, she has been the recipient of such perverse, repulsive acts of degradation forced upon her by that… that unscrupulous animal whom I was once ignorant and naïve enough to call my friend!”
He drained his glass and hurled it into the fire, where it shattered into dozens of pieces. Catching sight of Bingley’s shocked expression and distrusting his own emotions, Darcy turned his back to him again, laying his forehead against the cold windowpane. It did little to soothe his temper. “This is no one’s fault but my own,” he continued in a defeated voice full of self-admonishment. “If I had only kept my emotions and desire for Elizabeth in check that day several months ago in Meryton, none of this would ever have happened. Wickham singled her out, not for her beauty and vivacity, but because he recognized my admiration for her, just as I am certain he has chosen to seduce Lydia for the same reason—simply because she is Elizabeth’s youngest sister, and ruining her would surely be just one more way of revenging himself upon me. She is, without a doubt, one of the most easily led, ridiculous girls in all of England, Bingley, but Lydia Bennet hardly deserves to receive this for her ignorance and indecorum! Damn him! Damn him to hell for carrying this vendetta so bloody far!”
He felt Bingley’s hand grip his shoulder. “What do you wish to do, Darcy?” he asked.
Darcy let out a bitter, rueful laugh and, through gritted teeth, said, “I want to kill the bloody bastard, Bingley! I want to squeeze every ounce of breath from his disgraceful body so he will never hurt another member of my family again as long as I live!”
Bingley let out a long breath. “Dueling is illegal, my friend, and murder, I am afraid, is not an option I would endorse in this particular instance, no matter how appealing it may appear at the moment.”
Darcy slammed his fist against the window frame and hollered, “He has forced himself upon my wife, for God’s sake! He has compromised two of my sisters, both under the age of sixteen! It is well within my right, both as a husband and a brother, to run him through without so much as a second thought to his miserable existence!”
“Yes, Darcy,” Bingley said, “but you can hardly expect such a dishonorable blackguard to play fairly when so much is at stake, my friend. And then there is Elizabeth. It would grieve her beyond everything imaginable should Wickham harm you or, worse, kill you in a duel. You cannot expect her to go through that agony, Darcy—that senseless heartbreak—especially if what you say is true and she is, indeed, carrying your child.”
Bingley sighed and shook his head. “I know you wish to do this because you are thinking of them, Darcy—because you wish to protect them, and because right now, you hold yourself accountable for failing to do so in this particular instance—but you must truly think of them, my friend, before you decide to react with impetuosity and rashness. The consequences for such actions could be devastating and irreversible, and I doubt very much Elizabeth would appreciate your placing yourself in such jeopardy simply to rid the world of one dishonorable man. Your wife is hopelessly in love with you, you know, in part because you are a man who has always conducted himself with honor and decorum. You can never be anything less.”
Darcy walked to the nearest chair, where he finally allowed himself to collapse, exhausted both physically and emotionally. He could not keep from thinking of his Elizabeth, whom he felt, in his heart, he had failed to protect, just as he had failed to protect Georgiana at Ramsgate. Holding his head in his hands, his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably as the lump in his throat, which he had been fighting against so ineffectually, finally succeeded in forcing its way into his mouth. He felt a warm hand reach out to him, then another, enveloping him in a secure embrace, but, rather than Bingley’s strong grasp, this touch was one of tenderness, love, and complete devotion. Darcy clung to the one person who he knew, beyond a doubt, would offer it.
“Charles is right, you know,” she said quietly. “Georgiana and I would never wish for you to risk your life for the sake of ridding us of such a man, Fitzwilliam, nor would any other member of our family, be they Bennets, Darcys, or Fitzwilliams. I daresay we shall all survive this ordeal without such an impressive display of gallantry, my dear. Too many people depend upon you, my love, and you are far too precious for me to allow you to risk our future together in exchange for some reckless solution to this series of unfortunate dealings with Mr. Wickham. No one is worth that kind of contemplation and sacrifice, especially that man.”
Elizabeth held his head against her breast, clad only in the silk nightshift she had not bothered to change out of or cover, before following the sound of her husband’s anguished voice, raised in anger, to Bingley’s study.
The warm, smoothness of Elizabeth’s flesh, her tender endearments, her soft kisses, the soothing rhythm of her heartbeat, all became a balm for Darcy’s soul. Drawing a shaky breath, he pulled her onto his lap and rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as she wiped away the last of his tears. He had never been one to show such a display of weakness and vulnerability—to give way to tears and grief in front of another, no matter what the cause—and he was embarrassed that Elizabeth had borne witness to his utter loss of self-control. He entwined his fingers within her hair and breathed deeply, drawing comfort from her closeness. Her lavender scent almost always had a calming effect on him, although, on many occasions, it was enough of a stimulant to arouse him profoundly. On this night, though, he simply reveled in her consolatory presence.
Darcy sighed against her lips as she brushed them over his. “I love you, Fitzwilliam, so very much,” she whispered as she smoothed her fingers over his hair and stroked the line of his jaw. “Let us think no more on this tonight, my love. Come with me, and we will lose ourselves in each other.”
Bingley had slipped from the room the moment Elizabeth entered. Darcy opened his eyes and pulled his head back just enough to search hers. They were wonderful, dark, liquid pools in which he could easily drown, and he marveled, not for the first time, at Elizabeth’s ability to find strength and courage in the face of such adversity. Without a doubt, this woman was the true mistress of Pemberley, and he thanked God, once again, for his good fortune—not only for allowing him to find her, but for allowing him to recognize her worth enough to overcome his misplaced pride and haughty reserve in order to earn her love and devotion. He returned her kiss and then placed another on her forehead. “My love, I am so very sorry I was not there to protect you from him tonight.”
“Shhh, Fitzwilliam, we are not to speak of it any more tonight, and, indeed, my love, I am in earnest about this,” Elizabeth whispered as she feathered a kiss upon his furrowed brow. She removed herself from his lap and extended her hand. He raised it to his lips to bestow a kiss upon her palm, her wrist, and each finger before lifting it farther still, to cradle against his cheek.
She caressed him, feeling the slight growth of his beard, and tugged against the hand that held her captive. “Come, my dearest, and we will endeavor to make happier memories of tonight.” Without further thought, he followed her into the hall, up the staircase, and to her bedchamber. Elizabeth pushed the door closed and led Darcy to the bed, the very same bed where he had first made her his own not so many weeks before. He closed his eyes against the world as she began to work the intricate knots of his cravat free, his breathing deep and even.
“Elizabeth,” he rasped, “you need not do this.”
“Hush,” she whispered. “I want to.” She pulled the length of silk from around his throat and began to unfasten the buttons on his tailcoat, his waistcoat, and his shirt. She removed each item and dropped them to the floor with very little formality.
Elizabeth turned her attention to the expanse of her husband’s chest, now fully revealed to her discerning eyes and gentle hands. Darcy shuddered when he felt her fingers exploring the contours of his torso. She lowered her mouth to his flesh and placed sensual kisses along his neck and shoulders, gradually, unhurriedly, making her way lower. When she reached his waist, her hands made quick work of the buttons on his trousers as she dipped the tip of her tongue into the slight depression on his stomach. She slid the fabric from his hips, and before Darcy could form a coherent thought, Elizabeth had knelt down to caress his arousal with her lips, her tongue drawing slow, wet circles over his flesh.
A low moan escaped from the back of his throat as Elizabeth’s warm mouth enveloped him fully. His fingers tangled in her thick mass of curls. It was almost effortless for Darcy to lose himself in her—in her eyes, in her body, in her very existence. It had always been so. Even in the lonely, confusing weeks that preceded their courtship, when even a chaste kiss upon her hand was never an option, Darcy had adopted a nightly ritual of escaping the trials and tribulations of his mundane existence by submersing himself in private musings and forbidden fantasies about the only woman he had fallen in love with.
Elizabeth’s fingertips brushed his hips and his thighs. The glorious curls crowning her head tickled his flesh. The sensations she elicited were potent, almost overpowering in their intensity, and Darcy began to fear for his self-control as he surrendered to the bliss of her ministrations. He opened his eyes, and his breath caught as he was overtaken by the exhilaration of watching his wife, still clad in her nightshift, kneeling before him in such a manner. He groaned as a wave of raw passion swept through him. Elizabeth’s eyes turned up to meet his, and in an instant, Darcy pulled her to her feet, his mouth devouring her lips as his hands traveled over her body, leaving her skin hot and tingling, as though she were on fire. He struggled to untie her shift, his fingers fumbling with the ribbons, until, with a sound of frustration, Elizabeth nudged aside his hands and released them herself. She took a step back, and their eyes locked as the shift fell away to reveal her curves, pooling in a puddle of ivory upon the floor.
Darcy closed his eyes, fighting for command of his body, which, at that moment, desperately wanted to ravish this bewitching seductress. Elizabeth must have sensed his urgency, because she reached out and entwined her fingers with his, which were trembling with his efforts. He gripped her hand tightly, as though afraid she would somehow slip away from him. He felt her full breasts brush against his chest as she leaned toward him, pushing him back upon the bed, and inhaled sharply.
Elizabeth climbed atop him, dragging her body along his frame, moaning as his arousal brushed against her. She was about to take him into her, when Darcy rolled them over, showering her lips and face with kisses while his hands found their way to her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through her. His hands continued to roam over her curves, exploring, tantalizing her flesh. When Elizabeth moaned his name, Darcy let out a strangled sob of longing, alerting her to the urgency of his need.
“Fitzwilliam,” she gasped, “I need you. I need to feel you. Please. Now.”
Her words, spoken so quietly, yet with a commanding insistence that only served to further inflame his desire for her, penetrated the last fragments of Darcy’s self-restraint, granting his body permission to take action over the more tender sentiments of his heart and mind. He slid into her depths with a shuddering cry that drew forth an identical response from Elizabeth as their bodies began to move together in a rhythm that heightened the intensity of his pleasure. His movements soon grew frenzied.
It was not long before Elizabeth was soaring toward her completion.
Darcy felt her muscles tightening around him as he buried himself within her, time and again, deeper and deeper, until, finally, with a loud cry, he suddenly felt one of the most powerful releases he had ever experienced.
They did not speak, but lay together, hands and bodies entwined, rapid breathing slowing, frantic heartbeats calming, the silent reassurance of the other’s presence enveloping them. Darcy bestowed a lingering kiss upon his wife’s forehead as he closed his eyes, exhaustion finally claiming them at last.