B006O3T9DG EBOK (50 page)

As she gazed into his eyes, she thought she witnessed the same paroxysm of puissance that had always driven her mad with desire.

“You are here now,” she whispered. “That is all that matters.”

“I require the immediate return of my hat,” he said stiffly.

Wanting to scream at him to forget his bloody hat, she contained her pique. She clasped his hand evermore firmly in hers.

With subdued urgency, she said, “I beg your indulgence, for I could not see yours eyes. To speak as we must—tête-à-tête—I must see your eyes. Forgive me?
Oui
?”

He said, “Am I to deduce that you want to escape your marriage?”

His directness was maddening. Looking away, she touched her cheek with the tips of her fingers.

Wincing, she said, “I fear nothing has changed.”

It was not entirely theatrics, just embellishment. She feared subtlety would be for naught.

He reacted with far greater ferocity than she had anticipated. Indeed, his moderately constipated expression turned so angry that it was a test not to flee. Her mistreatment was not a charade, nor was it particularly dire. Above most women, she had the resources to leave Howgrave. What she refused to do was leave him without reimbursement for her time, and most certainly, her use as a whipping post. She wanted Howgrave’s money, his home, his dignity. She wanted to exact revenge and she knew just how to get it. Mr. Darcy was one step ahead of her. Regrettably for her, it was down the wrong path.

His ire barely in check, he said, “Under that presumption, I have this day spoken to my solicitor. Should you desire that course of action, I have charged him with taking those measures necessary to see that you are spirited out of England. All that is required is your silence.”

Darcy was not one to preen, but he seemed pleased with his efficiency. It would take a great deal of tact to convince him that his diligence was not to be obliged. Her tone was delicate, her accent more distinct.

“
Oui, mon cheri
,
Merci, merci
! How can I ever thank you!” she gushed.

Before he could bestow assurances that no bother attended his actions (as gentlemen are required to offer), she placed a forefinger against his lips. He stopped speaking directly. It was quite obvious that Mr. Darcy was unused to being shushed.

“My husband has long suspected that I might leave him. This last souvenir,” she touched her cheek, “convinced me I dare not try escape.”

“He threatened your life?”

“
Non, à vrai dire,
he implied a far worse fate.”

Her hands trembled, her chin quivered. A tear stung the corner of her eye, but she daubed it away with her middle finger.

“
Mon cheri
, Darcy, I do not think I can bear it. His threats were vulgar,
tres vulgaire.”

“If you do not choose to make away, what can be done?”

Her indecision tried his patience, this she knew. He had little time for what some might believe to be a womanly weakness.

“I have but one avenue for escape,” she said urgently. “It is why I came to you
en secret
. I have signed a marital agreement with my husband. I cannot leave the marriage unless I give him a son.”

“As repellent as that might be for you, I see no other recourse....”

“He is
impuissant
—impotent.”

Pulling at his cuffs, Darcy first frowned and then replied, “A conundrum....”

“He can become impassioned only through delivering the whip,” With a great shuddering sigh, she said, “I have no more of that to give.”

Although it was too dim to see it, she knew Darcy’s colour had deepened. Time was at hand for her to put forth her request. In preparation, she flung herself against his chest.

With all due urgency, she repeated, “I have no more to give! I must have a child to end it. I need you! I need you to father my child.”

His reply was, in its way, quite succinct.

“Whot?”

Chapter 68

The Course of True Love

Darcy had not actually said, “I surrender,” to his wife, but it was implied as he fell to one knee before her.

He made no avowals, no utterances of any kind. How ungovernable his desire was implied in all that followed.

———

That he had not, in fact, fallen prostrate before her, he attributed to his stern self-control (and admittedly, a bit of sheer luck). In a failed attempt to compose himself, he struggled to his feet, placed one hand upon his waist and cleared his throat. He saw her toss the crop aside, but was still too discombobulated to realise or appreciate that she had. Indeed, he was not altogether certain what had come to pass.

As he was much in want of composure, it would not have been to his advantage to allow his gaze to linger upon her naked figure, but he did. Her hair was loose. One long tress fell from her shoulder and, with unstudied grace, circled her breast. With every breath she took (her respirations were deep and many), the one curl promised him untold raptures. Indeed, he stood before her overtaken by unblinking lust. So piercing was his gaze and so obvious his desire, she lowered her eyes under the scrutiny.

When she did return his gaze, he had lowered his chin and began taking slow measured steps in her direction. His was a formidably ardent démarche, but she held her ground. As she was intent on not fleeing, she was quite unwitting that he had begun to shed his coat and waistcoat as he crossed the floor. As thither he came, her early brazenness began to wane. By the time he reached her, she raised a trembling hand as if to fend off the indocile love she had just so unabashedly provoked.

Slowly, he took her hand in his, and placed it against his heart. When he did, their spreading fingers intertwined. Her soul, so injured by loss, surrendered to the incontrovertibility of his love. She did not speak. Her expression went limpid with adoration and abandon. It said all.

Her most fervent desire was to be kissed, but to her great mortification, she began to babble, explaining her scandalous behaviour.

“I feared you might need encouragement for I have given you good cause to doubt me....”

His fingers lightly caressed her ribs then slipped around to her spine, quieting her. She did not alter her position, but beneath his hand her very being emitted a frisson of ignited hunger.

“Whatever you want of me, Lizzy, I am here.”

Now that he was there, it was not the time to remind him that of late he had not been.

Wrapping herself in his arms, she bid him only to embrace her. He was not content with that. Hence, with tender purposefulness, he swept her up and betook her and her boots onto the bed. Her passion renewed, she fell back in naked recumbence onto the counterpane. Coquettishly, she pointed a toe of one boot towards her husband. He obliged her by catching the heel of her boot and sliding it from her foot. Whilst he did the same from the other, she teased the front of his shirt with her bare toes until he snared them and playfully pretended to bite them.

“I now understand your admiration for my boots. My mind on the subject has certainly altered....”

As he cast her other boot aside, she continued to trail her toes down his body.

She replied, “Whereas you so seldom err, I take no delight in correcting you. But on this point, I must.”

Her toes tickling the front of his breeches, she said, “My fetish is not for your boots. My interest is with the man who wears those boots.”

She rose to her knees and whispered into his ear, “I admire how his knees rise from them, sinewy thews surging upwards....”

As her hand slid to his leg, she continued to whisper, but more urgently, “Impenetrable trees, crowned by a stanchion of such measure....”

Never, in all his recollections, had she been so explicit. There was a sudden disinterest in nuzzling and languid strokes. He clasped her thigh, tossed her upon her back, and allowed her to lay there unmolested by thought or deed for the better part of five seconds.

When he lay the flat of his hand against her abdomen, it trembled.

He whispered, “How many ways can I please you?”

With a specific flick of her eyes, a laughing struggle to release his manhood did ensue—that mirth only to be quelled once it was.

Darcy placed one hand against her face, the other gripped her hip. She gasped.

Lost in the sweet cleave of her flesh, a line of perspiration paraded down his breast bone. He reached shuddering conclusion far too quickly.

Spent, but unsated, he rolled onto his back and emitted a small groan of chagrin.

His wife’s hair, her breath, her hips bid him. Turning to her, his hands searched her face, her ears, shoulders, the valleys and the knolls, as if a blind man learning a stranger’s identity. Her every feature had long been cast in his mind. He pressed his lips against her neck.

No longer a bridegroom, yet still able to arise to engorgement and achievement unstintingly, Mr. Darcy was yet infused with considerable manly vigour.

Her legs claimed his waist, his hand cupped her buttocks. Undulations, slow and seductive, assuring, reminding, ever encouraging, were enjoyed for the better part of an hour.

Their reward was an afternoon of satisfied slumber in the other’s arms.

Chapter 69

The Gift

When Darcy awoke, the sun was low. Looking upon his wife, he noticed a dampened strand of hair had stuck to her cheek. With delicate care, he tucked it behind her ear. Directly he drew a bed-cloth above her shoulder lest she catch a chill. He looked upon her lovingly and fancied that the smile on her face was in appreciation of their afternoon’s amour.

What had begun as a rather lusty prank (suffused with sufficient quantities of unattended passion and suppressed affection) did erupt into passion as fervent as any new love.

It would be understood then why Mr. Darcy left his wife’s bed with great reluctance. However, the recollection of a rider come fast upon their door just prior to their extended encounter, bid him do so.

That decision was reinforced when he saw that Mr. Howard himself stood waiting at the base of the staircase. He did not speak until Mr. Darcy’s boots reached the bottom step.

“A rider bearing a package has arrived from London. It was to be delivered to your hands alone, sir.” Howard added, “The man said that he was expected.”

Mr. Darcy nodded.

He met with the man directly. After the courier took his leave, Darcy emerged from his library. In his right hand, he held a package. No one spoke of the visit, at least not openly. He sent for Hannah.

When Hannah curtsied before him, he said, “When Mrs. Darcy awakes, I would like to speak with her.”

It was not Mr. Darcy’s habit to make a formal request to speak to his wife.