Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (66 page)

The coupling to which he found himself party had all the single-minded intensity of their tabletop savagery, but with the benefit of no glassware. Too, the additional advantage of a soft foundation should have suppositioned. But as their passion came to fruition on the floor upon the far side of the room (and halfway under a chiffonier), that luxury must be discounted.

Finally spent once again, they both lay there upon the floor in a quivering heap. It was a few minutes before he regained his breath enough to inquire (his wits not yet gifting his senses the information that his partner in love was exceedingly hardy) of the unlikely injury to Elizabeth’s health. Reasonably, but breathlessly, she assured him she was quite well, thank you.

Civilities rendered, they lay there for a few minutes more. He was unable to find any additional comment in his yet misfiring brain. Indeed, his senses had rendered no further contemplation than that the friction from the wool rug might issue a resultant rash upon his hindquarters. (He abhorred itching.)

In his silence, she reminded him, “You said you favour me coming to you.”

This prompting allowed him to re-enter the realm of the functioning mind. He agreed, indeed, yes he did.

Eventually, they made an attempt to quit the floor. But this initial effort was aborted when Darcy (perchance senses yet altered) slightly misaligned their position, reared his head and struck it forthwith upon the overhanging bureau. They lay there another fifteen minutes, before venturing upright. Upon the second, the unsteadiness of their legs suggested a duo of drunken sailors but managed, nonetheless, to deposit them atop the bed. There, limbs akimbo, they collapsed in slumber.

When she awoke, she found herself quite alone. It was unusual for him to rise before her under such circumstances, coitus most often rendering him more drained (literally) than she. Hence, she allowed herself to consider that perhaps she was not so strong as she had professed. Then, as the act that had incited her fatigue came to mind, a mischievous smile overspread her face.

Indeed, it was hard for her not to think of him without overt carnality just then.

For months, he had showered her with endless and tender attention. She had been so disquieted by recent events, she had been happy just to have that. Once it had been rediscovered, however, her passion was in high colour.

Lying in resplendent satisfaction, she could think of nothing but the man and his manhood. His manhood and its lather betwixt her legs. It was glorious to be totally witting of when he spent inside her. Not once had she thought of it an act of generation. Just one of shared pleasure. If repeated carnal infusions rendered her with child, so be it. She just wanted him near. And if in that closeness, he was inside her, all the better.

She had lounged about, mooning and musing, for the better part of an hour when she heard a whistle from outside. A very loud whistle, a skirl unlike any she had ever heard from the interior of Pemberley. Indeed, it came from outside and sounded exactly the same as the two-fingered whistle of someone calling a dog.

Holding curiosity only minutely less dear than venturing outside in the all-together, she grabbed the first item of clothing discernible in the mess of covers. Prancing to the double doors of the balcony, she peered out. Again, she heard the whistle.

Eagerness to uncover just who perpetrated such an intrusion beneath her room bade her to the stone railing and look down. Whereupon, she espied her husband upon Blackjack on the turf below. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out another shrill whistle. Her countenance accomplished the considerable feat of raising one eyebrow, dropping her jaw, and shaking her head concurrently.

Of all the many and diverse talents she knew he possessed, this was the most outrageous.

Only then did she realise he had Boots saddled for her to join him. They had not ridden since…before.

She rose upon her tiptoes to lean across the wide balustrade quite unwittingly revealing to him a bedazzling sight. It would have been her premise that she looked quite silly, be-robed in his oversized shirt and her hair an unkempt scandal. All that he saw was the sun glinting off a vision in white. One whose dark hair tousled and tumbled down her shoulder as if directing his attention to just how thin the gauze of his shirt was. The darkness of her hair and the shadow of her breasts contrasted against the brilliance of the shirt in the sun. All conspired to make the healthy glow she wore from a night of love-making even rosier.

From below, his eyes made the triangular trip down her hair, across her breasts and back to her face more than once. If he cleared his throat before he entreated her to join him, it could be understood.

“Come,” he beckoned hoarsely.

In answer, she put one bare leg over the rail as if she meant to jump down then and there. He put his hands over his face in feigned mortification. Thereupon, forsaking that tease, he urged Blackjack and Boots up the incline directly beneath the low balcony.

“Pray, would you dare do such a thing, Mrs. Darcy?”

A challenge such as that could not be ignored. So leap she did. He could just reach her outstretched arms and drew her onto Blackjack in front of him then over to Boots. Such was the nature of their ride that she threw one leg across Boots’ withers and sat astraddle.

In defence of such daring (though he truly did not look as if to protest), she said, “At this moment, I think my costume defies any attempt at propriety. Would you not agree?”

Aiming Blackjack toward a crown of wood atop a small rise at the back of the house, their little party trailed to it. Thereupon they dismounted. In a small clearing at the crest of the hill, they sat, she betwixt his legs. Drawing her knees up to her breasts beneath his shirt she wore, she let it cover her legs and rested her fingers upon his knees. There, they crept beneath the tops of his boots.

She said, “I shall never rename my horse.”

He put his arms about her and rested his chin upon her shoulder.

“I know.”

This was how they sat as they looked across at the great house, the stream, the lake and beyond. Neither spoke for some time. It was never said in so many words, but both felt as if they had crossed some darkened, fiery land and had managed to come out alive, if only by each other’s help.

They were scarred, but unbowed.

G
eorgiana leapt from poetess to novelist with such ease, it was unbeknownst to her family. Thus, Elizabeth was taken quite unawares when she set a compleated manuscript in her lap. It was not a thin work. Moreover, the publication of a novel entailed a great deal more fuss and bother than sending verse to a magazine. For this weighty endeavour, Newton Hinchcliffe was contacted.

Having forsaken his own purple prose, he thenceforward sought loftier service as a scribe for a news publication (a vocation that did not improve his standing with Mr. Darcy). His writing inclinations bent more in the direction of the inflammatory, but his connexions were impeccable. And as the single common trait he shared with his aunt was the allurement of subterfuge of any kind, he hand-carried the manuscript to a publishing house of repute. Not seeking to borrow future bother (which was by that time well-nigh a mantra for Georgiana and Elizabeth when it came to putting certain matters before Darcy), the Darcy women reasoned it best to wait for it to be accepted before assaulting the will of the Master of Pemberley.

It was a toe-tapping time of wait for both of them. Georgiana awaited word from a publisher; Elizabeth, her body. For, although it had been more than two years since the loss of the baby, Elizabeth had not yet conceived again. She did not speak of it to her husband, for he produced worry lines yet betwixt his eyebrows upon any allusion to her begetting another baby. As each fallow month passed, however, so escalated her fear that the difficulty of the breech birth had somehow rendered her barren. The physician told her only time might tell, and time seemed to be telling her naught.

As close as she and her sister were, Jane knew Elizabeth fretted for her unfruitfulness and, as was her nature, worried excessively upon her behalf. When she became
enceinte
for the third time, Jane had been disinclined even to tell Elizabeth. That, of course, would be folly, for even if she could disguise her blossoming form, she could not conceal how many children she had. Elizabeth could count.

Jane was not moved to consider such an elabourate charade because she believed her sister to be envious. Coveting was a sin and, in Jane’s eyes, her dear sister Elizabeth was simply incapable of peccavi of any kind.

It was capricious nature to blame. It had bestowed an overabundance of fertility upon her (indeed, it seemed she and Charles only needed to breathe the same air for her to become with child) and cruelly slighted Elizabeth. Jane could find no way to share her good fortune with her sister save one. As she was twice, soon thrice,
successfully a mother, Jane reasoned that her method of confinement must be superior to Elizabeth’s. But loathe was she to speak of it. For Elizabeth had always remained peculiarly silent about the loss of her baby, this pattern having been instituted from the inception of their bereavement. Jane had respected her wishes. Nothing other than her sincerest concern would have moved Jane to broach that delicate subject to her.

She prayed upon the matter relentlessly. Finally, the decision was made. However difficult, Jane knew she could not shirk a responsibility. If it might benefit her dear sister, she would yield what wisdom she held. This decided, it was with some trepidation (and a wavering voice) that Jane embarked upon the conversation.

“Lizzy, do you suppose…I know you have your own mind about such things…but, do you suppose it was not best during your confinement to have…”

Jane’s vocabulary upon this subject was even more limited than most ladies of the day, hence she (resorting to the universally accepted euphemism) gave a wag of her head in place of the unknown verb, “…uh,‘been’ with your husband when you were with child?”

Jane sat hunched awkwardly, looking steadfastly at her knees, cheeks florid. It took her sister but a brief rumination before she understood what she meant.

Nonetheless, that is exactly what she asked Jane.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Even with the head waggle, both knew what she asked was not what Jane meant by “been with your husband,” but why it was not best.

“Well Lizzy, ’tis said that it is bad for the baby.”

“Too much jostling about?”

Elizabeth was highly amused that Jane should even bring up the subject, modest as she was about such matters.

“That,” Jane said, but added, “but it is said, if a woman’s insides are excited she might suffer a miscarriage.”

“If her insides are excited,” Elizabeth repeated. “But I did not miscarry, I was delivered of a dead child.”

Saying the words chased any humour from her.

“Yes. Owing to a fright,” Jane said.

Thereupon, sitting up very straight, Jane raised both eyebrows.

Elizabeth repeated these words too, if only to assure herself she was hearing correctly.

The physician had said that was why she had miscarried, owing to the fright of the “robbery.” But Jane did not know that and Elizabeth could not remember being frightened once during her second confinement. The tutored sat silently waiting for the tutoress to continue.