Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (9 page)

Yes, he could do it several times more than once, and with no little vigour. Light was barely filtering into the room, but Elizabeth was awake and contemplating that new understanding.

One might reason, considering the sumptuousness of the accommodations, her first observations when she awoke in the Darcys’ palatial townhouse would have been of the furnishings (opulent), the wall coverings (lavish), the paintings (extraordinary), or the appointments (exquisite). But, by virtue that opposite her in the silk-sheeted bed reposed the handsome figure of Mr. Darcy, it would be understood if no competition existed.

Gaze she did upon her new husband, but from across the distance of a pillow. It was a test to keep from cuddling herself against him. His respiration was deep and peaceful. She dared not trespass on his sleep, for she knew surely he must be quite bedone by his endeavours. And as his thoroughly enthusiastic compatriot in amorous congress, Elizabeth supposed she should be weary as well. But as he was the verb of this act of love and she, the direct object, his flagging strength could be excused.

So robust (and extensive) had been their lovemaking, she had neither the time nor the inclination to analyse it at its coronation. Now fully explored and unconditionally admired, there seemed little left to ponder. What had been kept scrupulously arcane from her unwed sensibilities only the day before was a secret no more. Yesterday a maiden, today a wife.

With another look at her husband still somnolent, a deep sigh escaped her. Then, with covers clutched protectively against her own naked bosom, she carefully lifted the edge of the sheet.

She sighed once more. For there before her was the glory of her husband’s body, revealed as such by the increasing daylight. The glimpse she had caught the night before had been astounding. But the light had been dim and she had not had time to savour it beyond taking profound notice of what was most incongruously obvious. Now that sleep finally cooled his pride, she could fully appreciate the breadth of his shoulders and the long, muscular leanness of his body. Her gaze, however, soon returned to his netherlands, for she was happy to have the opportunity to inspect them in covert leisure.

As she looked upon him, she pondered the only mysteries remaining. Firstly was the puzzlement of just where her own body found room to accommodate his member (for the answer to this, she would eventually make an awkward inspection of her person), and secondly (and even more curious), was the enigma of his true self.

His unpredictable and expeditious fluctuation from apparent immovable solemnity to volatile passion had left her shaking her head with wonder. Without a word, he had abandoned her for Pemberley a week before their wedding, then very nearly leapt upon her at Netherfield. Nary a word of love all the way to London, then he bestowed upon her a night of fervoured amour atop a bed of rose petals he had scattered there himself. She felt dizzy at the contemplation. But only fleetingly.

He stirred. Thereupon, he opened his eyes. This, before she had the presence of mind to drop the sheet beneath which she was peering blatantly at his naked body.

“Lizzy?” he said sleepily.

Either in lack of taking notice or of caring, she knew not which, he made no indication he was aware that she was eyeing his privates. She was happy for him to overlook such shamelessness and nestled impenitently against him. As he kissed her betwixt the shoulders, to her dismay she realised that her body was seeping again. Her cup, evidently, runneth over.

Her dignity was not yet mended from him so unceremoniously wiping his comings from betwixt her legs. The affront to her person (not to mention the abuse of a fine silk sheet) would have been addressed rather curtly had she not reasoned with such dispatch that his ardour was far too compromised for reproof. In fortune, for the repetition of conjugal acts and his subsequent edulcoration persuaded her that, in truth, it was not a grievance, but a courtesy. This enlightenment provided her understanding that if the first stains upon the bedclothes had been coloured by her blood, the besoiled sheets and untidiness of the entire venture generally fell to his secretions, not hers.

They were his, and her insides could discern the shuddering moment he cast them. That memory alone allowed her not to be affronted at the mess. Howbeit his fevered lovemaking had not yet yielded Elizabeth a sublimity comparable to his, she had not felt slighted. When she felt him pulsate into her, his ne plus ultra was hers. A slightly strangled sough escaped the back of her throat at the thought.

He brushed her hair back from her neck and nuzzled her there. His chin was scratchy. She laughed and put her hand upon his jaw, rubbing it. Odd, she thought, to see the fastidious Mr. Darcy with tousled hair and the shadow of a beard. Odd but not unwelcome. Dishevelment favoured him.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that it was probable she did not look quite as fetching as did he. Belatedly, she realised her time might have been better employed making herself presentable to her bridegroom than ogling his body.

Fully awake, he was eyeing her with silent intensity. Hence, ever more fervently, she wished that she had at least seen to her hair and located her gown. She believed she felt it by her toes beneath the covers, but dared not dive under the quilt after it just then. Pulling the bedclothes beneath her chin, she felt for it desperately with her foot. For her own nakedness had not embarrassed her in the darkness. The harsh light of morn and the unfamiliar, formal splendour of her surroundings coupled to invite severe misgivings of decorum. Even had he not stared at her so keenly.

But this close scrutiny, clearly, was not in censure, for he bid, “Pray, do you give me leave to look upon you?”

A formal request to examine her aspect. The politeness of which made her feel even guiltier about her own covert inspection of him. Intent as she was upon self--condemnation, she did not realise that he did not wait for her to acquiesce before he drew the covers from her.

Upon her unexpected baring to morning daylight and under his open gaze, she crimsoned. It was quite probable her entire being coloured. And that which could not blush, contracted. Owing to the fact that the two puckered components of her figure were that upon which he bestowed his attention, he took direct notice. However, he mistook the nature of their conversion.

“This room is far too cold.”

He drew her close, bundling her in the covers. And then, before she could protest, he reached for and yanked an elabourate, tasselled pull-cord.

Before its tassel quit dancing about, two bellows-laden maids appeared to restore the fire. Their arrival precipitated Elizabeth’s burrowing deep within the bedclothes. Her sensibilities demanded it. For to have servants wholly unknown to her witness her abed, compleatly stark-naked and with a man, was unconditionally mortifying. Even if the gentleman in her bed was her husband.

After much trampling about and the sound of the door closing, she whispered, “Pray, have they taken leave?”

He adopted a stage whisper to reply, “Yes, they have gone.”

She peered out from beneath the counterpane and witnessed the manner in which he had greeted his servitors.

Covered only to the waist, her husband was propped upon his pillow, casually resting his head back against his steepled fingers. It would be obvious to anyone who might have dared to look that Mr. Darcy was quite without his nightshift, thus announcing Mrs. Darcy most likely in the same state of undress as she cowered beneath the covers.

Aghast that he would tease her in such a manner in front of the help, she exclaimed, “What cheek!”

“Pray, whatever do you mean, Mrs. Darcy?”

“You have left no ambiguity as to the nature of our…association!”

“I believe, Mrs. Darcy, they understood the nature of our ‘association’ before they entered the room.”

There was a pause. A resentful pause. But, ultimately she could not fault his reasoning. Everyone who was married knew what they were doing. Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that she now knew what every married person was doing (or at the very least had done) as well. Faces flashed through her mind. When one set of them was Mr. Collins and Charlotte, she decided she would ponder that universal truth another time. The imperceptible grimace her ruminations bestowed upon her she shrugged away, for her husband rejoined her deep within the folds of covers.

“I planned poorly, Lizzy. We must arise if we are to reach Pemberley before dark.”

Clearly, an admission of a misjudgement came with some cost to his dignity. Hence, she nodded a little hesitantly, hoping he understood her affirmation was of understanding the need for haste, not that she agreed he had erred.

The stop at London had been an ideal compromise of time. It had been his plan to arrive at Pemberley the day after their wedding by mid-afternoon. Then, she would see it at its best. But his finely detailed agenda did not incorporate langourous loungings and supine delights. All his scheming went for naught. They would have to away soon. It was a hurry neither wanted.

Inevitably, thoughts strayed from their imminent travel, for he rediscovered her bashful bosom right where he last saw it, his lips endeavouring to beckon them from their shyness by means of affection.

Lying back, she revelled in the pleasure he bestowed.

“Must we?” she asked.

Utterly lost in the bounty of her body, he had forgotten what he had just said not moments before. He rose from her, unsuccessfully masking an expression of extreme injury.

“No, we do not,” he said. “I am a beast to be at you so much. Forgive me.”

Very nearly laughing at such a colossal misapprehension, she said, “I meant ‘Must we leave?’ I could stay here with you like this forever.”

It was discovered then, that a man of sufficiently warm blood could, even under the disadvantaged impairment of four previous accommodations, re-achieve a penis in erectus of considerable magnitude. In light of foregoing acceptance and resultant pleasure, the owner of this temporary priapism sought to explore just how abundantly his wife’s newly liberated pudendum femininus could receive it. Although she was willing (even eager), her nether-regions cried out. She kept her wailing womanhood silent until, in the final throes of release, he thrust even more fiercely, quite insensible that her ultimate confines had been reached. His moan at this apex was quite overwhelmed by hers.

Immediately, he drew her head to his chest, repeating, “This will not do. This will not do.”

Wretched was she. Not only for her suffering body, but that she had been certain the vexatious pain problem had been rectified by her deflowerment. It had not. And she was not strong enough to bear it, thereby exposing her body’s inadequacy to him.

“This will not do,” he had said.

Clearly, he was as appalled as was she by her body’s connubial inhospitality. Indubitably, he would demand the marriage be negated. It was a perfectly good reason. She could not perform her wifely duties, therefore she was unfit as a bride. The church would concur. He would be given an uncontested annulment. She would enter a nunnery in shame. There, she would pine away for him for the rest of her life. Her tombstone would read, “Her body was willing, but not fit.” He would marry again. To a lady whose body was as generous as the Meryton well. A woman who would bear him ten children, all sons. He would never think of her again. Oh, wretchedness.

Before she had found reason or even anger at fate, which would have been a truer reaction for her nature, she bitterly (and with a great deal of self-pity) announced her obvious shortcoming.

“I am stunted,” she proclaimed.

Still in heaving contrition atop her, he raised himself upon both elbows and inquired, “You are what?”

“I cannot accommodate you. I am obviously stunted.”

Still raised upon his elbows, breathing heavily, but blinking at her remark in non-comprehension, he could only repeat, “You are ‘stunted’?”

“Yes.”

Impatient that he did not follow her reasoning, she explained to her exceedingly satisfied husband thusly, “My body obviously cannot meet your needs. I thought it was only at first, but you see now, it is not. I am stunted and cannot perform satisfactorily as your wife.”

“Lizzy, that is absurd!”

“’Tis not absurd! You yourself said, ‘This will not do.’ Indeed, last night, you said again and again that I was too small.”

“I said you were small, meaning…” he searched for an explanation.

“Paltry,” she answered for him.

“No. I meant, small—diminutive—petite. Lush and tight.”

At that unprecedented explicitness, he well-nigh blushed.

Then, hastily, he continued, “It was a compliment, Lizzy, not a complaint. As for my saying ‘it will not do,’ I only meant it would not do for me to continue to hurt you. That is my failing, not yours. I must rein myself in, for you are not too small, I am…” He flailed about for a delicate way to put it. “…rather large.”

“Oh.”

This was an interesting turn of events. The entire conundrum was the fault of his body, not hers.

She bid, “Do you mean too large?”

“I mean to say, you are small, but not too small.”

“You mean to say, you are not large, but too large?”

“I am not all that large…” he made a frustrated little half-snort, obviously unhappy at the direction the conversation was taking, but that did not deter her curiosity.

“How large are you?”

“As you see.”

“Well, you must understand, sir, my frame of reference is somewhat limited. Would you not grant I have no true way to compare it?”

He almost smiled then reclaimed it, not wanting to encourage further discussion of the meritoriousness of his member. But he was tardy by half, leaving Elizabeth feeling saucy enough to inflict a tease.

“Are you large enough to incite gossip? Are you large enough to be put upon display in Piccadilly?”

By then thoroughly defensive, he said, “I said I was large, not a freak of nature.”

“I am just trying to get some idea of what sort of largeness we are dealing with here…”

“I should have just said I was not small.”