Longbourn to London (16 page)

She selected a cue stick and turned. “What next?”

“Come stand by me.” She did so. “Watch my stance, and mimic my grip on the stick. You are right-handed?”

She nodded.

“Good. Let your left hand guide the cue stick. Your right hand provides the power of the stroke. I have leaned over to sight the angle. When I see where I want to hit the cue ball, I pull back a few inches, and hit with as much force as I think is needed.”

“What about the next shot?” she asked, leaning slightly over him, as if to see what he was seeing. The movement caused her breasts to swell towards the neckline of her gown. She stood again without seeming aware of her effect on him. How he longed to cup those breasts in his hands.

He exhaled deeply. “Let us walk before we run, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I do have the unfortunate tendency to get ahead of myself.” She smiled.

Darcy backed up. “Now you.”

She leaned over, left hand resting in front of her on the green felt, right hand behind. She twisted her shoulders away from him, and it was then he realised that her hair was styled as it had been for the Netherfield ball— swept up and intricately woven with satin roses and ribbon—but three tempting ringlets hung down the back of her neck, dark…shiny…soft. She closed one eye to sight, and shot with rather too much force. The purple ball dropped percussively into the pocket, but the cue ball careened around the table so she and Darcy straightened quickly to avoid it.

“You do not know your own strength,” he said, barely above a murmur.

But she appeared delighted to have made her first attempt count. She watched the cue ball roll to a stop. No further shots were obvious. She turned to him, questioning with her eyes.

“You have the additional options of bouncing the cue ball off of the bank, as the edges of the table are called, or you may ricochet the cue ball into another solid colour ball to make a second one drop.”

“Ah,” she mused. “That does not sound easy.”

Darcy breathed in her scent of lavender, which was starting to fill the air. She moved down the table from him and leaned far over, looking for a new opportunity. As she did so, one foot came off the ground, the other leg bending at the knee to balance as she leaned on the table. She wore handsome little slippers with a slight heel, and pale pink stockings. Her ankles were slender and well turned.

This is why men do not play with women—they are too distracting! Do I watch her lovely ankles, or walk around the table to leer at her bosom? I wish I could be in two places at once!

“If we were competing,” Darcy explained, “and playing the simplest version of billiards, I would be pocketing the solid balls, and you would be hitting the striped ones. The player finishing first wins. As long as one keeps hitting the pockets, one keeps trying. Once one fails to hit the pocket, the turn proceeds to the opponent. Did I mention one must declare one’s intentions before each shot? In your turn, you would have said, ‘purple ball in the side pocket.’”

“Declaring one’s intentions? Fancy that: a game wherein gentlemen must constantly declare their intentions. Come then, Mr. Darcy, help me decide on my next move since I am helping you rather than competing.”

He moved to her side. “Singular for us, is it not?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes merry. “So it is!”

She stitched her lower lip with her upper teeth
.

“It looks to me, pray correct me if I misread what I am seeing, but the only shot is awkwardly situated. Is it allowed to partly sit on the table? I fear I must stretch over it.”

Darcy inhaled forcibly. He cleared his throat. “It is allowed. You may even lean on your elbow to steady yourself. Indeed, I do not see any other possibility. Short of climbing upon the table on all fours, one may do whatever one thinks necessary to reach the shot and sight it. The only thing not allowed is to move the balls that are at rest.”

He had moved behind her again. Infernal curls! She hitched a hip onto the table, stretching to keep the toes of her other foot solidly on the ground, her gown sliding up her lower leg. Her torso, leaning low over the flat surface, twisted to reveal a trim waist. The gown pulled tight, and he could detect no evidence of a corset.

Instinctively, and completely without heed, Darcy leaned over, put his hand on her waist, and crushed the three impertinent curls against the nape of her neck with his lips.

“Mr. Darcy!” She froze.

“Hang it, Elizabeth, you know your curls were meant to torture me!” He murmured with a caressing breath, not stopping his actions. “Did you not want every man in the room to be tempted when you were here for the ball?”

“No, sir, I had no such idea! Did I tempt even you?” She spoke in such low tones he was not sure he heard her correctly. She did not turn or move, but her breath quickened.

“By the end of our dance, I was angry with you, angry with Bingley, and angriest with myself. I wanted you then, and I want you now. I still love you.” He moved his hand around her waist and pulled her to him. She did not resist. He was kissing her neck, then her shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked down the front of her gown. Her breasts were just shy of exposing their nipples at the neckline. He moaned, and realised she had also.

One hand supported his weight on the table while the other slid over the swell of her hip. Her derriere was round and firm. Her thigh felt warm through the gown. He bunched her skirt in his fingers, raising it until the hem was in his hand. “Do you love me even a little, Elizabeth? Did my letter at Hunsford, or our meeting at Pemberley, change anything?”

Her naked derriere was before him, and he rubbed his growing erection against her, undone by desire. His forehead leaned against her shoulder, waiting to hear her answer or a shriek of disapproval.

He instead heard the thud of the heavy end of the cue stick dropping onto the felt. Her hand sought his, and held it. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, everything has changed.”

“Elizabeth…” He said it like a prayer. “Please say you will be my wife.”

“Indeed I must, sir. We must sanctify that which I hope and believe is about to take place.”

He chuckled, almost giddy, into her hair but stopped as her hand stroked his where it rested on her bare hip. To his utter astonishment, she gently raised his hand to her lips then placed it on her breast. She sighed with a shudder.

“Fitzwilliam, I fear I am more bold than a maiden should be.”

“I can find no fault with you.” He was enraptured by her use of his given name. He kissed her shoulder and followed each kiss of her tender skin with another until he reached the nape of her neck behind her ear. She was moaning softly.

She rolled her hips slightly, repeatedly touching his covered manhood with her bare skin.

“Oh, yes! Fitzwilliam!” she murmured.

***

Darcy awoke on his side, panting and slightly sweating. His did not wish to assuage himself. It took several minutes and more deep breathing to lessen the intensity of his tumescence. This was by far his most realistic dream of her; yet, when he could regulate himself, he chortled
. Imagine proposing to Elizabeth while grappling on a billiard table!
He wondered at the juxtaposition of details, and her wearing her ball gown. He knew a long ago, fleeting encounter at Netherfield summoned the dream.
But her hair? The ball gown?

Darcy considered. He had only danced with Elizabeth one time, and by the end of the half-hour set, they were barely able to remain civil. Yet she was a brilliant dancer and so refined. Darcy arose from his bed and went to the small desk in the room. He made two notes on a sheet of paper: “Ball gown—Jane?” followed by “Jewellers.” He walked to the hallway door where his night robe hung from a hook. His eyes easily led him through the dark to his study where he lit a candle, then went to his larger desk and, from a deep bottom drawer, drew out a wooden casket. He opened it with a key hidden in another drawer.

Much of his mother’s jewellery went to Georgiana, but there were a few pieces he imagined giving his future wife. He took the inner box covered in oxblood velvet and opened it. The first pouch contained a single strand of medium-sized, pale rose pearls. He smiled and set them aside, thinking
wedding night
. The next, smaller pouch contained a solitary emerald set in a gold band of figured leaves. He stared at it in wonder.
It could have been made for her
.
I wish I had remembered this weeks ago. When I return, I shall give it to her immediately.
He set it aside and opened another pouch, full of loose pearls. This he put into the pocket of the robe,
just the thing…
Another pouch held a much grander ring— a large diamond surrounded by smaller ones—his mother’s betrothal ring. This he returned to the box with a note
, change small diamonds for emeralds, give at Pemberley, July 21
. The day he and Elizabeth stumbled upon each other as if by magic loomed large in his memory, and would always mean more to him than even his wedding day. The last pouch contained a pair of gold hair combs, each with a row of bright emeralds along the spine. There were earrings to match.
This first Christmas
.

How did I know when I was six and twenty, when Georgiana and I sorted these, that all of them would be perfect for my Elizabeth?

***

The next morning, Darcy descended to the small dining parlour with a jaunty gait. His frock coat appeared lumpy, its pockets filled with small pouches.

After breakfast, his first of many calls would be to the jeweller, where older items could be inspected for soundness and others enhanced. In the night, a scheme had come to Darcy for an entertainment at Darcy house while they were in London on their honeymoon. It would require some complicated planning—a conspiracy, in truth— but the project would give him a focus for his thoughts while waiting for the marriage settlement to be finalised.

As Darcy served himself a cup of coffee, a footman entered with a salver of the morning’s post. He knew this would be the earliest possible arrival time for a letter from Hertfordshire, and was delighted to find one from Elizabeth on top of a blessedly small stack of business correspondence. He realised she must have written it shortly after his departure. He opened the letter, and upon reading the first sentence, sat down. By the end of the first paragraph, he was on his feet and aimed for his study, away from prying eyes.

Devouring the letter from beginning to end, his eyes then sought the more tender passages again and again: “…your merest touch has awakened in me such ardour— I am shocked to admit it…” “…The secret thrill I feel when you breathe on my neck.” “My preference, my dearest, is for you to touch me again as you did tonight…”

Darcy became light-headed and breathless, running his fingers over her signature, “Your adoring pupil…”
What are you willing to be taught, delightful pupil?
He was not surprised to find himself aroused, and growing more so. He considered opening his trouser fall and relieving himself of his current tension but feared soiling her letter, which he was not willing to set aside. Darcy drew in several deep breaths and tried to consider all she said in a reasonable way, but his own desire trumped any attempt at logic. He could only savour her revealing candour and dear innocence. Elizabeth was willing to write—and articulately, too—words she was unwilling to speak. He studied her handwriting. It was clear and full of charming curves.
Just like the lady who produced it.

Suddenly he was possessed by concern.
I must respond immediately! How she must feel, what anxiety, knowing she has written such a letter. She worries too much what I might think… I must let her know I cherish this evidence of her love and desire. The book!
Darcy leapt to his feet and ran calling for Mrs. Chawton, his hand still clutching Elizabeth’s letter.

His housekeeper came bustling from her workroom inside the passage to the kitchen stairs. “What is it, Mr. Darcy?” She was alive to the slightly frantic edge in his voice.

“Has the book been sent to Miss Bennet?”

“No, sir. I have just finished wrapping it and was about to send for a footman.”

“Thank goodness. Bring it to me first, please. Then we will send it express.”

Mrs. Chawton retrieved the book and gave it to Darcy. “I shall be back directly,” he said as he disappeared into his study.

17 November 1812
Darcy House, London

My dearest Elizabeth,

The first letter you have ever written me is in my hands. I have not set it down since opening it, as it is now my dearest possession. Your words have given me such happiness that I must respond immediately. I would not have you in any suspense over their delightful effect upon me.