While her fiancé and father conversed, Lizzy retrieved her embroidery basket from the closet and the book Mr. Darcy had left sitting on the foyer table: A Tale of the Four Dervishes, translated into English some three years ago and sent to Darcy by his uncle, Dr. George Darcy, who knew the author, Mir Amman, from his time dwelling in Calcutta—another tidbit of fascinating information about her future husband and his family.
What remained a mystery was whether translated novels from foreign countries were his typical reading fare. Lizzy had paid scant attention to what Mr. Darcy read during their times together before they were engaged, but she was fairly sure the books she recalled in his hands had varied. Oddly, he had been carrying this book around for weeks. Noting the strip of ribbon marking his place, the page was near the beginning of the book, as it had been when she first saw the book sitting on a table at Netherfield shortly after his proposal.
Before she could puzzle through the possible explanations, it abruptly dawned on her that the ribbon doubling as a bookmark belonged to her. Stopping midstride, a sweet pressure tightened her chest and warm moisture welled in her eyes. She remembered the day vividly for several reasons, not merely because it was the day after his return from London.
That morning had dawned with blue skies and fair temperature, so the couples had decided on a picnic at Oakham Mount. Kitty and Mary were invited, as had been Matty Beller at Darcy’s behest. The afternoon had proceeded as one expected with a group of cheerful people enjoying the out-of-doors. At one point, well after eating, Mr. Bingley and Jane had set out for a stroll along the edge of the creek, while Mary and Matty had wandered in the opposite direction down the gentle slope to pick from the clusters of blooming wildflowers fighting the looming winter. Fifteen minutes passed before Kitty had abruptly sprang from the spread blanket to chase after the adventurous puppy. Other than glancing up and laughing at the scene of her sister being bested in the race, Lizzy had resumed reading aloud from a dreadfully written mystery novel serving to entertain.
Another ten or more minutes had ticked away before her awareness that they were utterly alone crept in and her reading trailed to a stuttering halt. A swift look had noted Mary and Matty so far down the hill as to be big dots. Jane and Bingley were almost as far away, sitting on a large rock facing the water. Kitty and the dog were nowhere to be seen. She had not needed to lift her gaze to know Mr. Darcy was acutely aware of their solitude. She had felt the intensity surrounding the space he occupied on the blanket. A slight shift of position and peek from the corner of her eye confirmed his familiar penetrating stare.
Heat had flooded her face, and she had been seized by a magnetic pull toward him, no amount of nervousness powerful enough to stop her. Never would she remember how they closed the space. She only remembered meeting his eyes, and then the caressing pressure of his mouth followed by an intense surge of delight pounding head to toe. She might have gasped, or maybe he did, but as rapidly as the kiss began, it had ended. That much she knew for sure.
“William,” she had whispered, eyes closed and mouth seeking.
“I love you, Elizabeth.” His raspy declaration had passed through lips so close they brushed delectably against hers. Yet rather than close that tragic gap, he had withdrawn further, the fingertips feathering across her jaw the only contact.
When she had finally gained the strength to open her eyes—minutes or hours later—he had been watching her with a soft smile and twinkling blue eyes, but no other sign of wild desire. For a moment, she had wanted to slap him! She knew he possessed phenomenal self-control and suspected he called upon this command in a multitude of situations, but did he have to employ his talent for restraint at the one time they were gifted a measure of privacy? Or worse yet, was kissing her so mundane that after a ten-second exchange, he was done?
He had given her no chance to ruminate upon those disturbing questions or blurt them—which may have been a benefit or detriment depending on the answer. Instead, she had been distracted by his playful tug on a green ribbon loosened from the intricate knots and bows on the right side of her bonnet.
“One tiny kiss and you literally unravel, Miss Elizabeth.” The shakiness of his voice had restored her sinking spirits somewhat. Then he had twined the narrow ribbon around his fingers, the strip detaching completely from the hat, and her swipes to grab it promptly became a game she was doomed to lose due to his considerably longer arms. Before either had tired of the diverting foolishness, Kitty returned and then shortly thereafter the others, ending any opportunity for privacy, with or without fiery kisses.
Only upon spying the green satin ribbon lying perfectly flat in between the pages of his book did Lizzy realize she had forgotten all about his sneaky possession of her token. Pressing the book to her chest, she inhaled deeply to calm the emotional flutters. That day was the last time he had kissed her, other than on the hand, and had been only the second kiss granted since his return from London. In every way, Mr. Darcy was a gentleman, expressing his devotion to her in dozens of ways, yet physically, he had grown more rigid and undemonstrative. It bothered her more than she had recognized until finding this ribbon.
Shaking her head, Lizzy headed back to the parlor. Her betrothed was a complicated man and, she firmly believed, one with powerful passions. In time, she would unravel him just as he had unraveled the ribbon from her bonnet—in time.
Mr. Darcy was sitting on the sofa corner as he typically did, the space beside him waiting for her. Jane and Mr. Bingley had retreated to the sofa closer to the fire and spoke in low tones. Kitty and the pup had disappeared who knew where. Aside from Mary’s continued efforts on the pianoforte, the rustle of her father turning pages in his book, and her mother chattering to everyone and no one at the same time, the cozy room was serene.
“Your book, sir. And a pillow.” She handed each to him and then settled onto the sofa, ensuring a good eight-inch gap between their bodies as her parents insisted upon.
“My thanks, Miss Elizabeth. I appreciate your remembrance of my quirk.”
Lizzy bent to retrieve her embroidery hoop from the basket by her feet, replying through her laughter, “If wanting a pillow on your lap to prop your book upon while reading is what you consider a quirk, Mr. Darcy, I shall have little trouble performing my wifely duties.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
Sitting back, she turned toward him. Unsure why he had choked on his words or was looking at her with an oddly twisted expression, she flashed a bright smile. “Mama has been educating Jane and I on the scope of our domestic responsibilities as proper wives, you see.”
“Oh. I see. Dare I ask what wisdom Mrs. Bennet has passed along?”
“Let me think.” Lizzy tapped one finger on her lip, feigning serious thought. “A wife never takes a bite of food until her husband does first. A wife stays at the table until her husband rises. A wife listens attentively to every word her husband says and never interrupts or argues. I may well fail at that one, I should warn you.”
“Duly noted. What else?”
Now he was relaxing, the warm smile and tender gaze she adored growing pronounced as she ticked off more nonsensical advice from Mrs. Bennet. “And of prime importance is the fact that a wife should never pester her husband with asking after his needs, or quirks as you dubbed them. She should observe keenly to learn how best to service him and then act in anticipation.”
“That is quite an extensive list. You have taken all of this to heart?”
“I am trying,” she moaned, sighing dramatically. “Some of these requirements may well take me years, if not decades, to master. Thankfully, I am marrying a man with extraordinary patience who, as he has assured me, demands nothing more challenging than a pillow to prop his book upon. There may be hope for me at this rate after all!”
In the subsequent hour, they spoke occasionally but mostly remained silent as they attended to their tasks. Or at least Lizzy attempted to embroider. In truth, she muddled through the stitches, her consci
ousness focused almost exclusively on William. The space separating them crackled as if alive, Lizzy swearing she could feel his breath on her neck when he exhaled. He radiated heat, the warmth of his body flowing into her skin and carrying the fragrance of his cologne to her nose. Cardamom and a woodsy spice, vaguely pine but sweeter, mixed with a musky aroma she could not identify. Perhaps it was his natural scent, she thought, a masculine essence unique to him. Whatever the blend, Lizzy longed to bury her face against his flesh and inhale until her lungs filled to capacity.
The vivid image was startling, and for the third time in the past ten minutes, she pricked her finger with the needle. Pain was instantly forgotten, however, when William rubbed one long-fingered, elegant hand along his thigh. Riveted, she watch the muscle tightly sheathed by a layer of fabric harden as he shifted his sitting position and stretched his legs out a bit further. Lifting her eyes slightly, she watched his other hand as he raised the glass of brandy to his parted lips. The tip of his tongue touched the rim, he swallowed a sip, and then the glass was lowered, leaving a glistening sheen of liquor on his lip.
For a crazed heartbeat or two, Lizzy truly thought she would die if unable to lick the residual brandy off his lips. That insanity was followed by a deluge of shivers and a stab of what felt bizarrely like jealousy at the glass itself. Madness!
“Mr. Darcy, the book you are reading, is it an interesting one?”
Where that came from, she had no idea. Clearly he was as surprised, judging by how he jerked, stared at her for ten seconds, and then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth. What did you say?”
“I asked if the book you are reading is interesting.”
“Oh! Yes. Quite interesting.”
His vague tone and confused frown brought a smile to her lips. “Do you think it would be of interest to me? You know how I enjoy reading. Improves the mind, you understand.”
“Yes, it does,” he agreed, chuckling.
“So, then you believe I may glean value from reading the book your uncle sent? When you are finished, naturally.”
“If you wish, Miss Elizabeth. I would be delighted to lend it to you.”
“I assume it must be a particularly fascinating story. Or possibly it may be too deep for my young mind to comprehend?” Smoothing her face to as vacuous an expression as she could fabricate, Lizzy noted the confused furrow returned to his brow. The fun of teasing him helped dispel the strange, libidinous musings from moments ago.
“I am positive your mind is adept enough to comprehend any topic.”
“I was concerned, you see, as it has taken you more than an hour to study this one page. In point of fact, you have been reading this book for the past two weeks and are only on page fifteen. I can only speculate, but considering how intelligent you are, the only feasible conclusion is that the story is so extraordinary you are rereading each paragraph several times for sheer pleasure. Or it is necessary to do so in order to decipher the author’s intent?”
“You have caught me, my dear.” Closing the book, he leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice. “The truth is, if you must know, I find myself terribly unfocused whenever I am near you. I am on page fifteen, yet am unable to render an accounting of the content thus far. Does this shock you, Elizabeth?”
Fixed on his dancing eyes, a tingle of delight spiraled about her heart. Smiling, she held up the embroidery hoop. “You see this sampler?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I have been working on this for a month and should have completed it in a week. These stitches here are all wrong, and I have had to rip this section out three times! I have lost count how often I have stabbed my fingers. I judge you and I are suffering from the same disease.”
Never averting his penetrating gaze, he enveloped her free hand, squeezed gently, and then raised her fingers to his lips. His eyes were captivating, Lizzy breathless as the crystalline blue orbs darkened slightly in what she now recognized was ardor. Pressing her folded knuckles onto the same lush lips she so recently wanted to suck brandy off of, he said, “I am very pleased to hear you say that, Elizabeth. You have no idea how pleased.”
His muted, husky timbre imbued with emotion sent a fresh cascade of tingles and shivers throughout her body. Look away from his eyes, Lizzy! Not that she was listening to rational advice at the present.
“Are you pleased, Mr. Darcy, that I have pricked my fingers?”
“I am William to you, and my mother used to kiss my wounds to make them better. Should I kiss your aching fingers? Will that relieve your pain?”
Without waiting for her permission—as if she would have refused a kiss from him—he separated each finger and unhurriedly engulfed each tip between his soft, warm lips. Mesmerized, she glanced back and forth from his eyes and lips. Time seemed to halt and simultaneously crawl on toward the inevitable kiss to her pinkie. Then what would happen? Would he begin again? Or treat her right hand to the same therapy? Perhaps she should fib and say she pricked her lips a time or two.
Mr. Bennet’s not-so-subtle cough effectively interrupted the enchanted interlude. Fortunately, her pinkie was not left out of William’s pain-relieving tactic, Lizzy then managing to draw her hand from his grasp and release a quivering exhale. Surprisingly, Mr. Darcy appeared unperturbed by her father catching him in the act of an intimate liberty. In fact, his grin was downright smug!
Picking up her embroidery, more for the desperate need to have something else to focus on beside his handsome face and full mouth she still ached to taste, Lizzy jabbed the needle through a random hole. Searching her numbed mind for a safe topic, she abruptly recalled a piece of information she had forgotten to mention.
“I received a letter from Georgiana today.”
“Did you? That would be the third, yes? My sister seems to have forgone writing to me these past weeks in favor of writing to you.”
“Oh! I am sorry, William! I have no wish to keep her from writing to you.”
Darcy laughed and squeezed the hand she had unconsciously laid on his forearm. “I am joking, Elizabeth. You know how pleased I am that you and Georgiana are friends. What did my sister have to say this time?”
“Nothing of consequence. Female chatter.”
As anticipated, he merely nodded at that. Who knew what men encompassed under the female chatter generality, but inevitably it rendered them mute. Probably out of fear that if questioned, even politely, the female would babble on about cosmetics or bonnet sewing or some other equally dull subject. Worse yet, they might launch into a maudlin tale, real or fictional, with syrupy sentiments tossed about and, God forbid, actual tears!
In this case, Darcy’s wise silence served Lizzy’s purpose because among her enthusiasm for their scheduled meeting in London, Georgiana had revealed a fact Lizzy had embarrassingly not thought to ask about earlier. That is that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s twenty-ninth birthday was on November the tenth, just two weeks away.
* * *
“Can I ask you a personal question, Jane?”
Jane’s hands paused mid-twist with Lizzy’s hair half-plaited. Glancing upward, Jane met Lizzy’s serious reflection in the mirror. “Of course you can. Does this have to do with why you are quiet tonight?”
Hesitating a second more, Lizzy tried to place her thoughts into words that would not embarrass her shy sister unduly. “You needn’t reveal too much, but when Mr. Bingley is showing his affection for you”—Jane flushed and focused on completing Lizzy’s braid as if an onerous task—“how do you feel? I mean, not so much how you feel in response to his affectionate gestures. Rather, do you feel he…enjoys the moment? Perhaps even wants more? Or…oh bother!”
Jane finished the braid, neither saying more for several minutes. Lizzy detected the unusual awkwardness heavy on the air, yet also sensed that Jane wanted to pursue the topic but needed to prepare herself. Sure enough, once her long plait was tied at the end, Jane sat on the edge of the bed and inhaled deeply.
“I am not precisely sur
e what is troubling you, Lizzy, but I know I have my own moments of confusion with…that…part of our relationship.”
“Do you?” Lizzy jumped from the vanity stool and joined Jane on the bed. “How so?”
“It is the newness of such feelings I suppose. And the mystery yet involved.”
“Indeed, I agree it is the mystery.” Lizzy bobbed her head firmly. “I will never quite understand why it is believed that girls should be kept uninformed about such things. Why, if not for Mrs. Hill, I would have thought I was dying when I began my courses. Mama told us nothing, and even Mrs. Hill refused to explain why it was happening, only saying it was normal.”
“Thankfully for all us girls, you never accept the simple answer.” Jane smiled in remembrance.
Where Lizzy had unearthed the book with the short chapter on female reproduction she never revealed. Not trusting Lydia or Kitty, Lizzy kept the shelf of questionable books hidden in Sir William Lucas’s library a secret. She had stumbled across it years ago, insatiable curiosity overcoming caution or proper manners, but even after picking the lock, Lizzy rarely risked accessing the books. Nevertheless, she had learned more from Sir William’s bawdy books than anywhere else and borrowed the medical text for educational purposes. For one night only, the five of them pored over every word and illustration with a mixture of grimaces and giggles. One night of memorizing that one section was the closest they came to serious education on the subject—that and growing up on a farm, as Lizzy referred to next.
“I have a radical idea that women should be educated as men are. Should I scandalize William and tell him?” Laughing, Lizzy pulled her legs up and rested her chin atop her knees. “If not for seeing animals mate, none of us would have the vaguest idea what married people do. Frankly, I presumed the act was similar, in the sense of being a deed to be done not greatly different than breathing or eating.”