Love Then Begins (17 page)

His wife let her hand drop the carefully folded newspaper she had yet to do more than idly glance at and ruffled his hair again. “You are shameless.”

“I am merely being honest,” was his reply. “Besides, so were you at Clyne—quite delightfully shameless on occasion—and since that is all my fault for teaching you to be so, you shall be responsible for my honesty in turn.”

“You are so silly when you get to indulge yourself.”

“I am happy. That’s what this is. Happiness.”

She smiled at him. “So am I. Oh, what good fortune a terrible blizzard can bring sometimes!”

“Hm. I am missing my daily presentation of the fruits of meticulous estate management and you are missing your bookkeeping pupil.”

Invariably this thought led her to wonder how long they could stay like this. How long could they linger at Pemberley on the pretext of bookkeeping lessons and bad roads? She sighed. Of course, as long as Elizabeth needed her . . . but then she was interrupted by a warm hand travelling inside her clothes.

“For this morning anyway.” She giggled at his disappointed face but then she got up and stretched her arms over her head.

“I’ll be right back.”

He followed her half-naked form walking towards the dressing room.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“I haven’t needed help with what I’m about to do since I was three years old. You just stay there and I will be back presently.”

Baugham took up the discarded newspaper and idly skimmed the first page before he went back to watching for her return.

When she did come back, she stopped by the window and, carefully parting the drawn drapes, peeked out between them on the world outside. The draught from the window made her wrinkle her nose and draw the fabric closer to her naked body. She, who was used to bracing all kinds of weather was hiding in this warm, snug, sheltered lair with no inkling to leave it for anything resembling fresh air.

Just then she felt something envelop her from behind as a warm body pressed against her back.

“Look at that,” her ladyship said to her husband. “Isn’t it ghastly?”

He leaned his chin on her shoulder and joined in her observation. “Mmm. Very.”

For a moment they stood silently watching the grey landscape outside. The naked trees bent in the wind and the relentless sludge obscured the view down to the pond most effectively. The landscape blurred and the only sound was the howling and the rapping of wind and sleet.

“What a perfect excuse to extend our honeymoon,” she sighed.

“I agree,” he gently brushed her hair aside placed his lips in that little smooth hollow in her neck. “Therefore, it would be a sin to neglect to take full advantage of it, would it not?”

“It would.”

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses. She smiled.

“I love you, too,” she sighed and in response he tugged at her sash, loosening her gown and sliding it off her shoulders until it landed on the floor in a puddle of silk.

His hands slipped down her shoulders and moved over her hips, thighs and buttocks. Then they wandered forward and she felt herself being pressed forward by a strong chest and a pair of hands on her stomach supporting her. But the hands moved upwards again and met her breasts and instinctively she leaned her head back on the shoulder behind her and sighed. Softly, slowly, the hands measured the weight of her breasts and then moved to their sides. Fingers brushed over her nipples and she felt something stir in her stomach. Once again, that something only he had ever seen was called out of its hiding place deep within her by a mere touch. A very gentle touch. A very
good
touch.

As his fingers continued to play, she leaned forward again and pushed her bottom into him. His response was not entirely surprising. She felt him grow against her, still pressed so closely to her back, fitted against her from hip to hip, back to chest, lips to skin. What he was doing with his hands was wonderful. She let go of the drapes to give him more room. But the sensations his closeness to her back was producing were equally wonderful. She listened as their breathing quickened. She could not see him, only feel him and so she listened very closely.

Running his hands downwards over her hip bone, diving into the soft valley between thigh and covered mound, she gasped and made room for him. One finger dipped inside and slid back upwards again. She moaned. He shifted and she felt his own urgency. Another finger. A tongue on her neck. She reached behind her but still did not look. Her hand on his she guided him just as she wanted him. His other hand on her breast made her lose any purpose but one.

“Can you . . . ?” she asked thickly.

“Can I . . . ?” he asked simultaneously against her skin.

And he could. Deeply he entered, slowly and her vision blurred. Now the sleet was dancing in front of her closed eyes while the heat on her back went right into her, deeply . . . In the shelter of the cover but facing the world he whispered in her ear and she moaned her replies, both oblivious to anything else but another victory in sight so soon. So very soon.

Well Sheltered Garden

Thankfully, Holly reflected, Elizabeth was a quick study and had nearly caught up all the accounts. Thankfully, because as the days drew closer to the big event, more and longer interruptions occurred. The latest one that had her escaping back to her room was a prolonged presentation by Mrs Reynolds of the necessary furniture rearrangement in the main hall to accommodate the entertainment of the visiting masses.

With Elizabeth immersed in household affairs the entire afternoon, Holly was forced to occupy herself. After strolling around the great hall and several smaller public rooms, she began to feel rather bored. And neglected. Her husband had disappeared yet again, accompanying Mr Darcy on a tour to inspect the remote fences of the estate. It never ceased to amaze her the number of fences, ditches, walls, hedges, farmlands, riverbanks and the like that needed to be inspected on a seemingly endless rotation. She wondered if it was like that at Cumbermere as well, and she briefly wondered whether it would not be better for his lordship to be performing these duties on his own estate. This detour of theirs had been all very lovely, and yet, as much as she loved this time with Elizabeth, she was beginning to feel restless. As she watched her cousin learning her role and her place, the desire was growing within her to do the same, to be her own mistress. But then, his lordship
was
enjoying himself and they
had
promised to stay, and it was nearly the end of the month anyway. In the meantime, she was at loose ends and a long afternoon loomed ahead.

She decided to take advantage of her time alone by digging through her trunk for the bundle tucked away securely among her personal books and journals. Slowly unravelling the string, she unfolded the wrapping and pulled out the pile of unfinished sketches and half-tinted colour plates. Glancing quickly out the window, she saw nothing but white landscape—no sign of returning husbands—so she took out an incomplete drawing of the rocky outcroppings in the Cairngorm foothills. If she sat down and put her mind to it, she could be finished before he came back and he would never—

Instead, she stared at the drawing on the table and at the pencil in her hand uncertainly. Another glance toward the window, but even though she still saw only white, she abruptly shuffled the papers together and tied them up again. She hurriedly pushed them down into the trunk and tossed the pencil after it, slammed the lid down and then . . . she stood in an agitated posture, repeatedly smoothing the front of her skirts until her oddly trembling hands and rapid breath settled down. Shaking her head and turning her back on the trunk, Holly left the room again. A turn about the great hall would be nice, she thought as she clattered down the staircase; yes, activity was just what she needed.

The great hall, however, was bustling with activity and, with no sign of Elizabeth’s presence, Holly dared not enter lest she interfere with the ongoing work or furniture moving. After standing indecisively in the doorway long enough to begin to feel conspicuous to the busy staff, Holly decided to visit the conservatory instead—she had been wanting to take a closer look at the extraordinary potted orange trees since Elizabeth had first shown her and she was fairly certain she remembered the way.

All certainty had failed her when, half an hour later, she was looking down a corridor she swore she had left behind her not so long ago. The long row of closed doors was identical to every other long row of closed doors in the house—the wallpaper and portraits from one to another were indistinguishable. She was relieved to hear the sounds of footsteps and voices, but when she turned to ask for help in finding her way, she was surprised to come face to face, not with a footman or maid, but with Mr Darcy himself, accompanied by his steward. If he was equally surprised to see her, he did not show it, but graciously pointed the way to the conservatory before excusing himself to attend to some business.

After taking two steps in the direction indicated by the master of the house, Holly suddenly realised that she was no longer interested in orange trees. If Mr Darcy was in, so, presumably, was her husband. She whirled around and marched back toward more familiar parts. Perhaps if she was lucky, she would catch him as he was changing.

I
F
L
ADY
B
AUGHAM’S PRIDE IN
her work produced mixed feelings, Mrs Darcy’s latest triumph in mastering her duties and successfully struggling through a sheet of orders for household fabrics, managing to neatly transfer all the numbers, amounts, types and quantities into the correct columns and without smudging a single line, was complete. Added to that was her pride in having anticipated Mrs Reynolds’ suggestions for the great hall and even squeezing an admission out of the old housekeeper that it was worth placing a few benches along the walls for the old and infirm contrary to the usual practice and—last but certainly not least—the assurances from her dressmaker that Harding, Howell, & Co’s grand Fashionable Magazine on Pall Mall had delivered the furs, including the large bear muff, Mrs Darcy had so condescendingly bespoke and the matching hat together with the trimmed pelisse would be delivered next week by special courier.

Elizabeth smiled. A sense of deep satisfaction settled over her. Everything was falling into place and she would prevail. Everything was going to be better than fine. “I like being married,” she thought to herself and leaned back. “I like being married to Mr Darcy and I like being Mrs Darcy!”

Since it was unusual for her to feel such pride in her new life outside of her rambling walks around the park or in her private moments with her husband, Mrs Darcy took the moment to revel in it, sitting in front of her desk and watching the sun stream in through the windows on her ledgers, silently telling her cousin to be prepared to be amazed when next they sat down together again. So when she was told three men from Lambton requested to see her, her mood was generous, exuberant and ready for more triumphs.

“Oh, Mr Morris!” she greeted the innkeeper, who led the delegation hat firmly in hand and watched the men striving to adjust their heavy steps and dirty boots to be as unobtrusive as possible on the fine floors. “What an age it has been! And you are come all the way from Lambton, I see, to talk to me. I think I can guess why.”

Mr Morris looked surprised and freely showed it. He sent a glance to his companions as if they somehow were better equipped for meeting such enthusiastic reception. A change of spokesman and strategy was apparently needed, for his friend right behind him introduced himself as Mr Harris, the village clerk, and then quickly added that the third man, Mr Derek, being the shopkeeper as he was, could perhaps best explain their errand.

“Well, if you please Mr Derek,” Mrs Darcy said and graciously gestured to them to take a seat, which they accepted, still appearing rather puzzled. “But I maintain I know why you are here. Candlemas will be a great and joyful event for all of us and so I am glad to see you.”

“Tis very kind of you, ma’am, I’m sure,” Mr Derek said, daring to smile at her since he alone could claim to have a personal relationship with Mrs Darcy, albeit over such mundane things as ribbons, buttons and assorted sundries. “Na’then I am afraid we are being so bold as to approach you on the delicate matter of . . . ”

There was a pause and somehow Elizabeth got the feeling she more specifically should have known what was the topic at hand.

“Yes?” she said and tried to smile as gently as possible to encourage the delegation to candour.

“You must excuse me, you know, as this is my first Candlemas.”

“Quite,” said Mr Derek, but apparently he still did not mean to complete his sentence.

Mr Harris, being a young man and, apparently, a more impatient one as well, cleared his throat, gave his two fellows a meaningful eye and then directed his gaze steadily at Mrs Darcy’s hem.

“We are here on account of the mummers’ play.”

“Oh! A play!”

Mr Harris, apparently encouraged by her surprised and delighted tone, lifted his gaze a little higher and then decided it was safest after all to fix his eyes on Mrs Darcy’s chin.

“Yes, ma’am. That is, what we do every year. I play the Hero. Mr Derek is the Doctor.”