Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (17 page)

Punctual by nature, Darcy demanded promptness from others and was unhappy for such a late start, knowing Rhymes had been cooling his heels for several hours. As Darcy rode along, he forsook his less than wholehearted sojourn into self-recrimination for his behindhand appearance. In its stead, he basked in a bit of vainglory. This because the wherefore of his own tardiness had yet to escape his mind’s occupation. Indeed, Elizabeth’s scent still wafted through his nostrils. He smiled as he thought of her in the bed that he left not an hour past.

It was a considerable relief finally to have checked his appetency long enough to gratify her passion. Under any other circumstances to be smug over such a miserly triumph would be quite ridiculous. In light of the fact it was lovely Elizabeth who held the reins of his galloping libido, he absolved himself of all censure.

In a lifetime of scrupulous attention to duty, he had never used his wealth in flagrant self-indulgence. However, he knew well that in a hired coach upon a public road, he would never have even entertained the notion of relishing his wife so thoroughly. Thinking upon that occasion, it struck him how very fortunate he was. For, if he did not hesitate to take Elizabeth into conjugal embrace in his carriage, one would suppose so new a wife might be taken aback, if not outright scandalised. It appeared the meeting of the minds he and Elizabeth had enjoyed as betrothed now blossomed into an ardent convergence of respective concupiscence.

Although their nuptial night had been incalculably rewarding, it bestowed upon him a serious caution.

At one time, he had been a veritable Sphinx when it came to professing admiration of a woman’s physical charms before, during, or after physical congress. It had been his position that it went without saying he found whatever lover he bechanced to be with desirable, else he would not have been there in the first place. That presumption upon occasion caused no little consternation, but it was an idiosyncrasy from which he refused to waver. It was trial enough to have his person open for inspection; he flatly refused to be quoted.

Marital rites with Elizabeth, however, were a different matter. The level of restraint with which he had engaged her to him led him to express his appreciation of her unparalleled pulchritude with reckless abandon. He had ceded her his love unconditionally, hence he had little compunction about telling her that. However, unless he intended to divulge his past dalliances to her as well, he realised he was going to have
to censor his tongue at least in the comparative. Her lips may have been the softest he had kissed, her skin the silkiest he had stroked, and her body the most voluptuous he had ever beheld, but he dared not say it.

The misunderstanding he invited when rapturing about Elizabeth’s snug womanhood was a provident warning. She could very well have entertained the enquiry as to how he came to harbour an opinion about feminine apertures at all. It would take some discipline to tell her what he longed to share without exposing what he did not.

Not only had he need of expurgating his pillow talk, he feared that if he did not dampen his ardour for her in some manner, she was likely to flee the marriage to have any peace at all. Indeed, his legs felt a little shaky as he swung onto his horse just then, for he had not gone longer than six hours without possessing her since their wedding.

Surely, time and familiarity would soothe his blood; but as for then, every time they consecrated capital union, it only intensified his desire for her. He needed only picture her face in his mind, think of her soft breath against his ear (or, heaven help him, think of her sweet, pink, tufted demesnes) to be overcome with the need to take her once again. Thinking of her receiving him thusly, it was all he could do not to turn his horse about and find her (for he discovered with dispatch that riding his horse in a state of arousal was distressingly uncomfortable).

He was startled from these most intimate of thoughts by his overseer Charles Rhymes’ greeting.

“Good day sir, Aye hope Mrs. Darcy is well.”

Unnerved by hearing Elizabeth’s name spoken aloud concurrent with such a deeply provocative contemplation of her as he was in, he cleared his throat.

Then, quite mildly, he said, “Yes, she is quite well.”

Gathering his wits, Mr. Darcy hastily changed the subject from Mr. Darcy’s connubial bliss, to Mr. Darcy’s sheep.

“How does the lambing fare?”

“Only middlin’,” Rhymes answered. “The ewes are droppin’ ’em fine, but the swains can’t seem to keep up with them. We need a good hunt.”

That was Rhymes’ subtle way of reminding Darcy of the length of his away. Darcy said they would have to remedy that, but did not say when. Hunts were weekly at neighbouring Pennyswope. Lady Millhouse would have had them daily would there be enough fox. As it was, their constant pursuit caused those upon her property to veer onto Pemberley. Of course this did not stop the chase, but the farther away the foxes ran, the less the likelihood of them being found. Thus, it yielded a plenitude of vermin upon Pemberley and the resultant havoc to the lambing.

One of the first matters of business that forenoon was to ride to the village of Kympton. As tradition dictated, Darcy had given instruction for the inn to provide food and spirits the day of his and Elizabeth’s arrival for anyone who chose to share in the celebration of his marriage. Everyone in the county not infirm or immobile had answered the invitation.

When he and Rhymes arrived at the Fox and Hogget, the stench of stale beer still in the cups and disgorged upon the floor was overpowering. Darcy noticed there were still a few overindulgers lying about, one atop a table, and two (proving the euphemism) being literally beneath it.

Rhymes grumbled, “The sun’s still gone over the yardarm for those sots.”

It was half-past noon, but there were few signs of restoring the establishment after what appeared to be quite a fine time the night before. The pub-keeper’s wife and a barmaid were making little progress in rousting the remaining victims of barley fever. The publican, a penurious man with the apt appellation of Phinehas Turnpenny, sat with two other hoary-eyed men, all three drinking their midday meal at the far end of the single large room.

When Darcy entered, those men who were conscious hastily rose. Turnpenny nervously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he eyed Mr. Darcy’s approach. It was exceedingly unusual for a member of the Darcy family to come into town, and entering his establishment was unprecedented. It was understood the importance of the occasion would be the only reason Mr. Darcy would present himself to make remuneration.

Mr. Rhymes held the purse for Mr. Darcy and at his instruction gave Turnpenny two extra sovereigns for his trouble. The missus wasted no time in wresting the gold pieces from her husband, dropping them down her considerable cleavage.

Dispersal accomplished, Darcy made to quit the inn, but as he and Rhymes took their leave, the fellow felled by drink reposing atop the table coincidentally found God and sobriety.

Suddenly sitting bolt upright, he announced both by choking out a “Gads me life!”

Quite familiar with the workings of the intestines of men drawn to drink, Mrs. Turnpenny waved the broom whose handle had prodded him conscious, and hollered.

“Shoot that cat outside!”

In the face of certain mean retribution under the hand of a woman who knew how to exact it, the man struggled to his feet and staggered for the door. In no mind or time to excuse himself, he jostled Darcy and Rhymes aside to heave upon the threshold. This was to their advantage, for neither wanted to leave with the over-imbiber retching upon their heels.

The hacking, yorking, and gagging were interminable and blocked the doorway. In their wait, and not wanting to inflict his sensibility with watching the retching man heave Jonah in addition to the insult of listening to him, Darcy looked first at the ceiling and then to the floor. Thereupon, he began an unforebearing tap of his boot. He could not help but notice that the innkeeper and his compatriots-in-ale moved nervously about during this hiatus. One man stared at the wall behind Darcy before the innkeeper jabbed him decidedly with his elbow, eliciting a harsh “uh” from the man who then looked down at the floor.

It was not in Darcy’s nature to find curiousity upon the instruction of another. But when the intemperate retcher refound stupefaction from the uncomfortable (and rather ludicrous) position that resulted from only his toes, knees, and forehead resting upon the floor, he still blocked the door. Turnpenny sidled over to the inebriant, put his foot soundly against the man’s hinder-region, and shoved him, somersaulting, out the door. This gave Darcy opportunity to look to the wall behind him in search of what unnerved the men.

Initially, he saw nothing unusual and turned to go out the door behind Rhymes. The corner of his eye caught sight of a stanchion. Hanging from thence was a silk sheet. It was queer to see such a fine piece of fabric in such an ignominious establishment.

Rhymes took a broad stride across the foul puddle left by the now prostrate man and stepped out the door. However, Darcy stopped to take a closer look at the puzzlement. He paused but fleetingly. Then he strode out across the threshold, his long legs not having to take the great leap as did Rhymes’ to evade the muck.

Had someone been in position to scrutinise Mr. Darcy’s countenance as he quit the inn, they would not have suspected anything at all was amiss. His expression never wavered. It betrayed nothing but stern placidity. This was a considerable feat in that he had recognised not only the initial upon the bedcloth, but its unique paraph in one corner. It was his.

Undoubtedly, it was pilfered from his nuptial bed, for it was bespattered and bedewed with the denouement of numerous carnal infusions. He was roundly sickened to realise that the sheet he had used to wipe Elizabeth’s virgin blood from her had then hung in inglorious lewdness inside a vile alehouse.

Having their most intimate moment violated roused him to such a loathing fury, he was almost provoked to do the unthinkable. But he knew that if he went back inside and retrieved the bed-linen, then beat the men senseless, it might soothe his immediate wrath, but would only inflate the business into legend and lore. It was best to take a dignified leave.

Stricken as he was with righteous indignation, he knew full well why it was displayed thusly. It was a coarse but unmistakable testimony of Elizabeth’s virginity and his virility. It provided the common folk of the county reassurance of the enduring prosperity and continuity of Pemberley. The towns and the surrounding populations depended upon that very constancy. Understanding that, however, did not render it less objectionable.

However, as mortified as Elizabeth had been for the servants to come into their spousal bedchamber, he was grateful that she was insulated from the possibility of hearing about her newly impugned modesty. How his bedcloth from London had arrived so expeditiously of the arrival of their persons to Derbyshire, however, was an issue he chose not to confront at that moment.

Weathering such an indignity upon Elizabeth’s behalf stole all the pleasure of his afternoon excursion. He drew himself onto the saddle. But before Rhymes did the same, Darcy gathered his considerable hauteur and held up his hand, palm forward.

“There is an offensive object hanging from the wall of that inn. Take it and watch until it has been burned to ashes.”

Rhymes was accustomed to receiving succinct orders from Mr. Darcy. Still, this oblique demand was unusual. But, although he might have looked at Darcy a little queerly, he did not question him. Darcy observed the look upon the man’s face and knew Rhymes not too dull to fathom when he saw the bedcloth what it was and why it was to be burned.

As he turned his horse for home, he endeavoured not to envision the tattered remnants of their privacy being waved about in drunken revelry.

W
ith only an inkling of what weight her husband willingly took upon his shoulders, Elizabeth had lain that morning amidst the covers admiring their broadness as he sat availing himself of the chamber pot. That he could relieve himself from the comfort of the bed rather than perched precariously upon the pot, she thought (as one of five sisters) was somewhat fascinating. Configuration, it occurred to her, accommodated gentlemen far more conveniently than it did ladies.

Configuration was dearly upon her mind, thus she mused about it as she gazed across the wide, bare expanse of his back. The sight bade her sigh.

Yet, the shamelessness of disporting in such a deliciously wicked manner in the carriage the day past she had not compleatly forsworn. It had taken but one single look from her husband (in her defence, it was but one—but that one was profoundly provocative) to entice her to toss up her petticoats, crawl astraddle his lap and ride him like St. George. Had she any pretence to modesty left, his demonstration upon the subtle distinction betwixt a canter and a gallop dashed it to oblivion.

Not only had she impaled herself upon his virile member like a particularly lewd strumpet in the coach, the said same instrument had spent the previous night besieging her with ecstasy so unconditionally, she had been compelled to mimic a wailing banshee. The means was apparent, but the method of just how her husband exacted that beatitude upon her person still lay undetermined. She questioned it not, simply happy to be spared mortification for such unseemly comportment due to her husband’s enthusiastic complicity. Deducing just how he could be at once so dourly correct and libidinously conducted was challenge enough.