Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (18 page)

A remedy oft proffered to relieve undue anxiety is that of physical exertion. Hence one should have expected Elizabeth Darcy to be post-coitally languid. She was not. Howbeit her body was well-spent, her mind refused to be soothed. For despite Hannah’s incessant fussing, Elizabeth was most unhappy with the flowers adorning her coiffure.

Impatiently, she yanked them out, then reconsidered. Without the flowers, she feared she looked plain. With them, she was certain she resembled an overgrown wisteria bush. Even her yellow dress no longer pleased her eye. It not only looked unstudied, it appeared absolutely artless. She gazed unhappily in the mirror and made a half circle. At every turn, it appeared fate destined her for ignominious habiliment.

First impressions were immutable. She wanted Darcy to be proud to present her as his wife to Derbyshire. Yet her circumstance and station would be appraised by her appearance, and not with particular generosity. She longed to look more urbane.

“Do you suppose,” she queried Hannah, “I should consider wearing a turban?”

Before Hannah could determine whether that was a jest or not, there came a rap upon the door, the firmness of which announced it was Mr. Darcy. The merest flick of his head sent Hannah upon a curtsying fizzle out of the room. Across the length of the room stood his wife, and thither his gaze rested.

From beneath the veil of her lashes, she turned her eyes to him, and then hastily cast them away. It might have appeared to him a modesty, but it was not. She simply could not bear to see disappointment reflected in his eyes. Hence, she failed to witness his appreciative flush.

“How ravishingly beautiful you look, Lizzy.”

Surprised and disconcerted, a grand rubescence graced her cheeks. Her mind groped about for some comment, but she could only think to inquire of how well his posterior weathered their recent indecorous undertakings.

“Pray, did you bruise yourself when we fell?”

“Actually,” he said, “I did not think to look.”

With that recollection, they stared at each other a long moment. Her flush not only deepened, but also crept down her neck and nestled into her bosom.

“Husband,” she said, “you are a devastatingly handsome man.”

The only rejoinder he offered was an embarrassed cough. Thereupon, in apparent relief, he remembered why he had come and thrust forward the box he had been concealing behind his back.

“I should like for you to wear this tonight.”

She looked up at him and then to the green velvet box, which was tied with an azure satin ribbon. So pretty were the colours, she gave an admiring coo when she looked upon it. That sound continued long after she noticed that the azure satin ribbon was tied in a crude bow, almost disreputable. It was, as it happened, quite odd looking, such a fine box with a ribbon so badly tied.

It came to her then that her husband had tied the ribbon himself. He, a man who always had ribbons tied for his use, tied a bow upon the box for her. She thought that sad little bow was as lovely a gift as she might ever receive. She would prize it always. Her fingertips touched it affectionately, thus it took her a moment to realise he was patiently waiting for her to untie it. She truly hated to disturb it and her reluctant fingers fumbled when she endeavoured to undo the knotted bow.

Retrieving it, he easily opened that which he had himself wrapped and, with a bit of a flourish, held it out to her again.

Lifting the lid, she peered into the box. An elabourate diamond-cascade of a choker glittered within, more exquisite than any necklace she could have ever imagined about anyone’s throat (and that included Lady Catherine and probably the Queen). Momentarily speechless, she looked at it, then back to him.

A bit stupidly, she bid, “This is for me?”

“Yes, it is for you,” he smiled. “May I have the pleasure of putting it upon you? …You do wish to wear it?”

That he might actually have thought she would not was enormously ingenuous, and she stifled a laugh at such a notion by turning about for him to fasten it. It was heavy and cold against her skin, but the sensation was rather pleasant and the diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the candlelight. He stood behind her as she looked at herself in the looking-glass. Thereupon a possibility occurred to her.

“Was this your mother’s?” she asked.

“No,” he said, then leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It is yours alone.”

In timid appreciation, a flabbergasted smile crept across her face. In light of his reserve, such generosity was overwhelming. She understood forthwith, however, that it was only ostentation that he abhorred. For Mr. Darcy, extravagance was an impossibility.

Touched by the gesture, not the gift, she knew not how to say that without sounding coy. Turning to kiss him, she said as lightly as she could manage, “I am now free to commit any indecorum. My countenance, my gown, all will be forgot. No one will recall anything of me but this necklace.”

He looked then upon her with such silent intensity, she began to believe her response was not emphatically grateful enough. She considered additional plaudits. Her consideration was not only interrupted, it was severed irreparably when he abruptly grasped her beneath the armpits and plopped her atop her dressing table.

“However impolitic it is to contradict one’s wife, I must disagree, Lizzy.”

Jarred by this unceremonious act, she was fleetingly stunned. It fell apparent immediately, however, that the reason he had perpetrated such a manoeuvre was to overcome her height disadvantage whilst he ran his hands up the back of her legs and kissed her neck. She was uncertain if it was the stroking of her thighs or the kissing, but for whatever reason her neck refused to hold up her head. Thus, it dropped uselessly to his chest. Had her voice not been strangled within the flaccidity of throat, she would have spoken. In the silence, he did instead.

“Lizzy.”

He said it only once, but he said it huskily. That singular calling of her name disturbed the very depth of her being, and though she truly did not mean to moan, she did.

That announcement of her passion granted him every liberty. Hence, from that precarious perch she found herself at the mercy of a husband in full cry, the entire appetency of which he did not withhold. Further foreplay an irrelevance, he simply thrust into her with all the considerable insistence and dedication of a pile driver. She could do nothing but cling to his neck and pray he did not lose his grip upon her lest she be cast to the floor once again.

With a gasp, he convulsed into her. He stood pressed against her for a moment heaving breathlessly. Then, he hoarsely bade her do the unlikely.

“Pray, do not bathe. Do not cleanse yourself.”

She nodded. He still held her close, his breath hot against her ear.

“Every time I look upon you tonight, I want not only to know my seed is in you,” his lips grazed her hair as he whispered, “I want to know you feel it running down your legs.”

He kissed her hard upon the mouth, withdrew, then took leave of the room.

Dazed, she slid to her feet and stood leaning against the table for some few minutes mutely looking at the door that had closed behind him. Hannah’s return broke her trance and she hastily turned away.

Whilst Hannah busied herself, Elizabeth was able to lift her eyes and look at her dishevelled appearance in the mirror. She made a feeble attempt to repair her hair, but her arms were too heavy to hold aloft. Thus, she gave it up and just stood looking at her own reflection. It was apparent Hannah would have to repress her gown.

Calling to her to help unbutton it, she looked again into the mirror. Disguising the flush upon her cheeks would be a problem.

Not to mention what a sticky business dancing would be.

* * *

Georgiana had returned to Pemberley for the ball and stood in the entry with Darcy and Elizabeth to greet their guests. Elizabeth smiled and nodded happily when she first espied her powdered and bejeweled, for she wore a pretty, pink gown that complimented her complexion. Georgiana smiled demurely, clearly pleased at her sister-in-law’s approval. But when Elizabeth glanced at the handsome necklace Georgiana wore, she was mortified to see her own transcended Miss Darcy’s twofold.

Indeed, that must have been Darcy’s intent, for he did nothing that was not well-considered. She understood that his gift was for her, but realised, too, it was meant to send a message to the society that greeted her: “This is my wife.”

(She surmised the other gift he left her, the one she was now quite aware of beneath her newly pressed gown as it progressed down her legs, must have meant, “You are my wife.”)

Her presumption of curiosity from Derbyshire’s finest was not a miscalculation. She knew there had to be a great deal of gossip about her connexions, undoubtedly fuelled by Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. That lady’s chief occupation now seemed to be that of making it clear to all and sundry that she had not and would not contain her displeasure at the match.

Ignoring such rencontre, Darcy made the introductions to his wife, allowing Elizabeth to understand which families were friends to Pemberley and thus to them. The Lord and Lady Millhouse, the Ducketts, the Allenbys. Nodding to each, they were introduced not only by name, but also by estate. Pennyswope, Greygable, Keenlysyde Manor.

However, when the family Howgrave stood before them, Elizabeth thought it peculiar that Darcy introduced only the husband and wife and not the young man with them, for it was apparent he knew him. Nevertheless, Darcy held an air of decided disapproval (the one he had mastered so well, owing to a great deal of practise) and the family moved hastily on when no attempt at pleasantries was made. Elizabeth saw the young man look over his shoulder at them as they walked on. Knowing if she turned and asked about them immediately, she would announce herself a gossip, Elizabeth could not help but do just that.

“Who was that young man?”

Darcy did not say anything immediately, as if to weigh his words.

When he chose them, he said, “The young man is Mr. Howgrave’s son by his late housekeeper.”

“He married his housekeeper?”

No wonder Darcy’s disapproval.

“No, he did not.”

Her lips formed the word “oh,” but she did not make the sound. Far too hastily, the next guests approached. The many questions Elizabeth would have liked to ask her husband about the odd circumstance of the Howgraves were set temporarily at rest for before them stood Mrs. Dalrymple and her nephew. The lady was of a certain age and had a forefront whose gravity defied her corset (her breasts were so pendulous, had they been prehensile they might well have been useful). The young man, a Horace Chombly, employed a manner of dress that paid compliment to rather undeniable foppery and did little to disguise that he suffered a decided curvature of the spine. Together, they presented quite a sight.

Mrs. Dalrymple announced herself, “A dear friend of Lady Catherine’s.”

Even so, Elizabeth would not have taken half such delight at making note of the quite unbelievably broad backside of the Dowager Dalrymple as she waddled away, had not the good lady taken out her monocle and with a slight (though audible) snort, so openly inspected Elizabeth’s person.

“I hope her report to her good friend, your aunt, is appropriately wanting of my appeal,” Elizabeth asided, “for her escort does not lend her any generosity of taste.”

Very nearly sniggering, Darcy agreed, “The good lady, I fear, has a finer estate and more worthless relatives than anyone else who comes to mind.”

As time and the reception line wore on, Elizabeth found a great deal of amusement in gauging the time a lady (and indeed, invariably it was a lady) was introduced to her before that lady’s gaze dropped to the choker about her neck. Never having any particular interest in gems nor the bejeweled herself, she noticed some women more subtle than others at appraising it. But the sight apparently struck one poor woman senseless. With any number of faces straining to see why the reception line was at a standstill, this lady appeared to be taking a carat count of the diamonds in her hostess’s necklace.

In want of hurrying her, Elizabeth charitably leaned forward slightly and tilted up her chin to present a better look. It was then that she observed a frown cross Darcy’s face and feared he thought her too frank with the woman. But when the lady moved on, Darcy’s distaste left as well. It occurred to Elizabeth that her husband wanted his society to make as good an impression upon his wife as she did upon it.

Hitherto, the most extravagant ball Elizabeth had attended had been at Bingley’s estate, Netherfield. She had then, most incorrectly, thought nothing could surpass it for elegance. Pemberley unadorned was unbelievably impressive. Pemberley in want of a ball was indescribably sumptuous.

The foyer alone was as large as many ballrooms and festooned to the hilt. The grandeur of the floral arrangements and the beauty of the decorations were far beyond even her fertile imagination. A seventeen-piece orchestra’s overture announced the first dance, and Darcy took Elizabeth’s gloved hand and led her to the dance floor for the first quadrille. The spontaneous applause was quite unexpected by Elizabeth, but was no surprise to her husband.

Such gestures of respect were to be presumed. Of course, their guests would applaud the first dance by the master and new mistress of Pemberley. From the first time he asked her to dance (or rather the first time she accepted) she had been very aware of the homage paid to her as his partner. The air of deference then was absolutely palpable. Unnerved to be the focus of such singular attention, Elizabeth was happy not to be forced to display a dancing form that stretched her capabilities. For her husband was the dancer she remembered. Graceful, but far too reserved to be called particular.

As the evening aged, the deference did not wane. Thus, Elizabeth began to see more clearly than she had ever before why Darcy had held himself in so proud and disdainful a manner as he had, for he had known no other life than one of opulent deference. Master of Pemberley was far more magnificent than any other station she could have imagined.