Finally, Elizabeth set her napkin on the table.
“If you will excuse me, Mr Darcy. I find I am rather tired this evening.”
She rose, pushing her chair back with a composure so perfect it was armour. Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second—searching, uncertain—and then she was gone. Her footsteps crossed the hall, light and even, and faded up the staircase.
The dining room was silent.
Barton cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you, Barton.”
Darcy walked to his study and closed the door firmly behind him. He sank into the chair, pressed his face into his hands, and exhaled.
“You imbecile.”
The study offered no contradiction.
Twelve
Elizabeth closed the door of her chamber and leaned against it, heart still beating too fast.
The dinner had been unbearable. Mr Darcy had barely spoken, had drunk far more wine than he ate food, and every time their eyes met across the candlelit table the air had thickened until she could scarcely breathe. He had looked at her as though she were both salvation and torment, and the memory of the library still burned against her skin.
She crossed to the looking glass and stared at her reflection.
The woman she saw there was no longer the half-starved creature from Somers Town. Her cheeks carried a healthier colour, her eyes were brighter, and the simple nightgown Georgiana had insisted upon fell softly against a body that was finally beginning to remember what it felt like to be properly fed. She was still slender—too slender by the standards of fashion—her breasts small, her waist narrow. Not a great beauty, never that. But not plain either. There was something in the line of her neck, in the dark fall of her unbound hair, that made her pause.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel him.
The solid heat of his chest hovering just behind her shoulders. The press of his body against the small of her back—hard, urgent, unmistakably male. The way he had leaned in until his breath brushed her ear and whispered her name as though he were on the edge of control.“Miss Bennet...”
Seven years ago, he had stood in the parlour at Hunsford and told her he loved herardently. She had thrown the word back in his face, furious at his pride, his insults, his presumption. She had not understood then whatardentlytruly meant. She understood it now. It meant this—this fierce, physical wanting that had made him tremble and had left her trembling in return.
She had grown up in the countryside. She had seen animals mate, had heard the blunt talk of farmhands and midwives. She knew the mechanics of reproduction perfectly well. What she had not known was how it would feel to be the object of such desire. To feel a man’s body respond to hers with such raw honesty.
A rush of heat bloomed low in her belly and slid downward. She pressed her thighs together instinctively and gasped at the slick, aching sensation between them. Her hand rose of its own accord, fingertips brushing the hollow at the base of her throat where his breath had ghosted only hours earlier.
She imagined his mouth on hers. That full, serious mouth that so rarely smiled, softened by want, claiming her slowly, deeply. She imagined his hands sliding into her hair,tilting her head back, the press of his body fully against hers without the barrier of clothing or propriety.
The ache between her legs intensified. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
This will not do.
She could not afford this. She had a family to feed, sisters who depended on the money she sent home. If she lost this position because she had allowed—encouraged—Mr Darcy’s desire to flare unchecked, what would become of them? Lydia’s quiet withdrawal, Jane’s fragile health, her mother’s weary courage—all of it rested on her ability to remain employed.
And yet...
Lydia had been with Wickham for two full weeks and had not fallen with child. Elizabeth had never been with a man. She had never been kissed, actually. She was innocent in body, but she was not a fool. She had heard enough whispered conversations between married women and read enough between the lines of novels to know there were ways to take pleasure without consequence.
What if...
The thought slipped in, dangerous and unbidden. What if she allowed herself this one thing? What if she let him touch her, kiss her, ease this burning ache that had taken root inside her since the moment he had pressed against her in the library? What if, for once in her life, she took something for herself?
She forced the thought away with ruthless determination and opened her eyes.
No.