Page 72 of One Night with Mr. Darcy
It was him.
She went and opened the door a crack. “Willie’s in the nursery.”
“Let me in.”
She hesitated and then stood aside, not opening the door, but letting go of the knob.
Mr. Darcy pushed the door open and stepped into the room. He shut the door behind himself.
She worried at her lower lip with her upper teeth. “You shouldn’t be here like this.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said, and he folded her into his arms.
She resisted for a moment, and then she couldn’t. She buried her face into his cravat, and she started to shake.
He tightened his grip on her, holding her against his body.
“I don’t understand.” Her words were muffled.
He seemed to comprehend her, however. “Neither do I, truly. We were doing exactly what the doctor said. She seemed to be gaining strength. Even Richard commented the other day that she looked quite full of health. He said that she was as nearly as pretty as you.”
Elizabeth moaned. “She was the pretty one. Before she got sick, she was always the pretty one.”
“No one is prettier than you.”
She sighed. “No, she was. She was much prettier than me. And she was so good, Fitzwilliam, do you understand that? She would never have done the sorts of things I have done. She was so forgiving, so good, so sweet. Why? Why wouldshedie?”
He clutched her against him. “We’ve seen so much loss. It’s as if half of the cast of our lives has been felled in the past few years. Anne, Lady Catherine, Wickham, now Jane… I can’t help but feel as if we’re all in danger. This body count? Whoever is in charge, whoever is making these decisions? It’s excessive.”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “It’s just the way of things, though.”
“Shouldn’t be.” He touched her face.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He did.
The kiss was soft and sweet, and it seemed to light her up from the inside. She was nothing but the kiss, and it made her body alive.
She didn’t want it to end, so the minute it broke, she began to kiss him again, and thus it went on, one kiss leading to the next, each kiss deeper and longer than the one before.
Soon, somehow, they were sitting on the edge of the bed, and then they were lying back on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.
She began to work at his cravat.
“What are you doing, Lizzy?” he said.
“I want… your skin…” She touched his face. “I want your skin on mine, Fitzwilliam. It’s been so long, and I’m so broken, and nothing matters, and… please?”
He sighed. “We just… hold each other.”
“All right,” she whispered, even though she knew that was a foolish promise to make, that there was no chance of it being nothing more than touching, that they would be tempted once they were undressed.
Undressing each other was slow and achingly nice. Each layer came away slowly, showing her more of her Mr. Darcy until he was bare and brash, and she could touch the hair on his forearms and chest, until she could be wrapped up in him.
He was stiff between his legs, and he apologized about it. “It’s just because of… you’re very pretty, Lizzy,” he breathed. “I’m not… we won’t…”
“Of course not,” she said to him, soothing him, knowing that they would. Wanting it with every fiber of her being, remembering what it had been to be joined to his body, to be one flesh with him, remembering it like a home she had been longing to return to all this time, like a prodigal daughter who wished to be welcomed back to where she belonged.
