Page 53 of Bitten By Mr. Darcy
She found him amiable and pleasing. She found herself looking for ways to encourage that smirk of his, the one that seemed to transform his countenance into somethinghandsome. On the heels of this, she was horrified at herself, for she did not understand why it was happening.
She began to wonder if it had something to do with the fact that Mr. Darcy had refused to deflower her.
It was January now, and they had been married for over a month.
She began to fixate on the idea. Yes, she was a bride who had been married but not fully claimed, and certainly, once this was undertaken, she would fully commit to Mr. Darcy and never find another man attractive ever again, especially considering her husband was so very ancient and powerful that no other man should possibly seem appealing.
One evening, after dinner, she began to pace in the sitting room, trying to work up the nerve to ask him to do it. She felt embarrassed of it, however, and surely, it was not something a woman ought to have to beg from a man, surely, he should do it voluntarily.
She paced.
He noticed. “What is it, my love?” he asked.
She only shook her head and would not answer.
Time passed.
He asked again. She did not answer again.
Finally, he got up and moved into her path. “You are beginning to worry me, Lizzy,” he said.
She exploded. “I cannot wait forever. I know time is nothing to you, but I am not like you, and you keep asking me to wait and wait. But we are not even really married if we have not done it, and you will not do it, and you have been taking only a bit of my blood now for weeks and when shall we finally come together as a husband and wife should?”
He raised his eyebrows, a little smile playing at his lips. “Oh, this is what you are thinking of?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I get the strong impression you are laughing at me, husband.”
“Apologies,” he said. “It is only that is usually the other way round, I think, husbands running after their wives, begging them to acquiesce.”
“I well know this.” She glared at him.
This made him laugh.
She wanted to shove him. She might hate him, in fact.
“All right,” he said. “I am easily convinced of this. You can’t think I don’t wish it, after all. I am lying in bed all day thinking of you, hard as stone.”
She glared at him.
“Where would you like to do it? Here? My bed? Yours?”
“I don’t know if I even wish to touch you right now,” she said, shaking her head, ever so very angry.
He thought this even more funny, and she fled the room for she was moments away from running at him and pounding her fists against his chest. She stopped herself from this not because she thought she would actually hurt him but because it was highly improper to fly into such a passion. She would not do so.
He came after her and caught her by the shoulder.
She turned to look at him, her eyes flashing and all the thunderousness of her anger came together in one point, as she focused on his mouth. She leaped on him, practically climbing him, and she kissed him with all the force of her anger, her frustration, her worry, her panic.
Being with this man was maddening, after all.
He caught her, one hand banded around her waist, the other supporting her bottom as she wrapped her thighs round him. He held her up like she weighed nothing and kissed her back, gasping against her mouth that he was going to do his best not to bite her. “Must keep you alert and strong enough, after all,” he said.
“I am alert,” she gasped. “I am strong.”
“You are,” he agreed and carried her all the way to his chamber, where he pressed her into the wall and kissed her senseless, still holding her aloft, but using the wall to pin her there as his hands spanned her hips and thighs, as they explored and squeezed.
Eventually, he carefully extricated her, setting her feet on the floor, backing away and gazing at her intently. He never broke the gaze as he began to remove his clothing. He stared at her and untied his cravat. He stared at her and undid his jacket buttons and his waistcoat buttons and then started in on the shirt beneath.
