The first proper glass had succeeded in making me feel wonderfully tingly so I thought a second glass might make me forget all about my terror at going to bed with my husband and I was correct, I no longer felt frightened at all. I felt rather excited about it, really. Who knew? It might be pleasant. Darcy might be a lover.
Oh, goodness. I began to laugh uncontrollably. It was such an amusing thought. Mr. Darcy a lover. Everything was so, so amusing.Must stop laughing or husband will think I'm a madwoman, I chided myself. I could hear Mr. Darcy moving about his chambers. He had arrived home some time ago. I thought he would have come to visit me by now.
I never realized how long men take at their toilette. What could they possibly have to do? I suppose there is the shaving. Do men shave in the evening? I do not know. There are so many things I do not know about men.
Through the wall Mr. Darcy's deep, serious voice rumbled indescribably. He was dismissing his valet, I think. He would come to me shortly.
I glanced at the noticeably diminished decanter. Perhaps another little sippy was in order?
Five minutes later
"Mr. Darcy! What very fine ankles you have," I said when I noticed the figure of my husband towering above me. I had been sitting at my dressing table in somewhat of a stupor and suddenly he appeared. Had he knocked upon the adjoining door? I had not heard him knock. Naughty boy!
He was clad in a dressing gown and . . . well, probably just a dressing gown, but it concealed his modesty well. All I could really see were his ankles. And a bit of his calves. Most exemplary calves they were, I'm sure. I cannot say I know much about the ideal male physique, but his calves looked to me to be perfectly proportioned.
I stood, and the moment I did so London experienced a violent earthquake. The house, the furniture, and Mr. Darcy were all fortunately immune to the seismic forces.
I reached out and grasped the nearest stable object in order to steady myself. "Good shoulders, too. Quite solid," I said.
Horrifyingly I did not immediately release his person. I just stood there holding on to his shoulder as if I had every right to do so, all the while a part of my mind that seemed to no longer be connected to the rest of me screamed shrilly. And then fainted dead away. The sensible part of my mind had swooned. The sensible part of my mind needed more brandy.
"You are inebriated," observed Mr. Darcy.
"Noooooooooo!"
Realizing this response did not speak of sobriety, I tried again, "No, I just had one little glass." This statement would have been more convincing if it had not come out as "I jus 'ad one lil glash."
"Indeed."
"Perhaps two," I amended, holding up my fingers to illustrate.
"Two?" he asked, holding up three fingers. I thought he was teasing me until I looked at my own hand and found I was holding up three fingers as well.
"Yes, two."
"Or maybe, three?" he asked while holding up five fingers.
"Noooo!"
His lips tugged at the corners as if he were trying to suppress it, but then he relaxed and allowed them to form a smile.
"You're smiling," I said, beaming back at him—hand still firmly on his shoulder, I might add. "You really do have a lovely smile. Your real smile, that is, not your superior smile or your you-have-wounded-but-I-will-not-show-it smile. Your real smiles are quite . . . breathtaking."
At some time during my babbling I decided I had leave to stroke his cheek and commenced doing so, relishing its smoothness (he had been shaved, apparently). Mr. Darcy for his part did not seem to mind, or at least he did not mind enough to move away.
"You're so handsome. And rich. Pity about the rest of it."
His smile shifted.
"Oh, no. I've wounded you. I am a bad, bad, bad, bad Lizzy. You must learn when I am only teasing. This marriage thing will never work if you don't learn that. I will tease you. And you may tease me back. Go on, try it. Tease me, Mr. Darcy."
Lines appeared on his forehead and his lips twitched. Some part of him wanted to tease me, but he was experiencing a great internal struggle. Seriousness against joviality. Predictably, seriousness won out; he kept his silence.
"Right. You did not come to converse you came to consummate."
I could feel the blood rush to his cheeks beneath my fingers (yes, now I had both hands on his face). "Goodness, your face is warm. Have I made you blush or are you taking ill?"
True to form as ever, Mr. Darcy made no reply. He just stared at me in that intense way of his, as if he were trying to divine all of my secrets without having to give away any of his own.
