My goodness, how red her cheeks were! How long had she been looking into the glass?
Elizabeth forced herself to stand up and walk away from the mirror. The room was growing dim, but her blue necklace still caught enough light to shine when she picked it up. The matching earrings and comb which Darcy had given her when they arrived in Pemberley were duly affixed, and Lizzie drew a deep breath.
Darcy met her in the foyer. He was already wearing his coat, looking impatiently out at the waiting carriage, but when Elizabeth arrived all of his irritability vanished in an instant. A closed-off look made his face still and unreadable; his eyes blazed, moving slowly from her face to her body. He had not looked at her with such hunger before, only with genteel (if decidedly heated) admiration. This man looked as if he wanted todevourher.
He stared at her for so long that Lizzie could not bear it. Laughing shakily, she drew her cloak around her body.
“You are staring, sir. Does that mean you like my gown?”
Why was she shivering? The night was not so cold, and the carriage was warm. Darcy sat beside her, not opposite, and did not answer. He only looked at her, steadily and silently, as the carriage swayed into life.
“Sir…” she whispered and then gasped when he raised his hand to her face.
Brushing his thumb teasingly over her lips, Darcy shook his head. Holding her gaze, he slowly eased her cloak apart and slipped his other hand inside. His fingers were light and careful against her shoulders, then her collarbone. It was slow and deliberate, utterly unlike the clumsy way he had touched her before. Elizabeth closed her eyes and sighed when he traced a soft line down from her throat. He was barely touching her, deliberately looking nowhere else but at her eyes, but she felt as if he was setting her aflame.
“You are not an angel.” he breathed, his hand still moving teasingly over her breasts. He leaned closer, then, and breathed into her ear: “But do you really want to be an angel, Elizabeth?”
“Not anymore.” she replied, her voice husky. He laughed and nipped her throat, winning a squeak of shock. His hands moved again, closing around her waist and drawing her irresistibly into his lap.
“Yes, I like your dress.” he murmured, holding her tightly against him as the motion of the carriage threatened to break them apart, “I want to keep you to myself tonight, Elizabeth.”
She shook her head breathlessly, “You promised we would dance.”
“Define ‘dancing’.” he retorted, then groaned and buried his face in her shoulder.
Elizabeth felt it too - the delicious pleasure where their bodies pressed together, made torturous and wonderful every time the carriage swayed. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around his back, gasping when he kissed her throat, then her cheek,then finally captured her lips. She heard herself moan then, low and pleading, and his answering dark laugh.
She was like liquor, potent and rich, her scent and taste burning into his body and setting it afire. Darcy inhaled sharply and let his hand drift. She threw her head back for a moment and let out a sigh, instinctively moving in his lap and holding his eyes. There was a glint in them which he had never seen before: a wicked, laughing shine which was utterly unsuitable for an angel… but suited Elizabeth exceedingly well.
“I shall not overstep.” he promised shakily, more to remind himself than to reassure his wife. She smiled and then leaned forward, suddenly crushing her mouth to his. Darcy’s breath hitched in surprise, and he returned the kiss with fierce, desperate hunger.
“I want you so badly,” she gasped when his hand moved again to her breast, “Oh, I…”
“Elizabeth…” Darcy said harshly against her lips. “Don’t. Ipromised. You made me swear…”
She shook her head wildly, her lips seeking his, her breath hot on his cheek.
With an oath, Darcy gripped her hips and pulled her firmly towards him, then forwards and back with increasing urgency. He hated the fabric that separated them and desperately craved more. More… he dimly heard his angel cry out and felt her legs spasming around him… more, as he surged against her more and more wildly…
He crushed his lips to Elizabeth’s, tasting her and possessing her and swallowing her helpless moans. Then she sobbed his name and Darcy stopped himself with a cry.
Shuddering with thwarted pleasure, he pulled her head down against his shoulder and tangled his fingers in her hair. There was a clink as her hair comb fell to the floor, and that was enough to break the spell. Easing Elizabeth reluctantly away, he gently lifted her onto her own half of the seat and left a playful kiss on her nose. Then, out of pure self-preservation, he sat opposite her and pressed his forehead to the cold window frame.
“What… are you doing?” she was still panting, her fingers twisting into the seat cushion. “Why did you stop?”
“Because we have arrived.” Darcy straightened his attire, managing his usual irritating trick of looking utterly composed (if rather flushed), and then raised an eyebrow, “I promised to dance with you, madam. Unless you would like midsummer to come early this year?”
“It is unfair to try to coerce me like this!” she snapped, self-consciously straightening her gown. Her chest heaved in thwarted pleasure, her voice was a breathless squeak, “You know that I… that we… ugh! Youpromised!”
“I am a man of honour, madam. I try not to break my word. But sometimes it is fun to outmanoeuvre it. Do you not agree?” Darcy retrieved her comb from the floor and placed it beside her, not trusting himself to touch her again. His lips quirked in a smile, “You did not seem to need muchcoercion.”
Elizabeth stared at him, panting and pink. Darcy had to twist his hands into his coat to stop himself from closing the distance between them. He could smell her perfume, sweet and artificial against her womanly scent that drove him to distraction. He cleared his throat and opened the door with a monumental effort.
“Now, Mrs. Darcy, if you are composed, we should go in.”
Mentally cursing him, her racing heartbeat, the heat in her cheeks and the almost-irresistible urge to be ‘outmanoeuvred’, Elizabeth climbed down from the carriage and brushed the creases from her skirt. Her legs felt rather weak, but she stubbornly willed them to cease their foolishness. She was not just Mrs. Darcy, she told herself, but Elizabeth. Elizabeth was not the sort of person to hide in a carriage and swoon over handsome men with wicked hands!
Perhaps it was forgivable if the man was her husband… but this, she strongly suspected, had to be another activity which was not quite ‘the done thing’.
