Page 54

He let his hands learn her. Her throat, and her bare shoulders above the silk. The curve of her waist through her gown. He spread his palm across her back and drew her against him. She came willingly.

When he cupped her breast through the silk, she gasped into his mouth. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh. That is very different."

"Is it?"

"You know very well it is."

He did. He brushed his thumb across the peak of her breast and felt it tighten through the silk. She made a small sound and pressed closer. He slid two fingers inside the edge of her bodice and found bare skin. She arched into his hand.

On Friday night she had lifted her own hem for him. He remembered her shaking hands. Tonight he gathered the silk in his own fingers and drew it up himself, past her knee.

He stopped there, with his palm on her stocking. "Tell me to stop," he said.

"No."

He slid his hand above her garter, to the inside of her thigh. Her skin there was very soft. She trembled under his palm. He went so slowly that she made a small, impatient noise. She put her hand over his wrist and pressed it higher herself.

He found her slick and hot. He touched her with his fingertips, very carefully. She bit her lip. He found the place his mouth had found on Friday and circled it, lightly.

Her head fell against his shoulder.

He stroked her and watched her face in the lamplight. He could feel everything now. He felt every small movement of her hips, and the way her breath broke when he pressed harder. The ridges of his scars dragged across her. She gasped, and he did it again.

"Fitzwilliam." It was barely a breath. "The door..."

"Nobody is coming." Through the glass, the fiddles had struck up a reel. "They are all dancing."

"Everyone but us."

"Everyone but us," he agreed, and slid one finger inside her.

She turned her face into his coat to smother the sound she made. Her hand clenched on his sleeve. He moved with care, his thumb on that small bud and his finger deep in her heat. He felt her tighten around him. He felt her begin to shake.

When she came apart, she came apart in his hands. He felt all of it. Every pulse and shudder went through his tender palm. He held her through it.

Afterward she lay against his chest, breathing hard. He drew her skirts down over her knees. His hand was shaking, and he could not make it stop.

He had touched her. With his own hands, he had touched her.

His eyes stung. He put his face in her hair so she would not see.

He had meant to wait for a quieter moment. He had meant to choose his words. But she lay warm against him, and he could not wait another hour. "Elizabeth," he said into her hair. "There is a thing I must say to you."

She lifted her head. Her face was flushed and soft and open. She looked at him and waited.

The words he had settled in the night were gone. He reached for them and caught only the ends. "You need never be a burden," he said. "To anyone. Not ever again."

She was still smiling a little when he began. Her cheeks were still flushed. Her hand lay open on his chest, over his waistcoat.

"I would see to it," he said. "Your mother, your sisters..."

The smile stayed a moment longer than the rest of her. Then it began to go. It went from the corners of her mouth first. Her hand on his chest went still.

"Pemberley is large, and I am able," he said, desperate for her to understand. "You would want for nothing."

But with each word he spoke, he watched the color leave her face. He watched the glow go out of her. It went slowly, from her cheeks, from her throat. Her lips were still parted. They were still reddened from his kisses. But her eyes had gone very wide and very still, fixed on his face.

Her hand lifted from his chest. She laid it in her own lap.