Strange · Bedfellows

“Elizabeth waited for a long time, finally succumbing to boredom and doing the unthinkable—popping up to sit at the edge of the green-upholstered billiards table. She did not like it when he was late, however rarely it happened. Leaning back on her hands, she stared at the portrait of a handsome gentleman in a full periwig, lace abundant at his throat. She wondered whether he was a Darcy ancestor and fancied she could tell the familiar features—the straight narrow nose, the cleft chin and a sarcastic line of the gentleman’s mouth. And the eyes—dark and troubling, with eyelashes too long and thick for a man.
Lovely eyes.

She shook her head, telling herself it was all monumental folly. She should not be here. She had not come here to learn to play billiards, which she did not care two sticks for. She had come here to be kissed. Plain as day, she had lost all shame and all sense, and had come here—to a gentleman’s billiards room—at ten o’clock in the evening—hoping that her husband might kiss her again.

She had not expected to like it. Such closeness had seemed intrusive and disturbing to her. But she had melted in his arms on the night of Lord Gregory’s fireworks party. He had kissed her there, in Gregory’s labyrinthine gardens, and she had let him. Faith, not only let him—welcomed him. She had clutched wildly at the fine wool of his domino and threw her head back and closed her eyes. And—somewhere there—had opened her trembling lips under his in invitation.

Seeing her there, like an eager little soldier, lifted his spirits, and the thought of intimacies that would inevitably follow fired his loins. He tried to rein in his imagination, his desires, but it was difficult to do. He had thought about her all day.

With an outward mien of indifferent arrogance, he surveyed her sitting there on his billiards table. He would never have suffered any other female to commit such an indignity. But at the moment, all he could think of was pushing her back, pulling her dress up—or down, whichever way it went—and taking her right on that table. He had never before been possessed with such a wanton thought.

“I waited for you,” she said, smiling coyly at him.

“Forgive me—I had matters of importance—“ He shook his head. “No, just forgive me. I should have been here. Nothing more important than your next billiards lesson.”

Elizabeth blushed and slipped off the table, then stood to right her skirts a little. Darcy brought and chalked the keys, everything about the game suggestive to him, inflaming his mind ever more. The wise thing to do would be to retire to his own bedchamber, closing the door firmly behind him. No, not close it—lock it. Perhaps even throw away the key.

But instead, he handed Elizabeth one of the billiards keys and watched, in frustration and amusement, as she took her position at the table.

“Feet wider,” he said, if only to see her lift her skirts an inch and plant her feet in evening slippers at shoulder length. She had graceful trim ankles. He remembered, all too well, holding her foot in his hand during the ride back from Gregory’s estate… A small graceful foot, a long strong calf in a silk stocking that he so longed to slide off…He wondered what her garters looked like, and then wondered, brazenly, what she had above the garters.

“Good girl,” he said, coming from behind. He felt very predatory, all of a sudden, his desire making him light and lithe and ready to spring. He put one hand under her elbow, moving it slightly off the table. She obeyed him, pliant and submissive; it was almost a wonder to see her do everything he said without a word of protest. The key was smooth and cool in his hand; leaning slightly over Elizabeth, he slipped it into her open palm.

“Remember what I taught you, madam,” he whispered in her ear. Her fingers closed quickly around the key. “No—hold it I showed you last time.” She tried, awkwardly, and he had to help her, placing the key neatly between her thumb and forefinger. “There.”

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he inhaled the essence of her hair, the barely-felt, gossamer notes of verbena and soap. The temptation to bury his face against the skin of her neck was overwhelming. He shrank back, putting a small distance between them. There will be time for such closeness, he thought. Not yet. She leaned lower, her … he sought for a word in his mind, but could come up with nothing but the vulgar rump…coming up a little higher. She has no idea. The blood in his veins whirled and flowed and eddied. He set his key on the floor, anchoring and steadying himself.

“Keep your elbow straight,” he told her, trying desperately to focus on her game. As far as he was concerned, she might have come here to learn to play… after all, she was certainly innocent enough to suspect nothing of his feelings. “No…Like so…Imagine a line going through the center...”

He stepped closer, cupped one hand under her elbow, moving and straightening her arm. She threw a coy glance at him over one shoulder. Perhaps not so innocent... He knew he should step back, but he could feel her, the warmth of her through the dress, the bones of her elbow fragile in his hand. He tightened his grip a little, then forced himself back from her, his hand falling away.

“All right, then,” he said gruffly. “Remember not to steer your stroke. Now.”

Naturally she steered her stroke, trying desperately to hit the pocket, but sending the ball on a wild trajectory along the wall.

“Ah!” she dropped the key and stomped her foot petulantly. “Again! Why can’t I master it?”

Laughing, he leaned to pick up both keys, but held them up and away as she reached for hers.

“Come, Fitzwilliam.” She stood on her tiptoes, trying to grasp the key. A head taller than her, he raised his arm, holding both keys out of her reach. “Come, give it back.”

“I shall—in exchange.”

She stood back instantly, blushing all up her neck and across her high, clear brow. “In exchange for what?” she whispered, barely audible.

Darcy dropped both keys and put one hand under her chin and another on her waist, drawing her near. “A kiss, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “I have waited all day long to kiss you.”

She flushed prettily. “Really?”

“Really truly.”

But it was enough talking, enough billiards for one night. He had played her games, had humored and indulged her… he was now disposed to play his own… He lowered his head, catching her mouth with his. Her lips were petal-soft, warm, pressing eagerly against his. She parted them trustingly, readily. Darcy felt something catch inside, a tender feeling that was overwhelmed, momentarily, by a desire to plunder.

No, he thought, fighting himself, fighting her. No. She does not love you. But the muslin of her dress crinkled under his hands, even as she arched closer and put both her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers curled and dug into his flesh through three layers of fabric.

“Good girl,” Darcy whispered, chuckling against her lips. She was much better at remembering this than she was at remembering the rules of billiards. And damn, did it feel better to teach her! Her mouth was warm, all of it tender luscious warmth and wetness. He restrained himself, keeping back, thinking that nothing could come of it, that he was a fool, that—Arching, she pressed her breasts against him. Slight girlish breasts, but he had never felt more aroused. With a growl born out of frustration, he slid both hands down the muslin, pulling her against him. Feeling every inch of her, knowing, quite well, that she could feel all of him. She gave a helpless little yelp of surrender, all the while kissing him like mad; there was a noticeable yielding in her knees as she sank ever further against him—but she moved one of her hands to cradle his cheek in her palm. Such a tender gesture, speaking of desire and confusion, telling him she was as lost as he. But perhaps, he thought, nuzzling her palm before returning his attention to her lips, perhaps telling him more.

Thereupon, cupping her rear, Darcy picked Elizabeth up, drawing her up and against the length of him. She gasped audibly, but parted her legs on instinct, her skirts straining and riding up above her knees. He took all of her in, feverishly: white stockings, green embroidered designs around the ankle. Coy ribbon garters, green to match the designs, all of her—lovely and tender and female. He wanted her so badly, he did not know how he would survive the night without her. It seemed an impossibility now. Dropping his face against her neck, inhaling like mad that clean sweet scent of her with the lemony undertone of verbena underneath, he carried her to the billiards table and deposited her gingerly upon it.

They were almost level now, her dusky eyes gazing into his. He should leave her be, he should step aside. But he lingered, and she seemed in no hurry to push him away. Absently, she stroked his calf with one foot, and he thought, she knows not what she does to me. Truly, how could she? She was an innocent, and all he could thinks of was dropping her backwards onto the damned table and having his way with her.

And yet, he could not bring himself to be ashamed of desiring his wife…

“Lizzy,” he whispered, his voice husky and roused to his own ears. “Lovely Lizzy…” Nonsensical words, inane compliments, wouldst that he could tell her all he felt… but he could not, could not say it… how deeply she disturbed him, how much he wanted her, and not only here and now, but his every moment, sleeping and waking, in her presence and away from her. How much he missed her when she wasn’t about; how his thoughts always returned to her person. How all he wanted was to be in her presence, to lay in her lap…

But instead, he tipped her head back and kissed her on the mouth, again and again, tender at first, then with greater purpose. He reveled in the way it opened under his, supple and warm and sweet. This time, when he slipped his tongue within to caress its softness, she did not push him away, though her hands did clutch his lapels desperately. Darcy moaned against her mouth, knowing that his limits would be reached all too soon. But instead of pacing himself, he pushed harder against her. The desire to be close, as close to her as possible, was unconscious and powerful.

Elizabeth gasped, her foot in the soft slipper arching against his leg. Darcy held her close, one hand at the small of her back, anchoring her to him. His lips slipped from her, wanting a taste of her neck and bosom (which rose tumultuously to meet this inquiry). With a low sensuous moan, of which she herself was likely unaware, she lifted her chin, allowing him greater access and liberty.

His fingers clumsy, he open the button at the top of her neckline. Then, forcing himself back from her, breathing heavily, he waited. If she should stop him, let it be now. Perhaps, then, he wouldn’t go mad with wanting. But no rebuke came from her, and no words at all: leaning back on her hands, head thrown back, eyes closed, Elizabeth seemed completely oblivious to the world. Darcy read acquiescence in her silence, for he was too far gone to inquire further. With great relief, he returned to his task of freeing her from the constraints of her bodice.

The gown fell down to her waist, leaving her a transparent cambric chemise under pale green silk stays. The stays, held together in the front by little silver hooks, presented no true impediment. As they fell open, he thought he had never in his life seen anything lovelier. Elizabeth breathed shallowly, eyes now open and intent upon him; and he looked back, long and hard, to assure himself there was neither fear nor revulsion in them… No, nothing: curiosity, perhaps, and worry and upheaval. And desire. Her lips slightly open, she watched him as if enchanted as he stroked one breast tenderly through the cambric. Slender and small-breasted she was, but her body—undeniably, lusciously, beautifully female. With one finger, he stroked one small nipple, watching intently as it puckered and hardened, became smaller, darker, more enticing to his eyes. He heard Elizabeth gasp and moan softly. He wanted desperately to know the taste of her, the feel of her flesh against his tongue. He bent his head, kissing her neck as he gave in to temptation and cupped, wantonly, one breast. He almost went mad when she moaned audibly, leaning quickly into his touch.