Elizabeth rubbed her hands together. The thin gloves she had worn for their carriage ride did little to ward away the chill, and they were dirty besides.
After searching, Mr. Darcy found the tinderbox, and with some muttered language Elizabeth felt likely inappropriate but hardly blamed him for, lit a half-burned tallow candle.
The tiny cabin was warmer inside than its outer appearance suggested, and Elizabeth noted someone had packed straw into breaks in the stone walls as extra insulation. The roof also appeared stout.
“I am sorry, my beloved,” Mr. Darcy said as they look around the lodge. At one end of the room was a pallet with four folded blankets at the base, in the center a table and four mismatched stools. “I have placed you in an untenable position; your honor is at stake, I am afraid. The best I can do is stay outside and keep watch. I do not wish to offer even the appearance of impropriety,” Mr. Darcy said again.
Elizabeth shuddered, her good humor and bravery giving way to her frayed nerves. She did not want to be alone. That barn had been dark and dank, and Arn, with his bulbous chin and single, covetous eye, dominated her thoughts. “We already have the special license to wed?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then it hardly matters,” Elizabeth said. “Appearances. Unless you mean to jilt me?”
“Never!”
“Good.” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself.
“You are freezing.”
Elizabeth shrugged. Freezing. Terrified. Exhausted. Hungry. It was all a blur. “I do not know how to make a fire,” she said.
Mr. Darcy sighed. “My cousin Richard will be upset I did not take his lessoning as well as I ought, but I will try again.”
While he was working, Elizabeth dragged the pallet before the fire and found two large duvets. She also found a box with four slightly withered but still edible apples and a bottle, which, when she pulled the stopper free, smelled strongly of gin.
When she returned with her treasures, a small fire blazed in the hearth.
Elizabeth took one apple and handed the other over. They sat side by side on the pallets before the fire, chewing.
Elizabeth took a sip of the gin, the warmth burning pleasantly down to her stomach. She took a larger gulp.
“What is that?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“A gift,” Elizabeth said, handing it over.
Mr. Darcy drank. “That’s pure gin!” he exclaimed. “I—”
“If you say it is improper for us to drink gin together by a fire as almost husband and wife, I will let you sleep outside with the squirrels.”
“Perhaps I ought—”
“You dare not!”
“You are a demanding lady.”
The warmth of the gin, the heat of the fire, and the knowledge that she was wholly safe in his solid presence swept away the last of her fear. She moved closer to him, leaning her head on his arm. He shifted, putting an arm around her. He smelled of sweat, wood smoke, the remains of sandalwood, and a musk all his own.
Desire spiked through her. Elizabeth wanted to taste apples and gin on his lips. She wanted to lay beside him. She wanted him to pull her close.
She wanted...
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“Lizzy,” Elizabeth breathed.
“This is not wise.”
“I do not wish to be wise.”
“Please, Miss—Lizzy, do not tempt me. I do not know if I can remain a gentleman with you so close, and none to chaperone us.”
“I want my future husband, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, to put his arms around me and—”
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to stammer. A part of her trembled at the prospect of consummating her vows before she’d even taken them, and yet, had he not proven himself more than true? They had the special license. They would wed. A day or two in either direction made little difference.
Elizabeth said, “I want my future husband to kiss me and... keep me warm.”
Her mother and aunt had given her advice for her wedding night and some indication of the process, which had sounded both more confusing and less painful than the mating habits of horses and goats she had seen throughout her village life. She understood kissing and the hot, tickling desire it sent through her.
Mr. Darcy turned to her, his fingers brushing down the path of her spine to rest near her bottom. In this firelight, his eyes were dark. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Elizabeth nodded, lifting her chin.
Mr. Darcy’s lips brushed hers. The brief touch heightened her desire. Her skin tuned to his touch, and she parted her lips, wanting to taste him. Sweeter than apples, headier than gin.
Elizabeth ran her tongue between her lips as he stared into her eyes. Would he kiss her again?
Instead, Mr. Darcy took her hands. “May I remove your gloves?”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands. Surely these could not be the center of his attention?
Mr. Darcy laughed. His mirth eased some of the nervousness settling in her chest. He pulled at the fingers of her gloves, freeing one hand and then the other. He kissed her knuckles, and she lifted her fingers to brush the stubble on his cheeks.
“May I kiss you again?” he asked.
“Please.”
Now Mr. Darcy took command, his mouth pressing against hers, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips as he pulled her closer. Her stays were too tight, and too much fabric separated them. An ache pulsed from her core, frantic with a need she could not express in words.
“Mr. Da—”
“Will.”
“What?”
Mr. Darcy laughed. “I think we are beyond proper names, Lizzy,” he said, his voice low as he kissed her again.
Elizabeth smiled. “Will,” she said, slipping an arm around his waist. She had kissed before, slipping away with the miller’s second son in the assembly hall’s garden during one of the dances. She had enjoyed it, and the solidity of his broad shoulders, his unknown masculine form. But that kiss was a puff of smoke in comparison to the blaze Mr. Darcy’s ignited.
Goodness! Now Elizabeth understood why some ladies so easily sacrificed virtue for sin. Ruin.
Elizabeth would gladly have Mr. Darcy, her Will, ruin her forever if the ruin brought such passion.
Mr. Darcy swept fingers through her hair, pulling free the pins and letting her curls fall in a heavy mane over her shoulders before he pulled her down beside him. They lay side by side, facing each other. Their kisses grew more heated as his tongue tickled her lips and she parted them.
Never had Elizabeth kissed a man, gentleman or not, like this. Hot and wet and so close.
Desperate for touch, she pressed herself against him. Elizabeth’s breasts ached, and her nipples hardened as they rubbed against her chemise and stays, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through her.
Closer.
Mr. Darcy ran his palm over her hip, and her core pulsed with desire. She was slick there, like something in a dream that left her waking full of need and the desire to slide her finger inside to relieve some unknown pressure. Elizabeth’s face heated. Ordinarily, she pushed such thoughts and dreams from her mind, vanquishing them in her morning ablutions or, in the worst case, through vigorous exercise.
The heat of the fireplace and her need mingled, making her clothes both too tight and too warm. The hard line of his manhood pressed against her thigh. Knowing this was somehow meant to fit inside her, Elizabeth’s need succumbed a moment to confusion and fear.
How?
“You are so beautiful,” Mr. Darcy whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
Elizabeth was not certain how one responded to such an endearment when she felt so little herself. Her clothing was in disarray with bits of dirty straw still clinging to her hair and skirts, and then there was this unladylike need. Fascination with him, his touch, and the conflicting needs to heighten and ease this growing pressure.
Pleasure.
“I have a special gown for our wedding night,” Elizabeth confessed, grateful to the firelight for hiding evidence of her embarrassment. The word ‘gown’ had seemed an understatement upon looking at the flimsy garment of silk and lace her aunt had given her in secret for her wedding night. Elizabeth had debated if she would have the will to meet her husband in such a scant frock.
It was hardly an improvement now, draped in dusty skirts, stays uncomfortably tight.
Were the affairs between man and wife meant to be so awkward?
“I should like to see it,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth slipped her arm beneath his, mapping the muscles of his back as he reached behind her, loosening at the laces of her gown. He kissed her lips, her jaw, her throat.
She lifted her chin, offering herself. Her nipples ached for his touch.
“Lay back,” Mr. Darcy said, and helpless to his will and her desire, she did as he asked.
He kissed the swell of her breasts as his fingers swept over the fabric shielding her nipples. His touch, even so removed, sent pleasure from those hard nubs through her body, a wave washing through her core. Her back arched as she squirmed beneath him, wanting more.
He slipped a hand inside her bodice and freed one breast. Holding it in his hand, he swept his thumb over the hard peak of her exposed nipple. The touch was maddeningly light. She squirmed, desperate for him to touch her again.
“May I kiss you?”
“Ye—yes?”
Mr. Darcy lowered his lips to her breast, kissing along the swell towards her aching nipple. He took it into his mouth, a kiss of lips and tongue, teasing pleasure. Heedless of propriety, she pushed herself to him. As he kissed her, he caressed her still bound breast with his other hand. The pleasure rose, heightening her need until she squirmed, moaning beneath him.
When the fever of pleasure from his ‘kiss’ approached pain, he turned his attention to her other breast, his thigh between her now parted legs. Shamelessly, she rubbed her womanhood against him, the slickness of her need growing beneath his attentions.
When he pulled away, Elizabeth whimpered. The pleasure ached, and she reached to pull him to her. He lay, heavy atop her, kissing mouth to mouth as she rubbed languidly against him.
It was his turn to moan, his hips rutting against her. She wondered how the hard line of his manhood would fit inside her. Less frightening now in this wave of increasing pleasure and need. She swung her leg around him, encouraging him closer.
“Vixen,” he breathed as the hard line of his manhood, through his breeches and her skirts, pressed against the seam of her slick womanhood. His expression tightened a moment as if in pain.
Elizabeth froze. “Does it hurt?”
“No.” Darcy took a breath. “No,” he repeated and chuckled, low in his throat. “I must—” He breathed again. “I want you, Lizzy. Too much.”
“I, as well.”
“You are an innocent.”
Elizabeth hardly felt innocent, engaging in these sinful acts with a man not yet her husband.
Wanton, yes.
Wicked, certainly.
“I do not wish to remain an innocent,” Elizabeth said. In the interests of wickedness, she rutted against him again. “The fire is warm enough,” she said. “We will not catch a chill, no matter what clothing we shed.”
Elizabeth was so hot with need, she doubted she would have a care for the temperature regardless, fire or no.
“I see,” Mr. Darcy said. He pulled away from her, taking the leg she had hooked around him by the foot and pressed a kiss to the inside of her stockinged calf, just above the top of her boot. “First, we must take care not to muddy the duvet.”
Elizabeth gasped as he lifted her skirt higher, kissing her above her knee, where her stocking met bare flesh, and then on the tender flesh of her inner thigh.
“Stop it!” she admonished, even as the scent of her desire washed over him.
“You wish to leave your boots on?” He kissed her again. And again. His tongue tickled a nonsense pattern.
“You are not taking off my boots,” Elizabeth said, her voice raising as he placed a hand on either side of her knees and parted her legs.
“It is your fault for being so distracting.”
“A husband does not blame—” She gasped again as he dipped his head beneath her skirt and kissed a hot, wet trail towards her aching womanhood. Wetness gathered inside her, a pulsing desire that made her wonder what it would be like to have him touch her there. Kiss her... there?
It seemed beyond wicked. Nothing she had imagined or known she wanted.
A secret kiss.
“Mr. Darcy!”
A muffled word. “Will.” His breath tickled the hair of her secret place.
Elizabeth shut her eyes. “Will,” she breathed.
He teased again at her seam and then plunged his tongue inside, licking, tasting.
Pleasure rose, making her shake and gasp. She grasped the duvet, heedless of her stays or how foolish she must appear or how awkward her wetness must feel against his lips.
To the devil with her boots.
Mr. Darcy’s tongue took Elizabeth to greater and greater heights, and she rutted, desperate, as he slipped a finger inside. Something tightened, and she could not think.
Pleasure washed through her in pulsing waves as she cried out his name.