Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not pleased. Elizabeth knew her husband well enough to recognize the twitch in his brow when Elizabeth insisted they not send Philippa back to the school which had tormented her.
But bringing the girl to Pemberley, at least for a while, would not tax them. They had enough room! Philippa was misguided, and if she was to learn proper behavior, she would do better in the arms of her family with a governess at Pemberley. They could only claim the girl as a ward, but with proper guidance, she could do well for herself.
And Elizabeth felt for her. To lose a mother so young, and to then be thrust into a school where students and teachers were all hostile to her? It was no wonder she had run away and gotten herself into trouble.
By the time they reached the Darcys’ townhouse, Philippa had dozed off. Elizabeth shook her awake and guided her to one of the guest rooms. The girl had no clothes, so Elizabeth also lent her a nightrail and morning dress.
Philippa took both of Elizabeth’s hands and squeezed them. "Thank you! I cannot thank you enough."
"Nonsense," Elizabeth said. "We will have a servant get you out of that costume, and—"
"I can manage. So long as you untie the stays. Mrs. Adams knotted them. She was our neighbor, and I gave her my purse money so I could stay the week."
Elizabeth asked, “What had you planned from there?"
Philippa looked down and shook her head.
"No matter. You will stay here, for now, and then…"
"Can I live with you and Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth knew better than to make a girl this promise without discussing it with her husband. She said, "Mr. Darcy and I will discuss it. But whatever happens, you will not go back to that place or anywhere else that treats you shabbily. You have my word."
Philippa squeezed Elizabeth’s hands again. "Thank you," she said.
"And no running off. Do you understand?"
Philippa nodded.
Elizabeth smiled again. "Good. Turn around.” Elizabeth untied the girl’s stays and helped her disrobe. She said, "Your clothing is with Mrs. Adams?”
“Yes.”
“Be certain to give us her address in the morning so we may send for your things."
Elizabeth opened her arms, and the girl fell into her embrace and squeezed. Elizabeth kissed her brow. "Go to sleep. Things will be easier in the morning."
When Philippa was abed, Elizabeth left, closing the door softly, her slippered footsteps muffled by the hallway carpeting. She called one of the maids. "Miss Philippa will be with us in the morning. Be sure she knows to join us for breakfast at half ten."
The maid, in her nightclothes, curtsied. Elizabeth said, "I'm sorry to disturb your sleep."
Before the woman could work out a polite answer, Elizabeth turned back to her husband's rooms. She hesitated, hand curled to knock as she glanced at her ridiculous costume. The wig, at least, felt straight again.
Elizabeth rapped three times on the door.
"Come in, Lizzy."
Her husband had taken off his boots, though he remained dressed. Even the mask was in place. Elizabeth sat on the bed beside him.
Fitzwilliam said, "You cannot mean to bring Philippa to Pemberley?"
"It is the best solution. The child is lonely, and any school will give her the same troubles. We will treat her as our blood and not a bastard."
Darcy said, "I feared that was what you meant in the carriage. Elizabeth, you are with child. I cannot ask you to take on this extra burden."
Elizabeth smiled. "It is no burden. She will be company for Emma and Aldous. And having a governess we choose and oversee will allow Philippa a much better start than leaving her with strangers in town."
"She is my cousin’s daughter."
"And what has he done for her?"
Fitzwilliam sighed. "We can have her visit and see how well she does."
Elizabeth grinned. She took her husband’s hands. He had removed the gloves, and they met, skin to skin. "I love you. You must know that."
"I know it," he said. "But how could you doubt my love and believe me unfaithful?" The pain in her husband’s voice cut Elizabeth.
Fitzwilliam had not accepted her excuse. In truth, Elizabeth had not expected him to do so. Her husband was an intelligent man. Elizabeth said, “I wished to believe you. And it was wrong of me to suspect. Mrs. Dorset—"
"The one who always visits at teatime? I think she may have tried to steal our cook."
"When you were going to town so often, for no reason I could discern, she said all men have mistresses.”
“And you believed her!”
“No! Not at first. But there was this." Elizabeth lifted her skirts, reached into the pocket tied about her waist, and handed him the letter. "I know it was not as it seemed—"
"You were in my study?"
"I did not open any of the letters in your desk," Elizabeth said, though fishing his correspondence from the waste bin was only a step better. "I know it was foolish of me. And wrong. The thought of losing you frightened me so. Please, forgive me." She looked up into her husband's eyes.
What if he did not forgive her? She had rifled through his correspondence, even if she had not opened it. But, too, he had told her nothing of taking on a ward.
Fitzwilliam brushed his fingers over Elizabeth’s temple, taking a tuft of the wig hair and pinching it between his fingers." When I saw you, your breasts straining in this garment, the fall of your hair over your shoulder, I wanted you. I have never been tempted to forsake my vows, but your teasing tempted me." He let go of her hair, brushing his thumb along the crest of her ear and down her jaw before gripping the back of her neck. "I do not believe I am ready as yet to forgive you for that."
Elizabeth trembled. The strength of his hand and the left corner of his mouth, lifting as he studied her, awoke a heat. She ran her tongue between her lips. "Fitzwilliam?"
"Mr. Darcy," he said. "I think tonight I should like a mistress and not a wife." With his free hand, he reached beside him and took her mask. "Put it on and lay down."
Elizabeth shivered again, but the curl of desire at her core and heat between her legs made clear how much she wanted this. Him.
Elizabeth rested the mask on her face and climbed up onto the bed, lying back against the pillows with her legs parted.
"I think I shall make you work for your forgiveness."
"Yes," Elizabeth said, her breath hitching as he ran his fingers along her calf, lifting her skirts. The heat of his fingertips teased her skin.
"Yes, Mr. Darcy," her husband said, and Elizabeth repeated it. He planted a kiss on her inner thigh. "Good. How wanton my mistress. How hungry for me. Shameful." He kissed her again, his lips moving towards the slick seam between her legs. Her hips lifted, wanting him.
He smacked her thigh. "Not yet, Miss Eliza. It is you who must earn my forgiveness."
Miss Eliza. Elizabeth caressed the words in her mind. Yes, for tonight, she would be Miss Eliza and he Mr. Darcy.
How novel...
Beneath the mask, Elizabeth licked her lips.
Mr. Darcy crawled between her legs and knelt over her. Placing a thumb on the pulse of her neck, he pressed down lightly with one hand while teasing her earlobe with his tongue and teeth.
Pleasure sparked through her. She squirmed, her body wishing to feel him against her, but Darcy whispered, "Soon, my sweet.”
And then he undid her. He nibbled, licked, and teased her neck, pulling pleasure from her collarbone and her bare shoulder.
Her stays were too tight, and the mask obscured her vision of his movements, so she traced his movements by sensation.
Fitzwilliam rocked against her, the fabric separating them sparking pleasure even as she craved the velvet heat of him sliding into her wetness.
"So needy, Miss Eliza?"
Elizabeth asked, "But what of your wife?"
"Do not speak of my wife. I have yet to forgive her. Sit up so I might shed you of this frock."
Elizabeth lifted her back from the pillow, and Darcy, straddling her, his manhood tenting his breaches, untied her gown and worked at her stays.
Elizabeth, in deference to the child, three months along inside of her, had not tied them tightly, a precaution she was grateful for as her husband’s… No… Mr. Darcy's ministrations already took her breath. He pulled her frock down over her shoulders, and Elizabeth, agreeably, pulled her arms from the sleeves to offer herself. She wished to kiss him, but the mask made kissing impossible. Instead, she caressed his sides, pulled off his coat, and began making work of his cravat, now wrinkled and hanging askew.
Darcy let her work at his clothing until he finished with her final knot and said, "Lift your arms."
Elizabeth did as he ordered, and Mr. Darcy pulled the stays over her head, tossing the garment onto the floor.
Her breasts, thickening like her waist as her body prepared for the child, lay exposed.
Elizabeth untied the cravat and made quick work of his shirt, running her fingers through the thick patch of hair on Mr. Darcy's chest. She loved how it tickled her fingers. He untied his breaches, pulling them over his waist and off, leaving only his small clothes and his manhood, thick and hard beneath.
Elizabeth took him in hand through the thin fabric. Gripping him at the base, she stroked upwards. Moisture seeped through the fabric, a small circle of wetness, evidence of his desire.
Elizabeth wished to taste it. She sometimes did, licking him about his head, though he was quick to push her away after a few moments to slide himself inside her womanhood.
A mistress would take him in her mouth. A mistress would do all manner of things a wife could not.
Elizabeth slid her hand inside his small clothes, running her fingers over the head to gather some moisture. Her husband preferred her hand slick. And then she pleasured him.
Mr. Darcy's small movements, eyes falling half shut as his hips hitched in time with her strokes, stirred Elizabeth’s desire to a hotter flame. She slid the small clothes down, below his hips, freeing him. He was flushed and wet at the tip. The sweat of their exertions had made the place between her breasts warm and slick. A wife would never have him there, but a mistress?
She pulled him closer, directing his manhood to the valley of her bosom.
"Lizzy?"
"Miss Eliza. Your mistress." She guided him closer.
His manhood between her breasts was odd but not unpleasing. And the widening of her husband’s eyes—Mr. Darcy's eyes—and his moans of pleasure made her smile beneath the mask. She pushed her breasts together tighter around him. Would he spill on her?
Her core cried for friction, and the brief brushes of her frock against her mound was a punishment. Was not this torture of pleasure and wanting enough penance? She had doubted her husband’s fidelity, and now, she paid the price.
And what a price.
"Oh!" He took both her hands and placed them over her head. His manhood leaked at the dip of her collarbone as her breasts fell aside. He had not spilled, though his desire leaked hot against her skin. "Miss Eliza," he took a shuddering breath, his manhood tracing a path from her collarbone, between her breasts, and down her belly to rest its base over the curls of her mound. "You are a marvel."
Elizabeth smiled again. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy.
With his free hand, Mr. Darcy pulled her mask away and kissed her lips. He pressed himself against her, his manhood rocking at her seam, and she met his tongue, desperate for his touch. Her breasts ached. Her body ached with desire and love.
They parted, his nose brushing Elizabeth’s. "When will you forgive me, Mr. Darcy?"
"Soon." He kissed down her jaw and neck, and breast, taking her nipple into his mouth and sucking.
Elizabeth arched her back. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just as she liked it. She moaned.
Mr. Darcy pulled away. "Very soon," he said, smiling.