Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

“Did he explain why?” Lizzy asked.

“Not with complete clarity, no. He smiled regretfully and pleaded, ‘pressing business affairs that pull us away from the delightful company of our family.’ He has been effusive in his apologies but firm. They are packing as we speak.”

“How odd and how sudden. Was a missive delivered today as the cause of his urgency?”

“Not that we are aware. Who can say, Lizzy? The entire affair is so strange. Why come so far for a week’s visit?” She shook her head, steering into the parlor and missing Darcy’s muttered Why indeed as she continued to speak. “I do apologize for the histrionics, Mr. Darcy. I fear the day may be unpleasant.”

The latter was an understatement. Mrs. Bennet refused to be consoled. Lydia cried and expressed deep remorse at leaving one moment only to then rhapsodize over “her darling Wickham’s” promise to holiday at Brighton once his business in Portsmouth concluded. What he had to do in Portsmouth remained a mystery. No one directly asked the question and Wickham was strangely quiet.

The minuscule amount of delight Mr. Bennet experienced at seeing his youngest daughter after so many years had rapidly dissipated upon noting she was as foolish and noisy as ever. Wickham, despite being respectful and pleasant, had never been forgiven by Mr. Bennet for his despicable conduct and the scandalous affair with Lydia that had nearly brought ruin upon the entire family.

Mr. Bennet silently endured his wife’s ranting for a time before speaking. “Mrs. Bennet, we are all greatly grieved at the imminent emptiness to our family, but surely you would not wish a man as important and influential as our daughter’s fine husband to shirk his responsibilities? Imagine the negative cast this would place upon our dearest Mrs. Wickham if her husband were to gain a reputation as feckless and unprincipled.”

Mr. Bennet directed his gaze toward Wickham, who startled at the softly spoken double entendre and then flushed with anger before composing himself.

To Darcy, Wickham said nothing, not even a farewell beyond a slight incline of his head and an indecipherable smirk. Darcy was unconvinced it was that simple, but nevertheless, watching the Wickhams’ carriage wheeling away on the southwestern road skirting London was encouraging. His greatest relief was when they arrived at the palatial townhouse on Grosvenor Square that evening.

At Darcy House he was in charge and the familiarity of the townhouse pacified his soul. Of course, he did march about much as a general before the deciding battle, reiterating his usual requirements for security and privacy, and extending fresh demands for limiting unknown visitors and increasing protection to his wife and children when he was away. Darcy never lifted his voice above its normal sonorant baritone, nor did he punctuate his orders with gestures or repetition, yet there was never a doubt to any of the staff as to the seriousness of his instructions or the implied consequence if they failed. They responded to his orders with brisk, almost military efficiency.

It was late when he entered their first floor bedchamber. He opened the door from his dressing room slowly, sure that Elizabeth would be fast asleep. But, to his immediate delight and swelling desire, she was not abed but out in the garden somewhere as the patio doors were widely gaping. He found her sitting on the smoothed stones topping the short wall that surrounded the private courtyard outside their bedchamber. She was gazing at the stars visible through the waving branches of the elm that shaded the terrace but turned at his silent entry. She smiled, nestling happily into the ready embrace he offered as he sat onto the ledge beside her.

“I never can sneak up on you,” he spoke into her hair, voice vibrant with love and humor, “no matter how stealthy I try to be.”

Lizzy laughed, squeezing his arms and lacing fingers between his where they rested on her abdomen. She rotated the gold band that resided on his left hand, the unblemished metal a constant reminder of his unwavering commitment and love. “It is not a negative commentary to your stalking skills, my love. Rather, a testament to our bonding as I am always aware when you are near. My heart feels your every heartbeat and my soul hears your every breath,” she said in a lilting cadence with latent laughter.

“Now who is the poet? Abounding in romantic emotion tonight, my lover? Anything I can do to assist you in your sentimental attitude?” He accented his whispered question with several well-placed kisses to her neck.

“It was a poor attempt, albeit the truth, and meant as a hint for you to recite poetry of your own.”

He chuckled that singular rich tone of pleasure released against the skin at the bend of her shoulder that sent shivers of excitement cascading down her spine, settling into a private zone deep within her belly that only he could reach. He held her firmly against his chest, heart powerfully beating a soothing rhythm, heat infusing her skin through the thin layers of fabric that separated their flesh, arms sturdy but muscles relaxed as they surrounded her lithe form. His hands were motionless where they clasped hers and lips gentle as they wandered leisurely.

Largely it was indefinable, but Lizzy sensed in every touch and breath from her beloved that he was restored to the man of power and confidence that she had married.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was a curious dichotomy. At once a man of superior intellect and sharp decisiveness who met and resolved the challenges that came his way with barely a blink, while also being a man who required constancy and formula in his life, abhorring any upset to the careful balance he craved. When the two collided, his internal poise was shaken even as he dealt with the crisis head-on. Only one extremely close to him, and that primarily was his wife, ever perceived the struggle waging inside. When the waters calmed and that yearned for composure was once again attained, she knew it.

Her voice was dulcet, barely audible when she spoke. “You have satisfied your worries? Do you feel peace in the situation?”

“I would likely be happier at Pemberley, but, yes, I am at peace. You know how I despise being out of my routine, Elizabeth. It has forever been a fault of my character. Father laughed at me constantly, wondering how I could so enjoy traveling when it annoyed me to be in unfamiliar environs with strangers.” He laughed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it. “I cannot explain it and am aware of the absurdity, but no matter how I delighted in journeys to foreign lands or learning new customs and ancient history, my muscles did not unwind until breathing the air of Derbyshire and laying eyes on Pemberley’s pinnacles.”

He turned her body gently, hands smoothing over the softness of her cheeks, and eyes soft in the moonlight as he gazed upon her face. “There are many questions to be answered and we will remain cautious. But right now I am in my second favorite abode on this earth, my children and sister are asleep in the rooms above us, and I am holding the woman I love more than my own life in my arms. The stars are sparkling, the moon is glowing, the pure fragrance of lilac and cut grass is deliciously invading my nostrils, and the lulling music of bubbling water falling over rocks fills the air. Furthermore, after kissing you, my lovely, precious Elizabeth, until you are pliant and breathless with desire I know I shall make love with you until we are utterly satiated. How could I not feel peace in such an atmosphere?”

“Now who is the poet, Fitzwilliam?”

“I shall recite the masters for you, darling, if that is your wish, but I prefer to express the poetry of love with my mouth and hands upon your skin.”

“My goodness, both a poet and a wit! How marvelously blessed I am.”