Page 54 of Pride, Prejudice, & Pretense

She had been lucky, she knew. Tonight she had endured something she had so far avoided.

After taking a couple of steps inside, Lizzy pivoted. Darcy had shut the apartment door, and when he turned to face her, she slammed herself into him, her lips on his, her arms hugging his neck.

The act was spontaneous, unpremeditated?unless her continued, agitated fascination with the ring Darcy gave her or with his proposal counted as premeditation, and neither did. Nothing moving inside her had risen to the level of consciousreflection, of thought she shared with herself. She simply needed to be touched by someone she wanted to touch her.

Not just someone. Ned. Darcy. She wanted Darcy's hands to erase the fleshly memory of Wickham's.

The truth was that she had been addled since the proposal, and the addlement had deepened the previous night when she saw Darcy and his scars. Though she hadn’t fully realized it as he spoke, his proposal had contained a vulnerability that had touched her. It was a vulnerability that seemed real,really real, not pretense. And then, seeing his scars, real scars…they had made him seem more vulnerable still.

She had seen past the stiffness, formality, and pride, and she had finally glimpsed the man. Or perhaps?at least during the proposal?he had stepped out from the stiffness, formality, and pride, and he had allowed himself to be seen. The woman in her had responded. She had been responding to him all along, although the pace and intensity had been accelerated by the proposal and the sight of his scars.

Darcy fell back against the door. His hands at first hung at his sides as Lizzy held herself against him, her body in full-length contact with his, her lips with his lips. He tasted good, as Darcy should taste, wine-dark and male. She opened her mouth, imploring deeper intimacy in the kiss.

His hands rose then and wrapped tightly around her waist, his grip almost but not quite painful in its intensity. She had been pulling herself against him, but he now pulled her to him. One hand slid up her back, to her neck, the side of her face, gently cupping her jaw, caressing her. The other slipped around her waist. Darcy's mouth opened, and she could feel the accelerating bass drumbeat of his heart against her chest. She put her hand on his face, his rough stubble, and opened her mouth even more, her tongue exploring his mouth, touching his tongue.

The dinner party evaporated like a bad dream, the touch of Wickham's hands banished.

It was the finest kiss she had ever had.

And then Darcy gently pushed her away. His eyes lifted from her lips to her eyes. He was panting, his eyes almost swallowed by their pupils. "Elizabeth. I…Agent Bennet, I…"

Lizzy kissed him again lightly. "It'sokay, Fitzwilliam.Please," she said, unsure what exactly she was pleading for.

He returned her kiss but soon pushed her away, determinedly and carefully. His cultured British voice was shaky. "We both drank too much, and it was an exhausting, emotional night. These missions! Wickham—"

"I don't want to think about Wickham for a little while." She leaned her head on his chest.

"Did he touch you?"

Lizzy nodded into his chest, and he stroked her hair tenderly. "I'm sorry. Lady Catherine maneuvered me so that Wickham could maneuver you. I returned as fast as I could."

"It's okay, but I…Iwantyou."There, I said it.

She felt him tremble at her words, his desire racking his body, moving hers. He did not echo her words, but she knew he wanted her, too, and that he spoke to himself as much as to her. "It's a bad idea. Attachments…" he whispered thickly.

Lizzy glanced up and saw his eyes were closed. "I know," she muttered into his shoulder, the scent of him everywhere around her. She buried her face in his sweater.

She felt him kiss her hair.

Then Darcy slipped past her, walked into the living room, and sat on the couch. "We need to debrief, talk to Bingley."

She did not feel exactly rejected, but that did not make the moment easier. She could still taste him and smell him. He was all around her. She lifted her head, walked to the living room, and sat in the armchair.

She sighed. "So, I found a phone number in Wickham's jacket."

Darcy looked up, and Lizzy rattled the number off.

Chapter Thirteen: Vain

Man is as much affected pleasurably or painfully by the image of a thing past or future as by the image of a thing present.

— Spinoza,Ethics

Darcy produced a small piece of paper from his pocket and a pencil like the ones used on a golfing score card, and he wrote the number down. He stared at it for a minute. Lizzy could see the flush still on his cheeks beneath the stubble. "I'll give this to Bingley and have him pass it to the Langley analysts. It may be what we’ve been hoping for, but I'm surprised. It’s not the kind of mistake I would expect Wickham to make—assuming the number isn't just his dry cleaner."

Lizzy nodded, catching Darcy's eyes and holding them. I want you to hold me."He was…eager…to get his arms around me, his hands on me."

Darcy's eyes narrowed and glanced away.

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