Page 41 of Desired By Mr Darcy
The wedding took place on an impossibly bright November morning, the air crisp but gentle, the last of autumn’s golden leaves trembling on their branches. Sunlight poured down in ribbons of gold, illuminating the path to the church, where a hush of anticipation had fallen over the gathered guests. The scent of late roses from Longbourn’s garden clung to Lizzy’s bouquet, their fragrance mingling with the cool, clean bite of the season.
Lizzy had always wondered what sort of bride she would be. She had known she would never possess Jane’s angelic grace. Her sister seemed to float rather than walk, radiating a soft beauty that made even the hardest of hearts tender. Nor was she the sort to blush prettily beneath her veil, casting down her eyes in demure modesty. No, Lizzy had met Mr Darcy’s gaze with steady confidence as they exchanged vows, her voice strong and clear. The day had been a whirl of handshakes and laughter, congratulations and warm embraces, of Mr Bingley’s effusive cheer and her father’s dry, affectionate wit. Even her mother had been momentarily silenced by the grandeur of the occasion, her usual fluttering nerves subdued by the reality of her daughter marrying so well.
As evening fell, both sets of newlyweds had departed Longbourn for Netherfield, where they would spend their first night as married couples. Lizzy stood alone in her temporary bedroom.Despite the time she had previously spent here, the house was unfamiliar to her still, grander and more refined than her childhood home, yet touched with a warmth she had not expected. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, and the scent of beeswax and lavender polish filled the air. It was a room that had been prepared thoroughly for its guests and the purpose of the night, and Lizzy could not help but feel something obscene in it.
She stood in front of the dressing table mirror, her reflection staring back at her. Her wedding gown, exquisite in its simplicity, still clung to her frame, though her veil and shoes had been discarded after the long day. Her dark curls had loosened from their careful arrangement, framing her face with wayward strands. Her eyes searched her own expression, looking for something - some sign of transformation, some tangible proof that she had crossed the threshold from Elizabeth Bennet to Elizabeth Darcy.
She felt no different. And yet, she was.
She studied herself, looking for a change. She was Mrs Darcy, the gold band on her left hand signifying her new title. Her hair was still wild, tumbling free from the elaborate style it had been placed in that morning. Her cheeks were still pleasantly plump, rosy with happiness. Her eyes, they seemed the same too.
There was a knock at the door, startling her from her assessment.
“Come in,” she called, smoothing out her dress.
Her new lady’s maid entered, a shy young thing by the name of Hetty who had been sent from Pemberley to attend her, carrying a bundle of fabric in her arms.
“Good evening, ma’am. I have some nightgowns from your trousseau, and I thought you would like to decide which you liked best.”
“Thank you.”
Hetty took care to hang each of the white gowns up, and Elizabeth stared at them all, trying to see the difference between the seemingly identical lace edged gowns. Each one was exquisite, she knew that, and quite the finest thing she would ever sleep in. She reached out, feeling the smooth cotton beneath her fingers. She lingered on one without sleeves; her mind told her she would be cold, but the beast of lust told her that Fitzwilliam would be able to admire her body most easily in that one.
“This one, I think.”
“Very good, ma’am. There is water for your bath, and lavender oil.”
“Lovely.”
She sank into the blissfully hot water, the tension that she had long carried melting away, her eyes closing as she allowed herself to float as though she weighed nothing at all.
The day had passed in a golden haze, a blur of vows and whispered promises, of Jane’s joyful tears and her mother’s delighted exclamations. And of him - always him. The warmth of his hand around hers, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he spoke her name before the gathered assembly. Elizabeth Darcy.
Now, at last, she was alone.
The weight of it all - the joy, the change, the anticipation - pressed upon her as she sank deeper into the warm water. She let out a slow breath, her fingers trailing idly across the surface, watching the ripples catch the candlelight. The scent of lavendercurled around her, soothing and familiar, yet nothing about this night felt ordinary.
She was married.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought. The ceremony had been perfect, the reception lively and filled with laughter. Yet through it all, she had been aware of him, of the way his gaze lingered, dark with unspoken words.
And now, Fitzwilliam would come to her.
Her skin heated - not from the water, but from the thought of what was to come. They had stolen kisses, shared moments that had left her breathless, but tonight was different. Tonight, there would be no interruptions, no hurried goodbyes.
Tonight, she would be his in every way. He would be hers too, of course; she wished them to be two bodies entwined, their hearts and souls as one. She ached for him, that now-familiar burning between her thighs returning at the very thought of him.
She took the cloth, running it over her body as she cleaned herself. Her eyes closed, the cloth drifted from her hand as she traced her body with only her fingers. She let out a slow breath, her fingers gliding over the curves of her skin, following the trails of water that slipped down her body. The warmth of the bath surrounded her, steam curling in the air, blurring the edges of the room.
Her mind drifted, lost in the sensation, in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of the day melted away, carried off by the water’s gentle embrace. She lingered, fingertips mapping the softness of her own skin, the steady rise and fall of her breath grounding her in the present.
A distant sound—perhaps the creak of a floorboard or the whisper of wind against the window—pulled her back to awareness. Slowly, she opened her eyes, watching thecandlelight flicker and cast shadows against the ceiling. The cloth floated beside her, half-submerged, forgotten for the moment.
She exhaled, sinking deeper into the water, letting herself be consumed by its warmth once more.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
“Ma’am?” Hetty’s voice was gentle. “Shall I help you dress?”
