Page 11 of Penned By Mr Darcy
And yet…
When I close my eyes, I see her. Not in some chaste abstraction, but vividly. As though she stands before me, her hair loosened from its fastenings, dark curls tumbling freely about her shoulders as no man has ever seen her before. I imagine the line of her throat, the delicate pulse at its base, and my hands—God help me—my hands against her skin, tracing the curve from shoulder to waist as though she were mine to touch.
She is not mine. She will never be mine. And yet, my body and my mind betray me.
I think of her lips—how quick they are with wit and humour, how rarely they tremble, plush and generous though they be. I imagine them parting beneath mine, not in speech, but insurrender. I would taste the words before she could speak them. I would steal her silence for myself.
And her eyes—those infernal eyes, too full of fire and intellect—they undo me. I see them even now, looking up at me in the dark, her cheeks flushed not from fever but from need, her voice hushed as she says my name not in scorn but in plea.
I want to hear her whisper it.
I want her to scream it.
I wonder how she would react beneath my touch. Would she melt into it slowly, or resist until her restraint cracked and her passion surged to meet mine? I crave all of her. Her defiance, her heat. Her surrender.
But even now, in writing this, I feel the shame of it pressing upon me. To reduce an unknowing young lady to this role in my basest fantasies without her consent to think of her thus… it is an affront to who she is and her position in the world.
And yet I cannot stop.
What curse have I fallen under, that I should think of her this way? That I should hold such strong feelings for a woman who is quite open in her contempt towards me – and, in all honesty, this is a contempt I have occasionally shared. There is no possible way that two people, so mismatched in both humour and circumstance, could ever make a happy pair.
Oh, but if I could try…If I could know her sweet embrace, the feel of her lips against mine, the tender curves of her body with no obstruction…
I must put an end to this. Tomorrow I shall not speak to her. I will avoid her gaze. I will fortify myself against this madness. My body and mind will be made of steel, unreceptive and strong against this misguided longing.
But tonight…
Tonight, I will think of her. In dreams, at least, there is no need for honour..
He leaned back, his breath heavy and cock hard in his breeches. He looked down at the terrible, shameful words. He tore the page from his diary at once, though he had written over two pages so the first, more innocent part of his entry remained. He stared down at it, ready to rip it in half.
He could not bear to.
It was not enough; he wanted to burn it, commit the words and the thoughts to ashes. He walked on unsteady legs over to the fire and dropped the page into the fireplace, turning away at once and walking out of the room.
Once inside his own chamber, dismissing his waiting valet at once, he sat down on the bed, still fully clothed. The room, which was lightly spinning around him, felt too hot, too small. He wanted to be at home, at Pemberley, far away from Elizabeth Bennet.
He wished he had never met her. He would have been quite content never knowing this unpleasant sensation. Was it love, the way his heart quickened when she entered a room?
It could not be love, for love was not as base or as vulgar as the thoughts he was consumed with. At this moment, it was surely the drink that was clouding his judgement. He rarely drank so much, and he could not blame Miss Elizabeth. It was his own discomfort that led him to this path, where he could scarcely see straight and his stomach roiled. What a state he had got himself into; never again. If he had to remove himself from her presence, then he would.
He would not be defeated by Elizabeth Bennet.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth
Jane slept soundly that night; the same could not be said for Elizabeth, who lay awake beside her, keeping watch over her sister’s health. When she had returned the evening before, Jane’s fever had flared again, her cough harsher than ever. That she managed to find any rest at all seemed a small miracle—one for which Lizzy was, of course, grateful.
Had Jane required her attention, it might have distracted her from the tangle of thoughts surrounding Mr Darcy. But with nothing to do but think, Elizabeth spent long, restless hours staring at the ceiling, puzzling over his strange behaviour.
She rose before dawn, slipping into a plain gown. She would change again before breakfast, but for now, she wished only to be presentable in case anyone encountered her at such an early hour. At Longbourn, she would have thought nothing of roaming about in her nightgown and wrapper, but the prospect of facing Miss Bingley in a such a state of undress was too dreadful to consider.
Gently, she laid a hand on Jane’s forehead and was comforted to find it cooler. She pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek, smiling asJane murmured in her sleep. Then, with a final look, Elizabeth quietly stepped out into the hushed corridor.
She couldn't be certain of the hour, though she guessed it was no later than five. The house lay cloaked in silence, still untouched by morning stirrings. Soon the maids would be up, tending the fires. Until then, the quiet was almost tangible. Elizabeth made her way to the library, hoping to find a book even duller than the one Mr Darcy had suggested the day before—something dry enough to still the tumult of her thoughts.
The library greeted her like a shadowed kingdom, vast and hushed, its shelves towering in quiet majesty – somehow even more magnificent in near-darkness than in broad daylight. As she stepped inside, she drew in a deep breath, the scent of parchment, ink, leather filling her lungs. She sighed contentedly. It was one of her favourite smells in the world, rivalled only by the scent of the air after a heavy rainfall, and honeysuckle on a hot summer’s day.
