Page 55 of Penned By Mr Darcy
“Then I could send you away,” he said softly. “Hand you back the diary and let you discover it alone.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Tell me.”
He drew a sharp breath through his nose, steadying himself. His entire body felt strung tight with restraint. And when he spoke next, it was in a voice he barely recognised as his own - low, raw, and hungry.
“One night,” he began, “I could not sleep. You were only rooms away, and I was restless with thoughts of you. I wondered if you were asleep. I pictured your curls spread about you, like a goddess. And then I imagined - God help me - I imagined I was in your room. That I had come to you not with words, but with my hands, my mouth. That I might kneel beside your bed and press my lips to the space just above your breast. It has often haunted me, for your skin looks to be impossibly soft.”
She sucked in a breath.
“I imagined your voice, quiet and breathless, whispering my name - not in anger or mockery, but in invitation.”
He paused, trembling from the effort it took not to reach for her.
“I imagined the feel of your skin beneath my hands. The sound you would make when I kissed the base of your throat. I allowed myself that indulgence today, and I was right. I have imagined too much, Elizabeth. Far too much. I long to know what else I was right about in my dreams.”
“I dreamt of you.”
“Of me?”
“I did not want to,” she said softly, turning to face him. “It was entirely against my will.”
“When?”
“The first time was at Netherfield.”
“Would you tell me?”
His hand strayed to her waist. She placed her own hand on top of his, keeping him there.
“What is it that makes me feel this way?” she said softly, her eyes fixed upon his. “I have lost my senses, lost my mind. There is nothing that should endear us to one another, Mr Darcy. Nothing at all.”
“Nothing?”
“You despise me.”
“No, I do not. I never did. I did not understand you. And, I think, you did not understand me.”
“I understand you a little better now, I think.”
Her hand still gripped his, and he longed to feel the softness of her skin beneath the gloves she wore. Boldly, he lifted her hand between them. As she stared at him with those dark, intoxicating eyes, he slowly peeled the glove from her. It fell to the ground between them.
The touch of their skin felt like fire, a spark that sent shivers through him.
They stayed like that for some time, hands clasped as they stared at one another.
“I must go,” she said eventually, her hand slipping from his. “Forgive me, sir.”
She bent down, picking up the diary from where it had fallen, discarded without care as they had grown lost in one another. She held it out to him, and when he did not take it, she proffered it more forcefully.
“Here.”
“Finish it,” he said. “There is little left to incriminate me now. It is a terrible thing to leave a book unfinished.”
“I…”
“Do not claim hesitation now, Miss Elizabeth. Take it, and if we never share another moment like this for the rest of our days – you will have a piece of my heart.”
“And now?”
