For the Love of Mr Darcy, page 16
His eyes were hungry as they raked her. She held on to the bedpost again.
“Make it fast,” she purred. “And make it hurt.”
He made a sound like he’d been punched, and went for his breeches. His cock was hard in his hand. He spread her buttocks wide, set his cock against her, hot against slick.
“Christ, woman,” he growled into her ear, “what beast have I unleashed?” And he took her hips and drove himself deep into her.
He pulled out and slammed back in. She lost her balance and fell forward over the bed. He held her hips tight, yanking her back onto him, driving his cock deeper with each thrust.
She gripped the thick, white blanket, arching so that he rubbed that spot inside of her.
This had nothing to do with what Wickham had told her. That is what she told herself as she lifted her knees onto the bed, arching her back further, making him groan as she spread her ass wider.
She heard the crack before she felt the pain sear her backside. She cried out, relishing the pain as it burned, making her juices flow faster.
No, this was not a triumph fuck for having won Darcy, as Wickham seemed to think.
He smacked her ass again, and reached forward to grasp her breasts as they swung beneath her.
It did make her feel especially possessive knowing that he had chosen her over that bitch’s desires. But that isn’t what this was about.
He pushed her down, flat on the bed, and climbed over her. Her legs spread wide, his knees between hers, he rocked into her, his thighs slapping her ass, his mouth on her shoulder. She breathed into the mattress, panting and gasping. She felt the sharp sting as he bit her shoulder, hard enough to hurt, but not to break skin. Lizzy gasped, crying out, and turning her head to kiss him. Rough and loud.
Deep inside her, deep enough that it hurt, he heard her cry, saw her wince, and drove harder. She bucked, gripping the sheets harder, her mouth opening as her orgasm took hold.
He growled into her ear and bit into her shoulder again. And she was lost. She came hard, the waves not just washing over her, but crashing, swallowing her whole, drowning her. She screamed into the mattress, pushing against him, taking him deeper, until she thought he might break her.
And then she felt him stiffen, felt his cock swell and open inside her, filling her, and then he moved again, hard and fast, milking himself into her.
In those last moments he became vicious, pinching her nipples and slamming against her ass. She moaned her pleasure.
When he slowed and finally stopped, still inside, he licked and kissed her shoulder, and rubbed a soothing hand over her sore buttock.
Panting, he rested his forehead between her shoulder blades. She lay beneath him, her smile uncontrollable, a feeling of joy spreading through her. She felt like a sleepy cat with a belly full of cream.
“Shall we re-join the festivities?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Must we?”
His laughed reverberated through her back. “We have many, many nights ahead of us.”
“Yes, fine.” But she smiled and allowed him to help her up and then dress her. They were both slightly rumpled, their faces very flushed, and she was sure she smelled of sex, but she did not care.
Taking her hand, he kissed her once, twice, and they headed back to the party.
The moment they walked into the ballroom, they were converged on. Her bubble of joy was punctured when she looked up and found Wickham watching her. His grin said enough of what he assumed, and she tore her gaze from his.
She could not wait for this fucking party to end.
***
ALONE WITH MR. WICKHAM
Rain drifted across the stained glass windows in the small breakfast room. It wasn’t really small, not in the slightest, but in relation to the rest of Pemberley it was no more than an alcove off the kitchen. A table and benches framed by high windows that overlooked the garden. At the moment that garden was a sodden mess of wilted flowers, muddy divots, and droopy bushes.
It was early still, the sun barely risen over the far off tree line. Elizabeth held her warm teacup between cold fingers, breathing in the scent, letting it warm her nose. She watched the rain fall, collecting in puddles.
This was how she felt, how she imagined she looked to others. But Lizzy was a good hostess. Years of making up for her mother’s lack of grace and reigning in her younger sisters had turned Elizabeth into a damn fine Lady of Pemberley.
While the whole of Pemberley was currently overrun with guests, all happily anticipating the coming Christmas Ball in a week, Elizabeth was dealing with Lady Catherine’s outrageous demands, Kitty’s grumbling mood, Georgiana’s constant complaining about her aunt, and now that the Wickhams and Collinses had arrived, she had to force her face from scowling every time Mr. Collins managed to corner her and ramble on about whatever was occupying his mind at the time.
And Wickham.
She had thought she could handle his coming here, staying in the same home as she, but for the last few days since he arrived, she was finding it more than difficult. He turned up in the oddest places, often when Elizabeth was alone. He lingered in doorways watching her. She caught his eye over meals, the gaze lingering far longer than was decent. More than she cared to admit she noticed, he would brush up against her; his thigh bumping into hers, his fingers brushing the small of her back in passing. It was unnerving.
And it was made even more so with Darcy having been gone for nearly three weeks. She’d gotten letters, but, though he was a talented writer who could make her blush with his words, it was nothing to the real thing.
The only person that had gotten her through the last week was Charlotte, but once Lydia got a hold of her, the two of them dove into planning the ball, and Lizzy had been left to deal with everyone else.
It was for those reasons that Elizabeth found herself up before the sun, sitting in the breakfast room, and watching the rain fall across the windows.
One of the older cooks, Lillian, whom she quite liked for her quiet smiles and seemingly mystical ability to know what Elizabeth was hungry for, had been there when she sat, handing her a steaming cup of tea and a plate of fruit tarts. The bursting colors of the fruit in their sticky syrups had somehow brightened Lizzy’s mood a little.
The sound of the rain plucking against the window picked up as the air shifted. Lizzy felt him before she saw him, smelled him even, something musky and sweet, smoky and dark, like wine and fire.
He sat across from her, his hair disheveled and hanging over his forehead, eyes a bright blue that told her he was not yet drunk, and prickly hairs darkening his jaw. He said not a word, nor looked at Elizabeth while Lillian brought him a cup of tea and a plate of sausages and eggs. He smiled up at the old woman, eyes crinkling at the corners. Lillian smiled down at him, cupping his jaw before leaving them to it.
She would have been here when he was young, back when he and Darcy were boys, and when they were…
Mr. Wickham pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and bent over his plate and ate, paying her no mind. Since she was here first, looking for the sort of solitude she could find in only a handful of places in such a large estate, she would leave when she was well and ready.
His forearms were tanned, the muscles bunching and relaxing as he lifted his fork.
Once he had been Darcy’s dearest friend, and then, secret lover. Once, Wickham had been Elizabeth’s secret fantasy, and, perhaps not so secret, wished-for husband. When she hated Darcy, she found a kindred spirit in Wickham. She had found comfort in his company.
While he was a scoundrel who’d tricked Darcy into giving him money after eloping with her sister, she still found his presence something like a comfort.
She told herself this was because everyone else in the house was making her crazy. Even Jane, who was drifting around the place like a ghost, lost in her thoughts.
Wickham, devil that he may be, was more like Elizabeth than anyone else in Pemberley, and she found comfort in that.
For a long while they sat and ate in silence, the falling of rain and the clink of teacup on saucers the only sounds. Wickham, having finished his, reached across the small table and swiped a glob of raspberry syrup from Lizzy’s and sucked it from his finger. His tongue darted out to catch the bit that slipped down his lip.
Lizzy dropped her eyes to her plate, to the half-eaten tarts, her cheeks slightly warm.
“Have you heard from him?” Wickham’s deep voice was soft, quiet.
Elizabeth nodded, refilling her cup from the teapot. “I received a letter yesterday.”
“How’s business?”
“Well, I assume.” She sipped her tea. “He doesn’t discuss business in our letters.” Looking up, Lizzy found Wickham smiling at her.
“No, he doesn’t.”
Her face warmed again. How many letters had Darcy written to Wickham during those years they were together? Was the content the same?
As if he could read the question on her face, Wickham grinned. “He is as good with a pen as he is with his hands, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lizzy set her teacup down. “I was just thinking how pleasant it was sitting here with you, and then you start talking.”
He laughed, throwing his head back. He wiped his eyes. “Would it make you happy if I pretended to be good?”
She thought about that, about how she was spending most of her time, her energy, pretending to be nice and accommodating, listening to the complaints and demands of others, thinking up solutions that she did not care to see through. She wanted honesty, she wanted debate, she wanted to be real.
“No,” she said. “There’s enough good in the house for both of us.”
His eyes darkened a shade, and he leaned on the table, arms crossed. “Shall we be bad then?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Let’s talk.”
“About what?”
She contemplated that. It was something in his last letter that prompted her, something that, though it was innocent enough, for them anyway, it was nagging at her.
She leaned on the table as well, close enough that she could smell the tea and spice of the sausages on his breath. “You told me once that Darcy was meant to marry Anne and you were willing to be his whore.”
He nodded, eyes revealing nothing. “And you were as well, but without the added bonus of being his mistress.”
She ignored that barb. “You grew up with him, were his closest friend.” He nodded. “And then you were his lover.”
“What are you asking?”
“Who started it? With Darcy and me, it was he who showed me something I didn’t know I wanted.”
Wickham thought, sliding his finger along one of her tarts again, sucking the syrup from the tip. She licked her lips, watching him.
“It was Darcy,” said Wickham. “We came home after riding all day. Sweating, filthy. It was just the two of us, late as it was, and we went right to his room, as we had done many times over the years. I took off my shirt, planning to steal the bath first, and Darcy stopped me. It was quick. Right there against the wall. And I was lost.” Wickham stared at the table, his eyes focused on some memory that Lizzy could not see. And then he shook his head and smiled at her. “I imagine you experienced something similar?”
She only smiled, remembering the Meryton ball where he had first taken her, despite the dislike each had for the other.
“Something similar,” she said finally.
Lillian came from the kitchen. “The others will be coming for breakfast soon,” said she with a knowing look at Elizabeth.
“Thank you.” Lizzy stood, ready to bolt for the garden, but one glance told her that a walk was out of the question. It was pouring outside, rivers of muddy waters snaking along the ground.
Lillian left them, presumably to ready breakfast for the others. Wickham stood as well, adjusting his shirt. “I wanted to ask you, before you run and hide for the day,” he winked.
Lizzy sighed, her anxiety over dealing with the others draining her of any energy in dealing with him.
He came around the table. “In all of your trysts,” said Wickham. He was beside her, his heat warming one side of her body. He leaned close, his lips against her ear and breathed, “Did he ever make you call him master?”
Her lips parted of their own accord. No, Darcy had never made her call him master, though, she would have obeyed if he had.
Wickham went on. “He never allowed me to take control, never gave up that part of himself.” He touched the small of her back lightly. “I think he did love me, but I was never what he truly wanted, needed. He needed someone who would take everything had he to give. I enjoyed it, for a time, but when I sought release elsewhere, as I thought I was allowed given our situation, when I took another to bed who would allow me the control I craved at times, he thought I had betrayed him.”
Elizabeth had only ever wanted Darcy to take control. There was nothing she enjoyed more. Even when they brought Fitzwilliam into their room, she had wanted no part of the control, beyond having a say as to whether it went on. She couldn’t imagine a situation in which she was not allowed to take over, though. Could not see Darcy becoming cruel toward her if she wanted something slightly different.
In that, she felt some pity toward Wickham. He had loved Darcy, she believed that, but Darcy had never been wholly his while still expecting to have all of Wickham.
She could hear the others coming toward the breakfast nook, feet on the cool, slick floor, voices floating down the hall. She turned, her face far closer to Wickham’s than she had realized.
“You have not been with him long, Elizabeth,” said he, his breath on her lips. “Perhaps you will never know what it is to long for him, but, how many nights since getting married has your bed been cold?”
Too many, though she would not admit it out loud. Wickham reached up, his fingers brushing her jaw briefly, and then he left her.
Elizabeth stood, breathless for a moment, before the voices were right outside the door. She turned, meaning to hurry through the kitchen, but Lillian was there, a fresh teapot in hand and a cautious look on her face.
Blushing so hard her neck felt hot, Lizzy slipped down the narrow servants’ hall and disappeared into the maze of back hallways. Once she was far enough away that she could no longer hear the others, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath.
Wickham had no idea what he was talking about. She told herself this over and over. Darcy was different with her. He loved her.
But he had spoken to her about Wickham. She could remember the pain in his eyes when Darcy told her about leaving Wickham, how much it had hurt him.
For all he said and did, she knew, deep in her heart, that Darcy had dearly loved Wickham as well.
Elizabeth climbed the stairs in the library, a letter clutched in her hand. Past rows of tall windows, she could see the whole of Pemberley estate, at the moment, cold, gray, and wet. The drive one long track of mud, and the flowers had a sodden, heavy look to them.
Lizzy could relate.
She paused a moment at a window, her eyes fixed on the end of the drive where enormous oaks blocked her view of the road beyond. Just three weeks ago Darcy had left on business, leaving Lizzy to tend to Pemberley and all of its current guests alone.
She truly hated hosting.
Especially with Wickham in attendance. She had to remember that he was a scoundrel. No matter what he said, his game was tricks and lies. He seemed to delight in others’ discomfort. Hers especially.
The way he looked at her, as though he could touch her with only his eyes.
Climbing the stairs, she found herself daydreaming of Wickham’s mouth on her skin, his hands on her body.
She shook her head fiercely.
She told herself she was reacting to him in this way because she missed Darcy. She had thought that after marrying him they would have endless nights together, but too soon after they were married he was away on business, and she was left to pleasure herself in moments of stolen peace. Which was what had brought her to the library with this letter.
Once, she had longed for Wickham’s touch, but she had since learned of his betrayal toward Darcy and her yearnings had cooled considerably. Still, that did not seem to quiet her lust when she was in need and he was the only male in the home that she could fantasize over.
Just the other night, at dinner, Lizzy sat between Jane and Lydia, Jane looking forlorn and distant, Lydia chatting away with Charlotte about wreaths, when Lizzy tore her concentration from the boring conversation that Catherine and Mr. Collins were having about sermons to find Wickham sitting across from her, staring, once again.
He had not bothered to come to dinner looking presentable, but rather he lounged, leaning back against the chair, his coat lay open, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the long column of his throat. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, or lack thereof, and his eyes, bright as the morning summer sky, burned with a heat so intense that Lizzy’s stomach dropped.
It was a moment before she could tear her eyes from his and cautiously sip her wine. For the rest of the meal, Lizzy kept her gaze averted, but she could feel him watching her.
Despite that interaction, their breakfast this morning had not been unpleasant. Though, that probably had more to do with her irritation at everyone else. While a scoundrel, Wickham was the easiest to deal with out of them all.
And he was still a good-looking man. And she missed her husband dearly.
Lizzy finished her climb, slipped between narrow rows of bookshelves, following the directions in the letter, and found the armchair in her little alcove occupied.
“This is a nice, little spot.”
His voice made Lizzy jump, her heart hammering.
Wickham lounged in her chair, just as disheveled as earlier, but he had tied his hair back.
