The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

caresses and adoring gazes he might draw a conclusion!”

“Oh, Lizzy! You are too harsh!” Kitty exclaimed amid the laughter.

“Of course I am teasing and exaggerating. But Georgie knows the truth of it. But why the secrecy?”

Georgiana shook her head emphatically. “No secrecy, I assure you. Aunt and Uncle, Richard and Simone as well, know of our affections and wishes. Uncle and Richard, as temporary guardians, have given blessings and consent for Mr. Butler to court. It was Sebastian—Mr. Butler, I should say—who requested he properly speak with my brother and formalize our desires.”

“Why did he not accompany you here and speak to Mr. Darcy now?”

“It is your wedding, Kitty. He did not feel it was appropriate. And as much as I miss him and wish for our future to be secured, I have to admit I craved time devoted to my family. I have missed all of you so very much, especially my brother and you, Lizzy.”

“William has missed you as well, dear. I agree it is judicious to focus on one romance at a time! However, surely you do not fear your brother’s displeasure at your choice?”

“No! Oh, how could he? Mr. Butler is a wonderful choice, even if I did not love him fiercely. Nevertheless, I can foresee William being a tiny bit dismayed to have his ‘baby’ sister return after months away with a fiance in tow!”

They all three laughed at that truth, Lizzy breathlessly responding, “He will merely be surprised. Not dismayed in the least. He was impressed with Mr. Butler’s manner and talent when we met at the ball last year. What I am curious of is when your heart was captured. You never hinted of an attraction beyond friendship in any of your letters, deceptive girl! Nor do I recall a particular interest when he played for us, other than enthusiasm for his music. So my curiosity is piqued most high.”

“Yes indeed, it is time! Your story now, Georgiana!”

Georgiana’s dramatic tale of convoluted misconceptions, blossoming love, a classic lover’s triangle, and triumphant mutual accord entertained for a long while. Fresh tea was requested, the sugared cakes devoured, and the fire stirred twice as they laughed and conversed. The night passed the chiming of midnight ere they exhausted the subjects of love and future affinity enough for one sitting.

Major General Randall Artois was determined to get rip-roaring drunk. So drunk that he would need to be carried into the house and poured onto his bed. Inebriated to the point of complete unconsciousness so that even if the house caught on fire he would be unaware. Since reaching such a state of utter intoxication was a task accomplished numerous times in the past, there was every reason to think it could happen again.

So why was it he barely sipped his way through two brandies?

When that plan failed, he thought maybe he could pick a fight with someone. A rousing brawl would either, one, get him knocked unconscious, or two, land him in jail for the night. No better place to cool simmering lust than in jail. He knew that from past experience as well.

But damned if every last man in the pub was so bloody nice that insulting one of them or hauling off and punching for no reason was not an option. And if a small voice inside his head reminded him that those issues had never bothered him before when he felt the urge for a friendly tussle, he told it to bugger off!

Then he prayed that their return to Netherfield would be a quiet one. Everyone would be asleep at one in the morning—everyone, right? They could tiptoe up the stairs to their designated rooms with no one the wiser. Of course, none of the other men had any problem with getting rip-roaring drunk. Not even Mr. Daniels! No amount of shushing stopped the off-key singing and heavy steps, no amount of leading kept them from bumping into every last hall obstacle. It was bedlam and several of the ladies emerged to assist in pouring the drunken menfolk into their beds. He apologized profusely, stating over and over that he had tried to keep them quiet, but the fact that his heart fell when Miss Bennet was not one of the ladies exiting her bedchamber, in her nightwear, revealed his hypocrisy.

An hour later he paced in his room. He had tried to sleep, for about five minutes. He downed another brandy, not that three would have any effect on his level of consciousness. His feet veered toward the door more times than he could count, but whether that was with the intent to lock it—which he had not done—or exit it to skulk down the hall he was not sure.

Oh, who are you fooling, Artois? The only reason you have not gone to her is because you do not know where her room is!

Maybe she does not know where your room is.

And that thought brought him to an abrupt halt. He stared into space, admitting in that moment that he wanted her to come. Had counted on it. And now he felt bereft. Another week did seem an eternity of yearning for her while in her presence and going mad with desire.

“God you are pathetic,” he muttered, “and you are not a gentleman.”

“Yes, you are. A gentleman that is.”

He whirled around, his heart skipping several beats but only partially from fright. It was relief, a dizzying relief that overwhelmed until he thought he would collapse right there on the floor at her feet.

She stood near the door, it shut and locked behind her, wearing a long robe of blue that covered her from neck to toes, yet she was so beautiful he could not breathe. He had never seen her hair down and that alone was enough to fan the flames of his ardor to levels never attained before. For a brief second he wondered if he could survive this night. Sex was one thing, something he had done countless times. Making love was a new experience and he prayed—seriously this time—that he was capable of pleasing her while attending to keeping his heart beating during the ecstasy he was now beginning to suspect would supplant anything previously known.

And just as it dawned on him that not once had he honestly contemplated not being with her tonight, before they were legally wed, and the guilt flickered into existence, she stepped closer to him.

She was smiling. She was calm. She was beautiful beyond words to describe. And before she spoke he knew she was his, just as he was already hers, and that today or a week hence their hearts would feel no different.

“You did not lock the door.”

“My door will never be locked to my wife.”

Kitty smiled wider, dazing him with the glory of her, and started to loosen the thick belt holding the robe together.

“Wait!” She glanced up, and he could tell she was prepared to argue, but he crossed the distance, taking her hands into his and bringing them to his lips. He held her eyes, slowly lowering her hands to dangle at her sides and reached to the belt. “Let me.”

A moment later, the robe heaped forgotten at her feet, Randall was again assailed with doubts as to how he would ever make it through this night. His heart beat erratically, although how that was possible when surely every ounce of blood in his body was pooled below his waist he did not know.

She wore a gown of sheer white satin edged with lace and ribbons gathered at all the correct places to accent her lush figure, her golden-brown hair a cloud of curls falling as a veil over her shoulders and back. She smelled of peaches, the scent rising from her creamy skin enticingly so that despite his paralysis and longing to simply examine her figure, the hunger to discover if she tasted like peaches overruled.

And she did. His lips and tongue skimmed over her neck, dining on the succulence that was her bare skin. She was the sweetest ambrosia imaginable. He ran his hands over her arms, pulling her closer as he nibbled across her delicate collarbone.

She inhaled sharply, trembling with the sensations educed and sagging into his arms. “Do not worry, I have you. Hold on to me,” he whispered, and she obeyed, snaking her arms over his shoulders to lock behind his neck. Pleasure shot like a bolt of electricity through his body, but he could not discern if it was the feel her arms and hands caressing his bare neck or the softness of her bosom under his mouth. Probably both.

Savage desire gripped him. With a hoarse groan he crushed her to his body, initiating an uncontrollable kiss that bordered on feral. Amazingly, she did not flinch, returning the embrace and kiss with the same ferociousness, a muted growl communicating she reciprocated. His shirt was yanked out of his waistband, her hands plunging underneath to stroke up his back, Randall gasping at the flames streaking across his skin and into the marrow of his bones. Each touch of her hands was exquisite to a degree that defied logic. Pleasure, desire, bliss, lust, and more were felt to a level unprecedented, and they had barely done more than kiss!

With herculean effort he tore away from her lips, respirations ragged and hands rough on her elbows to still