propped against the lamp on the bed stand, laughing as she read the four words he had scrawled:
“How romantic,” she murmured with a smile, rising and pulling on her gauzy robe, moving briskly toward the water closet as the baby painfully danced on her bladder.
Darcy entered the room moments later, a rapid scan concluding that she must be in her dressing room. He rather doubted she had risen and was already downstairs. The oppressive heat in the closed room struck him as a physical blow, so he crossed to the balcony doors, opening them wide and then moved to the other windows. One of the advantages of being on the top floor, surely one of the reasons that the Master chambers were located here and facing the valley with the lake and river, were the crisp breezes consistently flowing. He stood for a moment at the far window, allowing the cooling current to brush over his sweaty brow and damp linen of his shirt.
He was aware of the fact that he was grinning happily. Parsifal had greeted his Master with unmistakable enthusiasm. Darcy saddled his stallion himself, softly scolding him to stand still, Parsifal leaping forward before Darcy was fully mounted. They had run for hours. The sad result of Darcy's injury was that the horse had not been run for close to a month. There was not a groom in Darcy's employ, not even Mr. Thurber, who would brave taking Parsifal out, even if Darcy had ordered it. It was not that the animal was particularly reckless or unmanageable; it was the reality that he belonged to Mr. Darcy, the only person who had ever ridden him, and the thought of another on his back was quite simply unfathomable.
Darcy ended their race with an exhilaration not felt in weeks. He was renewed, with a sensation of health and vigor coursing through his body and making him feel a teenager again. His eyes had lifted from the stable yard to the corner of the manor where he knew his beautiful wife lay in slumber, and he had grinned slowly. Tossing the reins to a groom and nuzzling Parsifal one last time, Darcy rushed with long strides to a side door. In an odd twist from the last ride with Parsifal necessary to cool his passionate lust, this ride had heightened it. Taking the steps several at a time, nearly bowling over a towel-encumbered maid in his haste, Darcy lurched through their chamber's door with frankly only one thought on his mind.
Now he stood by the window, aroused, and impatiently allowing her about another minute to appear before he barged into her dressing room. She entered seconds later, yawning and rubbing her face. Darcy watched secretly from the corner as she arched her back in a sinuous stretch with arms over her head, the growing bulge of their child peeking through the diaphanous folds of her untied robe. He could easily see her pert breasts and the outline of all her luscious curves through the gossamer fabric. A sudden gust of air from the balcony stirred her hair and caused the silk of her robe to swirl away from her legs. Lizzy pivoted toward the window in fright, finally cognizant of the now open windows, when Darcy spoke.
“Elizabeth.”
She twirled about, a hand rising to her heart. “William! You frightened me! When did you return?”
“Only a moment ago,” he answered huskily as he slowly and gracefully moved around the bed and toward his wife, a sensual smile playing over his lips as darkened eyes scoured over her body. Lizzy was staring with undisguised appreciation. It had been two months since beholding him after a ride, and she swiftly recalled why it was she became so incredibly aroused when he returned. Darcy's handsome virility never failed to stun her, but the appearance of him in only a thin shirt and tailored pants damply clinging to tight muscles, unshaven face flushed from the wind and sun with hair disheveled, and his natural musky scent mingled with horse and sweat, buckled her knees.
Without a further word, he snaked one arm about her waist while tangling the other through her hair, pulling her into his body for a pervading kiss. Lizzy clutched his upper arms, moaning hoarsely and wilting weakly into his embrace. He swept her into his arms, kissing ardently without cessation, and carried her to the unlit fireplace. Laying her onto the bearskin rug, carefully ensuring her comfort without leaving her lips, he positioned his body fully over hers. Legs parting naturally, Lizzy encircled his waist and squeezed.
Darcy groaned with desperate need, kissing vigorously as he rapidly joined with his wife. Darcy rumbled in his chest but spoke no words, mad with desire and passionate fire. Lizzy gripped his head with steely fingers twined in his hair, returning his bruising kiss with equal fervor. On they loved with raging heat, gasping and growling, hearts racing frantically, and sweat soaking both of them.
Darcy's moans turned to whimpers as the torrents focused with a knot of indescribably pleasure before exploding outward to all points of his sizable body, releasing with an unleashed cry of rapture. Lizzy grazed her nails over his shoulders, so overcome with passion that she bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a drop of blood.
As the mutual tremors waned, their eyes opened sluggishly and met. Far too breathless to vocalize, they merely stared in profound rhapsody. Lizzy gently suckled his slightly swollen lip then tenderly kissed over his face. “My precious love,” she whispered as he finally dropped his head to her chest, inhaling with a shudder and not yet attempting to move off her.
Lizzy blissfully held him, stroking over his back as they recovered. Darcy rose enough to kiss each breast, only then rolling to her side. Propping on an elbow, he caressed her chest lazily for a time before traveling leisurely down her abdomen. Palming the firm rise above her pubis, Darcy pressed gently.
“Apparently, he is growing accustomed to being jostled about,” he smiled, and Lizzy laughed.
She feathered fingertips over his face while he resumed caressing. “How was your ride?”
“Invigorating, stupendous, refreshing, intoxicating, and heavenly.” He kissed her softly. “The horse ride was nice, too,” he finished, burying his face into her neck and nibbling while Lizzy giggled.
“Silly man!” she said as she sighed contentedly, absently running the back of her hand over his abdomen. “I was about to call for a tray when you so pleasantly startled me. Are you hungry, beloved?”
“Starved,” he mumbled into her ear, lips and tongue exploring along her neck, journeying from shoulder to bosom, one hand stroking her inner thigh. Unhurriedly, he roused her with the magic of his hands and mouth, worshipping all of her body as he drove her insane.
Lizzy's need for food was forgotten as her husband artfully restimulated her ardor. Skillfully, he brought her to the pinnacle of perfect desire, her release sending ripples of frenzy washing head to toe. Rapidly he was there, enfolding her trembling body against his sturdy chest with arms and legs wrapped about her. Murmuring endearments incessantly, he kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair until she was breathing easier. He cupped one cheek, loitering over her mouth with his, sighing happily. “Mine, sweet wife only mine, forever. I love you so tremendously, Elizabeth, my soul.”
Lizzy smiled. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, you are truly amazing. I think I should order you out of bed every morning for a long ride!” She kissed him, nestling tightly into his embrace with a contented sigh.
Later that day, after a boisterous luncheon with the entire Pemberley household, Darcy retreated to the solitude of his study to catch up on a stack of neglected papers. All were fairly straightforward, more along the lines of reports and inventories with an occasional document requiring his signature. Midway through the pile, a gentle knock at the door revealed his lovely wife. She smiled sweetly at his beaming face, crossing the room with a flowing grace until near enough to bestow a tender kiss to his brow.
“What do you need of me, dearest?”
“I need you, only you, my love,” he answered, reaching to clasp her head and pull in for a kiss.
Lizzy caressed his face, love clearly evident in their eyes. “You are silly, William, but I do so love you. You called me in here merely for a kiss?”
Darcy raised a brow in surprise. “I did not call for you, love. Not that I am complaining mind you.”
Lizzy frowned. “Mrs. Reynolds said you asked for me.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Leaving the mystery aside for the present, Darcy granted entrance. To the shock of both Darcys, it was Samuel and Marguerite. Samuel approached hesitantly, clearly nervous, with Marguerite a pace behind.
Samuel was the quintessential valet: utterly proper and seriously devoted to his Master. He had been Darcy's manservant since Darcy was twenty, Samuel now in his early forties. Yet, despite the long association and obvious intimacy with Darcy's personal preferences and requirements, Darcy had revealed to Lizzy that Samuel was intensely private. Any attempts on Darcy's part to converse or familiarize himself with Samuel as an individual was met with stony silence and disapproval. Therefore, Darcy had given up years ago. That Samuel was incredibly shy was evident. Lizzy had probably heard him speak a handful of times and he rarely addressed her.
Marguerite was nearly as decorous. She took her job very seriously and had endeavored to learn all personal information with a steadfast vigor. However, she did laugh upon occasion with her Mistress and shared the sporadic story or anecdote, albeit with reserve and caution. Lizzy knew little about her private life or intimate thoughts, but
