“You have stressed your repugnance for such behavior, my Lord. Another attribute of a successful marriage that has been revealed to me is honesty. This has not necessarily been a natural trait of mine, but I have seen the positive affects of the quality in my brother’s union. Additionally, you have been exceedingly forthright with me so it is only proper for me to extend the same. You are offering me an incredible opportunity and I would be a fool to pass it up. Perhaps I am a fool for risking your rejection, but I…” She swallowed, dropping her gaze from his penetrating stare.
“Yes, Caroline? Tell me.”
She glanced away, noting afresh their solitude. With eyes averted, she haltingly resumed. “You intrigue me as well, Lord Blaisdale. I… feel… strange sensations… when near you. But I do not… I have not…”
He clasped her upper arms, gently pushing her against the stone wall. He began the kiss with light pressure before deepening to an unrestrained passion. Caroline was taken utterly by surprise, stiffening for a second before the surging waves washed all innocent hesitation away. His hands roamed unchecked, stirring and rousing skillfully, his hard body pressed into hers.
Never had any man handled her in such a way. Sir Dandridge’s tentative touches and timid kisses had educed vague flutters but none of the shivers currently overwhelming her. Lord Blaisdale’s assault overpowered her to the point where she mustered not the slightest embarrassment or offense at the breach in gentlemanly behavior.
Caroline came alive in places unknown to have perception. She soared to raging heights of pure passion as he skillfully caressed and surveyed her figure. All the while the fiery kiss continued and intensified.
She discovered her hands and arms wrapping around his body and boldly exploring in return. Lord Blaisdale trailed his lips down her neck toward her bosom, releasing a guttural growl and grinding so harshly against her that even the layers of clothing were irrelevant.
Caroline’s legs grew weak, her muscles failing as a low moan escaped. She was clutching onto him for stability when he pulled away, panting heavily and grinning with supreme satisfaction. He stroked lightly over her cheek, lust-filled green eyes engaging her dazed ones.
“Delicious, Caroline. You are well, love? No further doubts?”
“Lord Blaisdale, please. I…”
“Do not fear. You have proven what I already knew. And I believe you can now address me as John.”
Chapter Eleven
The horses turned the corner onto Grosvenor Square, hoofs clomping loudly on the perfectly laid stones as Mr. Anders tugged slightly on the reins. The well-trained animals slowed in response, the vehicle’s occupants noting the deceleration but not needing that clue to know they were nearing the end of their journey.
“Look, my darling. There it is. Darcy House. Your other home and where we shall stay for a while. Thank goodness, as I am weary of dragging you from place to place.”
Lizzy kissed the crown of her sleeping son’s head, her softly spoken words apparently unheeded by the oblivious four-month-old infant but clearly not by her husband. Darcy leaned forward slightly in his seat across, furrows rapidly creasing his brow.
“Are you feeling unwell, Elizabeth?”
Lizzy smiled, shaking her head as she met his concerned eyes. “I only meant that I am pleased to be settling in one place for an extended spell. And into a house that is ours. No offense to Lady Catherine’s hospitality, but extensive renovations to Rosings will be required ere Anne and Raul have a baby.”
Darcy relaxed once again into the plush cushions. “Indeed. Fortunately, they have time. As for renovations, I am confident that Darcy House has been remodeled to my specifications. Alexander will discover a comfortable chamber to sleep in near ours as it should be.” His tender gaze rested upon his son, nestled warmly against Lizzy’s chest under a thick blanket. “He will have plenty of time to recuperate and grow stronger before we return to Pemberley.”
In fact, both mother and child were the picture of health. Lizzy’s expressed desire to stay in one place was purely driven by an internal need for familiarity. Darcy House may not have been “home” in the same respect as Pemberley, but it came close.
The object of her musings was now in plain view. The washed white stones and wide sash-paned windows reflected the bright April sunlight, casting a virtual glow around the house where it majestically sat across the grassy park in the middle of Grosvenor Square. All the townhouses fronting the Square were stately, Darcy House not more or less so, but it was the only one with a stunning combination of marble and glass in vast amounts. The wrought iron barriers to the basement quarters and balconies on the upper levels were polished until gleaming, not a hint of rust evident for the Master to see. All debris had been swept away from the gutters and pavement walkways, and a new carpet runner padded the marble steps leading to the vivid blue front door. The windows were open, allowing the fresh breezes of spring to ruffle the curtains and cleanse the interior air, carrying floral fragrances from the lush blooms growing inside the ornate flower boxes underneath each sill.
It was a picture of welcoming perfection, just as Darcy expected.
Mrs. Smyth, the housekeeper of Darcy House, stood in the ground level morning room watching the sedate approach of the rich Darcy coach. She stood with back straight, chin lifted, and hands clasped loosely in front. No overt sign gave away her state of mind except for the persistent spasm behind her left eye that caused the orb to twitch rhythmically. She knew without a doubt that the house was prepared for the arrival of her Master. Her superior expertise and knowledge of Mr. Darcy’s expectations allayed the bulk of her trepidation. It should have completely quelled her fears. It always had. But that was before Mrs. Darcy joined the mix.
For five years, Mrs. Smyth had been housekeeper of Darcy House, a position she valued, and it had been bliss. Mr. Darcy was frequently in Town during those years, but usually alone and so reserved that one hardly knew he was present. He rarely hosted any parties and then they were minor affairs with a small number of guests. His demands were few, mainly ones of preserving order and quiet. He was exacting and intense, not in any way foolish or to be trifled with, but since Mrs. Smyth was an excellent, scrupulous manager, they never clashed.
From the day she heard of Mr. Darcy’s shocking engagement to the country girl of no family or connections, she had sensed a dark cloud creeping inexorably over her existence. As a city girl born and bred, Mrs. Smyth considered anyone outside the regions of civilized London as suspect and on equal par with the dregs of Whitechapel or Wapping. That Mr. Darcy, a paragon of Society, would marry such a woman was beyond her comprehension. She had assumed that Miss Bingley would someday be Mrs. Darcy, or at least some lady like her. That would have been the correct course, the sensible choice, and Mrs. Smyth saw no logic to his hideous error in judgment, suspecting as many did that there must be some sort of witchcraft or trickery at work from the obviously money-seeking upstart.
Upon her first meeting of Miss Bennet, when Mr. Darcy brought his fiancee and her dowdy father to Darcy House during their engagement, Mrs. Smyth’s worst fears were realized. Miss Bennet was plain and drab, dressed in ugly gowns of no style and poor workmanship, with hair and body unadorned in any way. She smiled constantly, vulgarly showing all her teeth, was animated and noisy, and laughed incessantly. Grudgingly, Mrs. Smyth admitted that Miss Bennet carried herself with grace and that her manners were adequate, but those positives were overruled by her improper boldness and teasing informality with Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy was clearly besotted and subtly altered. He smiled too much and laughed aloud. His eyes followed her every move. And worst of all, he welcomed her impertinence and returned her banter! It was frightening to observe and Mrs. Smyth prayed daily that something or someone would intercede and break the spell. Unfortunately, that did not happen and the marriage took place. Mrs. Smyth was relieved when Mr. Darcy informed the staff that, after the wedding, he would immediately be retiring to Pemberley for the winter, not to return until late spring. She rested in the conviction that the naturally inhibited, staid, and domineering Mr. Darcy would shake off the shameful enchantment after months of forced confinement behind the walls and snow-laden landscape of Pemberley. He would recognize his vast mistake, and indeed if it was too late to reverse the blunder, surely he would rectify the damage by grinding the presumptuous nobody down into the submissive, proper wife she should be. Perhaps then, Mrs. Smyth thought, there would be hope for regaining the Darcy reputation and salvaging the future.
