First Sight, Pride and Prejudice Fanfiction

First Sight

Indeks Finanse, Finanse(1), Filozofos, Fesenjan, Fenix,

Odnośniki

First Sight, Pride and Prejudice Fanfiction

First Sight

Although the morning passed serenely on the grand estate where Fitzwilliam Darcy temporarily resided, the renowned sculptor suffered in a muddle. He stood alone in his custom-built atelier, hammer and chisel poised over a fresh block of Florentine marble, unable to marshal his legendary discipline and skill in order to strike the first blow. Darcy knew from instinct that a great figure waited within the pale peach rock for liberation, but this time he failed to hear the call. Had the blessing of his brilliant gift been withdrawn? Had the muse abandoned him? These perverse recriminations were interrupted, however, when a beguiling voice shattered the silence.

“…pray, tell them I wish to stroll the Spiral Garden… No, do not trouble yourselves… Yes, dear Aunt, I shall drop a trail of crumbs that I may find my way back to the house… Go, I insist, and enjoy your luncheon.”

Darcy moved to the window and peered out through the gap in the fluttering drapes. There he saw the young woman with the laughing voice, the one that he had already dismissed as just another country miss embarking on her maiden tour beyond the parish of her birth. From the look of her light traveling clothes and tanned face, Darcy surmised that she and her companions were touring the well-worn path through the surrounding counties—Chatsworth, Blenheim, Matlock, all in a blur of great houses and their respective sites and gardens.

What had they called her? Elizabeth. Yes, that was it.

The sculptor scrutinized the young woman’s figure from the back—her delicate arching neck, lithe, expressive arms, a promising swell of hips. He was not unimpressed. Yet, when she glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring at her through the parted drapes, the man beheld her tempting mouth curled in a knowing smile and her bewitching eyes.

Thunder struck as his hammer slipped from his hand. He was lost.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Why does she look at me so?

If Darcy had considered his state of dress, he might have found his answer. His worn breeches were covered with clay dust; his lawn shirt flapped open at the neck, drenched in sweat from his exertion in the early August heat. But, his brain was otherwise occupied. He was lost in the manifest rhapsody of her features—her pert mouth arched like cupid’s mischievous bow, fine high cheekbones, those dark eyes, soft, yet incisive.

Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but he could not. He could only the watch glints of laughter sparkle in Elizabeth’s eyes as she smiled and turned toward the path which lead to the estate’s famed sculpture garden.

How could the sun reveal spring’s first green and then let it succumb to frost? How could I just let her go.

Thoughts of loss wrenched Darcy from his physical inertia. He snatched his coat from its hook, twisted the semblance of a presentable knot into his cravat and fled outside to find her. Fitzwilliam Darcy could no more watch this remarkable woman walk away and leave him caged in his self-imposed prison, than he could ignore the call of the figures God entombed within block after block of exquisite marble.

He tracked her across the great lawn and espied, with his critical gaze, her lovely gait, its balance and proportion. Regal in her carriage, assured, she was a subtle beauty. Elizabeth. She had been christened well.

He followed her at a distance—over the grounds, through the formal pleasure gardens, and beneath a long colonnade of towering elms—and marveled at her confident stride and incessant curiosity. He watched her brush her fingers over the long grasses, and pluck a sprig of honeysuckle to taste its nectar. In a shaft of sparkling light, she tilted her head skyward to listen to the call of a twittering goldfinch. As he watched her touch and smell and taste the world, Darcy felt an unfamiliar pull at the base of his spine, like a team of horses jerking at the hitch after an overlong delay. This was no skittish maiden far from home, but a singular woman attuned to, and at home in, the natural world.

Elizabeth, Darcy was certain, was sent to him—sign, a gift. He had no choice but to follow her.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

At the bordering hedge of the sculpture garden, Elizabeth stopped and inhaled deeply. A wry smile curled her lips as she raised her face to the sky. Darcy watched, concealed in the dappled shadows of a blossoming elder. He observed an unusual lack of obsequious reverence with which everyone seemed to approach the famous Spiral Gardens. Ignorance or missish prudery often gave unschooled viewers pause when confronted with the world class collection of figures—especially Fitzwilliam Darcy’s mysterious and passionate work. But not this Elizabeth… no, not his Beth.

But what did she feel? Was it awe or, could it be , anticipation that gave her pause?

Though her graceful form and intriguing eyes had drawn him out of his studio, his awakening interest in this puzzling turn of disposition spurred him on. He was all curiosity; was Elizabeth as sanguine as he supposed? How would she receive the force of his work, this vision in amber-rose?

Elizabeth squared her shoulders, set to enter the ivied trellis gate as Darcy quietly extricated his long legs from a tangle of honeysuckle, until, suddenly, a cloud passed over the sun and a swift breeze whisked up the tails of his cravat; the trees hissed. Elizabeth stopped short and turned her head in Darcy’s direction. He froze. His addled brain reeled and grasped for excuses for the gross impropriety of his unpardonable stalking of this unescorted maiden through the woods. Through panicked, blinking eyes, Darcy saw her, however, lift chin and turn her face to the place she expected the sun to reappear. Her breast rose superbly as she inhaled the sweet, warm breeze. The scent of honeysuckle. A moment later, seemingly at her command, the sun obliged and grew bright upon her face. The horses tethered to Darcy’s spine jerked, again. A sensualist.

Darcy flexed his fingers and released a painfully silent breath as Elizabeth vanished beneath the arbor. He persued her like a lost soul answering the divine cry of heaven.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

The sculpture garden, an artifact of many generations, represented an impressive ascension of figures, from starched Byzantium through the zenith of sculptural genius, the High Renaissance, and beyond. Subjects from Greek and Roman mythology mingled easily with Marys and Adams in the outer circles of the spiral, while the inner-most circle (blocked off from view for all but those exclusively invited to attend) held a “scandalous” collection of writhing slaves, coupled lovers, and large-breasted harlots in all manor of pose.

A few of Darcy’s prominent figures populated the garden’s inner rings, though he had yet to create a work sufficient for the old Lord of the Manor’s sanctum sanctorum. His figures, though renowned for their sensual and masterful anatomy, failed to penetrate the barrier of propriety necessary to depict the erotic. But Darcy held fast to the ideal of transcendent human sexuality. Sensuality, not impious wantonness, was the gift bestowed on mankind, and the only one he wished to depict. Besides, Darcy refused to compromise any woman’s modesty for the prurient interests of a depraved few.

Insensible to Darcy’s philosophical ideal, however, one failed-sculptor-turned-critic went so far as to suggest that, “Darcy will never truly know a woman or sculpt the fairer sex with any sagacity until he has had the opportunity of actually spending a moment in the company of one; but that, apparently, is not where his interest lies.” Such scathing comments by the critic, G. Wickham, fed the gossip mills and further alienated the naturally taciturn artist from his far too adoring public. Darcy coveted his privacy—even more so, that of his younger sister—so, in the end, Wickham’s affront proved not a curse, but an unintentional boon to its intended target. Beyond the reach of public scrutiny, Darcy was free to channel the strength of his passion into his marbles, his affinity for tactile indulgence into the numerous clay studies he formed every day. At least until he had succumbed to his present state of creative ennui.

And, Wickham could not have aimed his short pistol further from the fox.

Darcy eschewed not women specifically, but company in general. His fascination with the human form extended, indeed, most passionately to women. He simply lacked opportunity, or more to the point, the right inspiration to sculpt to his exacting standards, which included his most important criterion. If Darcy failed to feel the spark of creation shining from inside the subject, he could not even begin to capture the spark latent in the stone. He rarely perceived that spark anymore.

Until today.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

By the time Darcy reached the entrance, Elizabeth had already breezed past the more famous showpieces and was standing before a small alcove, gazing at a seated angel. Darcy knew the piece well. It had been sculpted years ago by his mentor.

Elizabeth relaxed beneath the cherub’s benevolent gaze and pulled off her gloves and then her bonnet, revealing more of her lovely neck. Darcy’s heart began to nicker when he beheld the fringe of dark curls winding like elaborate calligraphy beneath her thick chignon. He longed to read their secrets with his lips, caress the length of her neck through petal-soft skin. Darcy had never been so stirred by the form of a woman, either artistically or sexually, though he had seen many minimally arrayed or fully nude. Not a one, however, equaled in total what a few of her looping tresses did to him.

Darcy needed to scoot further along the spiral to keep Elizabeth in his sight; stealth was critical. But Darcy had to see her, observe her unaffected by his presence. Women, he knew, were naturally vain or modest and adjusted their deportment to attract or discourage the eyes of others. For Darcy, most women he met aspired to attract the sculptor in him, and others less inclined to the romance of fine art, assiduously sought the man. Naturally shy, Darcy sought the freedom skulking provided.

With a curious squint, Elizabeth regarded the angel’s child-form. In imitation of its pose, she tilted her head to the side and then smirked. What does she see? Darcy burned to know. He watched her worry her lip, hesitate, then release it back into its full, ruby bow. The question was lost, however, the moment she lifted her hand to the angel’s face, Grace incarnate. Her fingers caressed its marble cheeks as if to confirm their solidity; she lingered around the mouth, circling it with her thumb and then solemnly raised her thumb to her own lips.

Darcy could scarcely believe it. She fixed on the singular virtue of the figure. Though the angel’s body was only slightly ill-proportioned, and the wings a tad heavy, its sensual mouth was exquisitely formed. Like hers, delicately hewn.

A vague notion began to gather force in Darcy’s mind, but it was lost as Elizabeth proceeded down the path. She passed various Christs and bowing disciples with the regal gait of a virgin queen sauntering through court; and then rounding the bend, she was gone. Darcy quickened his pace, eager to witness her reaction to the next sculpture.

It was David—his David.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Carved back in the academy before his position and talent were secure, (though shortly after the world cracked open and consumed both his excellent parents and soon afterward, his beloved mentor) Darcy’s David set the new benchmark for excellence in the European academies. While his heart suffered from his great losses, his talent flourished in the dark hours of self-examination and desolate seclusion. Once the captivating marble debuted at the King’s Biennale, however, a wearying world beat a path to his door.

Darcy watched Elizabeth walk around the pedestaled hero, trying to discern the look on her face. That she had not breezed by his sculpture should have reassured him, but Darcy was on tenterhooks. Why did this feel like life or death to him? It’s preposterous to think a stranger’s opinion should matter so much to one so accomplished, yet it did. So when her eyes filled with dark intensity (longing? ) as she scrutinized David’s physique and studied his face, Darcy’s heart exploded with pride.

Lauded at the time, as a work of historic and artistic relevance, the standing figure commanded the world’s attention because of its unmistakable counterpoint to Michelangelo’s David. Where the renaissance master depicted the bravura of a boy in the guise of a man contemplating the fight to come, Darcy’s younger David twisted over his shoulder to look at his victory and weigh the consequences of his actions—a boy made man by the power of a single moment. But Darcy could tell with the force of instinct that Elizabeth looked past the “relevance” and peered into the soul of a young man in flux. The spark of a young man Darcy was when he chipped David from the tomb of Venetian stone.

In a startling swirl and swish of bright linen, Elizabeth grabbed the end of a heavy wooden bench and pulled it over the gravel path to the base of statue. Darcy was forced to duck behind a headless Apollo in order to avoid being discovered. In one spry leap, Elizabeth was atop the rickety bench, leaning for a closer look at the figure. No, a mere glance wouldn’t satisfy this woman. She needed to touch.

She placed her hand on the tight sinew of the neck as Darcy’s eyes caressed her voluptuous contours. She felt the cool smoothness of the marble and he sketched a new grouping in his mind. She curled her fingers into the hands of the boy, while he sought her center point and traveled each limb until he felt the lines and sensed the weight of her delicate bones.

Her blessed armature.

Elizabeth’s luminous skin shimmered as smoothly as the marble beneath her fine fingers. She was as light as the marble and light itself. As she leaned closer to David’s face, poised precariously on the edge of the bench—and eternally in Darcy’s imagination— she raised her foot prettily behind her and extended the arm holding her bonnet, both figures posed in perfect balance. The team of horses broke into a painful gallop as a result of her impromptu arabesque.

In a moment of perfect peace, Elizabeth raised her head and inhaled deeply as a breeze again rustled the foliage overhead. Instead of being rewarded with the scent of honeysuckle, she seemed to detect something else in the air and hitched her brows. Darcy was certain he was discovered; after a hot summer day with a chisel and hammer, he did not exactly smell of rosewater and verbena.

A tense moment ticked by before his curious nymph resumed her perusal of young David. But this time, Elizabeth closed her eyes. She began, to Darcy’s utter amazement, a more of sensual exploration of the surface of the marble with her fingers, and then with her palms and the back of her hands. It was the most intimate embrace he had ever witnessed.

She caresses him like a lover—more than a lover… Oh, to be that man!

Suddenly, the petulant wind raised its head again and sent Elizabeth’s skirts fluttering up around her calves. Darcy wondered if he had inadvertently willed wily nature to do his bidding. He reveled in her moment of discomposure, as she comically swatted at the disobliging gown. Her actions only served to scatter her gloves in opposite directions and set her bonnet aloft. When a wayward glove settled at Darcy’s feet, he bristled with apprehension. But the feeling washed away in a surge of alarm that propelled him from his blind.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

In a shattering, suspended moment, Elizabeth dropped like a ripe fruit into Darcy’s arms. A new day formed. An unknown coat of ice slipped from the frozen branch that was Fitzwilliam Darcy. Sculptor and man stood naked, like a bare spring bow blessed with a single perfect blossom. Their skin frizzled with sensual tension; their hearts thundered like hooves.

The bond between them was instant and incontrovertible.

But the chimerical moment dissipated when Elizabeth stiffened and gasped, causing Darcy to shudder at the gross impropriety of their predicament; it nearly drove him up the tower of his reserve—until a new reality settled around them.

Pounding hearts cantered and calmed; dark eyes widened and saw, really saw.

Or so thought Darcy.

Until Elizabeth closed her eyes in that spiraling sculpture garden, beneath the late summer sun, Fitzwilliam Darcy thought he knew how to see. But how inadequate was mere vision when faced with the enlightened queen in his arms. The simple fact of her closed eyes brought him into the light. Elizabeth’s touch pierced the darkness.

With eyes closed, she silently stroked his face. Starting at his jaw and moving to his forehead, she worked her way over the landscape of his masculine features in a circular pattern that spiraled over his rough cheeks, hard brow and then found its home in his eyes. Her touch was no feather brush, but bold strokes of fingertips on skin; and, to Darcy’s utter amazement and joy, she also employed the softer skin on the back of her hands and in between her fingers. She caressed his face until he was certain he was fixed in her imagination. How he desired her to read the rest of him. How I long to read her.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Startled and meek, she spoke:

“Please.”

Darcy concluded what every gentleman should conclude in his situation: she wanted him to release her. Not simply to the ground or from the garden, but from the repercussions of her wanton behavior and the implied promise of her virtue.

His sigh trembled, but his words rang clear, “But of course.”

He placed her lightly on her feet and looked down at her upturned face. He felt suddenly godlike. Was this His view of her as she looked up into the heavens?

How can I never hold her again?

Little did he know, the very rumble of his voice inspired her to further dissipation. She wished him to keep her, touch her into his memory. She knew it was all she could have of him. Her desire was new and fierce and tangible.

“Please .”

Still he hesitated. Elizabeth, then, showed him what she meant. Placing her small hands in his strong, hard ones, she guided them to her face. He recoiled at the thought of defiling such delicate skin with his callused fingers. She deserved softness. But Elizabeth desired his firm touch, and so she pressed his palms against her cheeks and bade him shut his eyes.

Darcy proceeded as gently as he could manage with shaking hands. His rough but expert fingers traced the contours of her features and discovered bones as fine as her complexion, and a symmetry nearly as perfect. Her form articulated volumes to the sculptor’s experienced touch. Her warmth and scent cried perfection to the man.

Darcy only went as far as she had, stopping at her lashes; he opened his eyes, astounded.

“How…?”

Elizabeth smiled at his brief puzzlement. “Sight may provide us information, but touch gives us experience. I thought such a great a sculptor would know this,” she added tartly. Darcy nearly missed her teasing for the rising smokescreen of his pride. Of course he knew it. He had just never experienced it before.

“How…?” Darcy couldn’t verbalize his question.

“I was blinded by fever as a child. I learned to read the world through my fingers. My father was a sculptor; he taught me, showed me the world, first with his work, then, when he was certain I understood, he introduced me to a wider vision of the world through the work of others.”

“I followed you!” Darcy blurted. “I watched you touch...” The confession tumbled out, quite beyond his control. When had he lost his footing? Did he abandon all pretense of self-possession when he stepped outside his studio?

“I know.” She said. Darcy had long become inured of embarrassment, until Wickham, but this revelation shook him back to those ruffled days of boyhood. He felt raw, a pup in her presence. “I wanted to…”

“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Darcy. I am not afraid of you.” Darcy flushed. “Nor, might I add, fear the breech of propriety in being here alone with you. I have long ago developed a rather thick hide to such strictures.”

“I defy any man to regard your hide as such.” Darcy blushed after the blatant flirtation spilled from of his asinine mouth.

Elizabeth smiled, nevertheless, and sought to ease his discomfiture. “Sir, I am referring the emotional leather one is required to fashion in order to survive as a blind child in a seeing world.”

“Seeing world!” Darcy muttered brusquely. “I would never call it so.”

“I precisely understand your meaning, sir. Our eyes tell us so many lies and half truths that if we are to believe the voracity of our own conclusions, I believe we must include our other senses in the gathering of experience and information. Simply by you, Mr. Darcy, using eye and hand in concert to create such masterful figures, I believe you are on the road to a more complete understanding.” She gazed up lovingly, as if recalling a favorite song. “I imagine the pounding hammer, too, adds much to the thrill of creation. Tis a fuller experience, would you not agree?”

Darcy heard her, saw her and even smelled her fine rose scent; he longed to touch her again, taste her raspberry lips. But as she spoke, another deeper desire ignited in him. His mind and heart (his soul?) reached out for her with an immeasurable thirst.

Was it her soul that called to him when she met his gaze through the studio window? Did it move her to take the bold step to close the distance between them as she did now?

Darcy turned away, not shy exactly, but disoriented by the intensity of her presence—and his astonishing carnal reaction to her. He needed to cool his ardor or face more humiliation, so he looked toward his David. He stared at the obvious flaws in its torso to engage his reason in order to block her from his thoughts, and ran a hand over his face. But there she was, still on his fingers, a tactile echo of his indomitable nymph.

Fitzwilliam Darcy never felt another person’s presence so fully. He toiled away his days with inanimate stone. Wrought an imitation of flesh and bone where lifeless rock lay. The young sculptor had tarried too long in the realm of the dead. He wanted light and life.

“Your David was the first piece I saw when I was blessed with sight again—more than seven years ago.” Darcy didn’t need to look back to confirm Elizabeth close proximity. “I was but a girl of thirteen. My mother had long before given me up for dead. 'Who would care for a damaged wife?' she told my father. And so, she attended to the needs of my four sisters but left me in his care. When my sight returned, much to the surprise of many, the world was brand new, but still my mother, well… it was a frightening time for me. I returned time and again to the comfort of your David.”

“But it is only six years complete. How could you have…?” Darcy spun around and stared into her shining eyes, he dropped his gaze down to her mouth and then he knew—her mouth, her perfect bow of a mouth.

“Yes.” She answered his unasked question. “I am…”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennett.” It was not a question. A flash of pain darkened his countenance. “So your father…?”

“Yes. My father, Thomas Bennett, was your teacher.” Her tone brightened. “Though, he confessed to me quite often before his death, that he learned more from watching you wield a hammer than he could ever teach you.” Darcy waved away the compliment.

“He was a wonderful mentor, and an excellent man.” Elizabeth smiled to prevent her tears from falling.

“Thank you.” She reached up to touch the thick calf of the figure. “Papa often guided me through the studios at night. I shall never forget when he taught me to see your David.” Elizabeth blushed at the memory. Darcy matched her radiating heat when she locked him in a brazen stare and said, “I must confess, Mr. Darcy, that I fell in love with your David, even before he had a face.” Darcy nearly sunk to his knees at the thought of this incredible woman touching, feeling, seeing his work, learning the feel of a man’s body at his hand.

Did I spark the passion I see in her eyes? Or did the statue alone?

Elizabeth responded with compassion to his furrowed brow and raised her fingers to his cheek. “I had a girl’s hope of someday knowing such a man.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

There was nothing for it. Elizabeth Bennett ambushed his every sense. And now reason deserted him. He became pure animus, filled with reasonless passion.

Darcy hungered to taste her.

He took her hand and brushed her delicate fingers gently over his lips. He watched her eyes for her reaction when he dared trail his tongue between them. He was rewarded when the blossom of her pink tongue wetted her parted lips and her eyes smoldered. He brushed her palm over his bristled cheek and took her middle finger slowly into his mouth. His teeth and tongue made promises he only hoped she would someday allow him to keep.

Elizabeth’s breaths came in shallow pants; she snatched at the open neck of Darcy’s shirt to steady herself. Darcy forgot her hand when she made contact with the hot skin of his chest, and rumbled and moaned as she nuzzled his neck and inhaled. He felt embarrassed for his unkempt attire and his bodily odor. Elizabeth eased his self-consciousness, though, when she whispered, “I love how you smell. I close my eyes and can smell you on the breeze. You’re earth and animal, spice and spirit. Oh…”

Darcy cupped her chin and placed his rough cheek against hers. He whispered, “I must feel you again, I need to touch you, taste you.” She shivered as his hot breath blew against her ear and tickled her neck.

“Where?”

“Everywhere!” he growled.

She laughed. “I mean we can no longer remain here where anybody can happen upon us, can we?” Elizabeth blushed at her own boldness.

“I know.” Darcy took her hand, swept up her scattered bonnet and gloves and lead her deeper into the spiral. The gate to the inner circle stood ajar. Darcy motioned Elizabeth inside, pulled the key from his fob and secured their privacy. Now, only birds and mischievous angels could look down upon them.

Darcy took a moment by the gate to slow his breathing and erratic pulse. He stared at the key in his palm and contemplated its meaning. He was not given to impulsive acts by nature or proclivity. Yet here he stood, a rash stripling, a stranger even to himself. His reputation, his pride, all that he was and knew was locked outside the garden gate. He turned to Elizabeth and a new world was born. By the grace of her hands, Elizabeth wrought him from the stone of his stolid life.

“Papa never mentioned this grouping in his lessons. My…!”

As though seeing them for the first time, Darcy suddenly saw the crass figures of the inner circle through Elizabeth’s eyes. Oversized phalluses, bobbling breasts, all gross caricatures of the act of love that depicted little evidence of true sensual pleasure. Darcy winced in shame. He brought her to a brothel when he wanted a cathedral in which to worship her.

“I have a better idea.” Amused at his fluster, Elizabeth raised a skeptical eyebrow, but followed him, nevertheless, back through the gate.

Darcy halted. “But what of your companions. Surely they must miss you by now.”

“My aunt and Uncle are quite respectful of my desire for solitude. They know me better than anyone. Besides, they have returned to the house and will not miss me until dark.”

“Oh?”

“They are quite distracted,” She explained as they retraced their steps through the spiral garden. “My eldest sister, Jane, is to marry the future Earl. Do you know the family’s youngest son?

“Indeed. It is his request for a memorial for his elder brother that I am come to Derbyshire. And there is a smaller commission from the Earl.” And most assuredly, fate’s hand has guided me here.

“I believe my party will be in residence for at least a fortnight. Until the wedding breakfast.”

Yes, most assuredly fate’s wondrous hand.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Darcy and Elizabeth followed the graveled path to the edge of the grove in sparkling silence and continued deeper into the wood and onto a winding dirt path. Darcy thought Elizabeth might need a rest, as the last leg of their hike ran uphill, but when he paused to say as much, she simply smiled and darted past him. She flew up the mountain like a filly released from the stable after a hard winter. As he climbed, Darcy imagined the resulting salty taste of her skin, the smell of wind in her hair, her panting breath caressing his ear. God, she brought him to raptures, even before he kissed or felt the warmth of her voluptuous form. It was the rapidity and force of Darcy’s imagination, and not the heavy arousal nodding between his legs, that lead him after her.

At the crest of the hill, as Elizabeth looked down upon the secluded blue lake surrounded by lush peaks, with her pale skirts shimmering transparently in the sunlight, Darcy was treated to a vision of such loveliness his chest ached in gratitude. He joined her, placing a kiss upon her gloved hand, and then silently followed her down to the water’s edge.

Her cheeks flushed with roses, Elizabeth removed her bonnet and gloves and dropped them onto a fallen log; her curry spencer short boots and stockings soon joined the pile. She hiked up her skirt to her ankles and, like a timid bird, tiptoed a few feet into the water. Her bare arms and neck summoned Darcy to her side. He quickly heeled his long boots in the crook of a stump and followed her into the water. Taking advantage of her occupied hands, Darcy ran his fingers over her neck in long strokes, shyly, as though the moment could be disturbed and lost like a dream of Paradise reflecting in the surface of the water.

But, Elizabeth knew something of fragile dreams. In silent assurance of her reality and constancy, she turned in his arms and offered her mouth to him. Soft lips met tenderly, sweetly, and parted. Elizabeth stood back to gage his reaction.

Yes, they understood each other, she was certain.

Darcy pulled her close to stroke her hair and inhale the fresh scent of summer wind. He nuzzled her neck as he gingerly searched for hair clips and pulled back to look at his handiwork after he removed the combs. Her hair fell luxuriously over her shoulders; it flowed through his fingers like molasses. Darcy reveled in its silkiness, as he grabbed handfuls and pulled her back to shore for a kiss. Shyness fell away as Elizabeth slid her hands inside his jacket and ran them up his chest. Her full lips found his neck as she peeled the jacket off his shoulders and discarded it into the pile. The cloth of Darcy’s shirt rubbed excruciatingly against his thighs, over his groin and lower belly before it emerged from the waistband.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and reached beneath the loose cloth to explore the taut planes of his chest. Darcy dissolved into the pure pleasure of her touch. Her hands felt cool and soft against his hot skin—divine. To his great pleasure, Darcy felt her control slip as she cupped his muscled shoulders and circled his waist to caress his lower back. She moved up his spine and counted his vertebrae with soft fingertips and then traveled back to his chest and took inventory of his ribs. Elizabeth leaned against his wide chest until she got her breath under better regulation; Darcy had no experience with such prolonged sensuality. His endurance had already exceeded its limit when Elizabeth dropped her hands to explore the symmetry of his abdominal muscles.

Unable to remain idle any longer, Darcy brushed the tops of her breasts with the back of his hand, dropping knuckle after knuckle down her deep cleft. His fingers traced just beneath her neckline and crept deliciously up her pulsing neck. His wet finger traced her soft lips and parted them gently. She took it into her mouth and sucked. Darcy flinched at the hot softness of her tongue; he moaned at the scrape of her teeth. He rushed to replace them with his tongue, and savagely claimed her mouth for many happy minutes.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

The sun dashed behind a cloud and granted them a reprieve from the heat; a soft breeze cooled their burning skin. Elizabeth stepped away from Darcy and moved toward the water. He suddenly worried that her abrupt withdrawal signaled the end of this heady dream.

“Do you swim, Mr. Darcy?” Startled by the sound of her voice and the implications of her question, he stammered, “I…a…that is… Yes, Miss Bennett. I swim.”

“I wish I had learned.”

“Had you ever learned, I’m sure you would have been a true proficient.”

...

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