Page 25 of Yearning

“I did see,” she said, gesturing at the window. “I saw them taking him out of the carriage and into his chair.”

“I did not know he would be here when I suggested we come,” said the baron. “If you do not wish to stay, we can leave, but I think we shall at the very least need to stay through dinner this evening and leave in the morning. I can, however, manufacture some sort of reason for our hasty departure.”

“Oh, everyone will know the real reason,” she said, sighing.

“Perhaps, but I do not care about everyone,” he said. “I care about my dear and darling wife and her well-being.”

They were staying at a country estate of another baron. The Baron Givons and his wife had invited them sometime in the spring at some ball or other. It was meant to be a lively sort of party, Elizabeth thought. There would be lawn bowling, games of cards, lots of lemonade. Perhaps the men would all engage in some sort of racing and the women would watch and cheer them on. At the time, when Elizabeth had acquiesced, it had sounded like a charming diversion. They would only stay a fortnight, her husband had said. He said he could not abide these sorts of things when they went on too long, and that he began to miss the comfort of his own bed.

“Are we here because I wanted to be here?” said Elizabeth, trying to remember which of them had seemingly been looking forward to this the most. She did not think it had been her, but she had to own that it was not the sort of thing her husband would enjoy overmuch.

“We are here because I like it when you smile,” said the baron. “And I thought a country gathering with fun people in the summertime might coax a few smiles onto that sunny face of yours.”

She smiled then.

“But if his presence will drive away your smiles, then there is no reason to be here.”

“I have not spoken to him in over a year,” said Elizabeth. “He seems… recovered.” As recovered as he could be, she supposed. “I am surprised he is traveling. That chair, it did not look easily transportable.”

“Do you think he heard word you were coming and came to see you?”

“He was rather adamant that he wanted me to go away and never come back,” she said, and her voice was entirely without emotion when she said it. “So, I can hardly imagine that.”

The baron regarded her through the doorway for a moment, a look coming over his countenance that she had not seen before. She could not say what the look was, not at first, but then the baron spoke. “Invite me in, wife?” His voice had gone low and liquid.

“Well, if my lord wishes to come in, of course, I wish him to come in,” she said, moving away from the door.

The baron came inside and shut the door and then he closed the distance between them in two steps. He caught her about the waist and pulled her up against him and their faces were inches apart as he looked into her eyes, and she felt her heart speed up for a different reason.

She had to admit she enjoyed the way her husband desired her.

It made her feel pretty and exceptional. It made her feel chosen. And there were aspects of it that were very, very nice, of course. The kissing she liked, and the way his hands would trace the curves of her body, cupping her breasts and teasing the tips of them. Even the press of him when he entered her was quite nice. She liked it.

Only sometimes—not always, but sometimes—she would leave her husband snoring in his bedchamber (or he would take his leave of her if he had come to her bedchamber) and she would be alone, and she would slide her fingers between her own thighs and feel around until she found the spot, and she would just worry it, with one finger, sometimes two, sometimes up and down and sometimes in little circuits, until… until…

Well, until she felt done.

Which, she never felt done with her husband. She always felt left wanting, gasping and still unfinished.

At first, when she had started doing it, it would actually be sort of unpleasant to worry at herself there. It would rise to this peak of discomfort and then it would simply be too much, and she could not bear any touch there at all, and that was how she would know it was over.

But now, a year on, there would often be a feeling, a very good feeling, something that put her in mind of a surge of a wave or a shower of bright sparks or a clap of thunder. Everything would build to that, and it would erupt and then…

Done.

And the thing about her husband going at her in the afternoon was not that it was bad or that she didn’t like it, because it was rather gratifying to have him so eager for her, and she lay against him on her bed at the Givons summer estate and let out tiny moans as he worked himself in her, and he felt most especially very good there, so very good, but then—

Then he did not leave her alone, and she never did feel done.

After they engaged in amorous congress, it was practically time to dress for dinner. She and her husband put her bed back in order, giggling like naughty children who would be discovered having broken the rules, and then she called for her maid, and her maid dressed her and put her hair up.

And it was all… wretched… down there.

Everything was still swollen and throbbing and needy, and she had to go down to dinner like that.

And then, there Mr. Darcy was.

He did not look the same as he used to look, not now that his jaw had healed a little crookedly, but there was something about the disturbance of his handsome features that gave him a sort of rugged, almost rakish look. It suited him, his dark eyes, the slight off-centeredness of his mouth, the way his chin went slightly to one side, the way his lips stretched as he spoke.