Page 26 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

She saw it land. He went very still. For one instant his face was naked, and she was sorry she had said it. Then the instant was gone.

"Go to bed, Miss Elizabeth."

"No." She let go of the chair and hopped toward him. "No. I read your letters, sir. I cut your meat. I dressed your burns and I washed your hair. And you will not give me one word?"

"I will not ask you to believe me."

"Why not?"

"Because I will not ask you for anything."

She stared at him. He stared back, white about the mouth.

"You are the most infuriating man in England," she said.

She took one more hop, too fast. Her bad foot came down on the edge of the rug. Pain shot up to her knee, and her ankle turned under her.

His arm came around her waist and caught her.

It was the one thing his hands left him. His arm was hard across her back, and she was pulled against his chest. She clutched at his shirt to keep her balance. She had two fistfuls of linen and his open waistcoat, and her face was an inch from his.

Neither of them moved.

She could feel his heart under her knuckles. She could feel his breath. He was angry too. She could see it. He was as angry as she was, and he was looking at her mouth.

"Let go of me," she said.

"You will fall."

"Then let me fall."

"No." His arm tightened.

It was his left arm, the burned one. She felt him flinch as her weight pressed against it. He held on.

It made her furious. He would hold her up with a burned arm. But he would not say one word in his own defense. He stood there being exactly the man Mr. Wickham had described. He was proud and silent, and far above explaining himself to anyone.

That is not him, she thought. That is not the man who laughed with me on the hearthrug.

She wanted that man back. She wanted to tear this one out of Mr. Wickham's story with her bare hands. She wanted to see what was underneath.

She kissed him.

It was nothing like the first time. The first had been a spark. This one caught hard and fast.

She dragged his head down by his shirt and kissed him hard. He made a rough sound against her mouth. He kissed her back just as hard. His burned arm held her fast. His other hand hovered, bandaged and useless, and then his forearm pressed flat against her spine.

He could not hold her. So she held him. She let go of his shirt and wound her arms around his neck. She pulled herself up against him, her bad foot off the floor. She was standing on one foot and on him.

He turned them. Her back met the bookcase. The shelf edge pressed into her shoulders, and his body pressed into the rest of her. He braced his forearms on the shelves on either side of her head. He was holding her up with nothing but his weight.

She had never been kissed like this. She had never imagined anyone could kiss like this. His mouth opened hers. She tasted brandy and anger. Her nightgown was very thin, and his shirt was very thin, and there were no stays between them. She felt every button of his waistcoat.

She felt more than buttons. Lower down, the hard length of him pressed against her through the lawn. He did not hide it. Heat went through her at that, quick and shocking. She pressed closer instead of away, and his breath broke against her mouth.

She was slipping. He shifted his weight, and his thigh came between hers to hold her up. She sat on it before she knew what she was doing. A hot, sweet ache bloomed low in her body. Her hips moved against him once, of their own accord, and then again.

He groaned into her mouth. It was a raw sound, and it went straight through her.