Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“You cannot do that! No! Oh, Richard, you would make my situation so much worse. She will throw me from the house. I will lose any contact with my son. She is only waiting for me to misstep. Please promise that you won’t seek her out or speak to her or tell anyone about us.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “So what do we do? Do you want us to part ways over this? Does it truly mean nothing to you? You know, Amanda, the culture in this country is quite different from yours. The most sophisticated, wealthy, and titled marriages are oftentimes no more than mergers. After an heir is presented, many of these couples go their own way, and no one thinks ill of them as long as they behave discreetly. An affair with you would not harm me in the least, but for you, Amanda, well I have serious doubts. I truly fear that emotionally it will cause you much distress.”

She reflected on what he said. “Though I confess I am very naïve about the mechanics of this, I am also selfish.” His eyes and his lips were so close. “I want you, and I want my boy, both. I see no other way for us, no other immediate answer, and I am agreeable if you are. Besides, how could it be a sin to be loved by you? I want to be loved by you. I need to be loved by you.”

He saw the truth in her eyes, was moved by the trust he saw there. He was also completely aware that he had lost the fight. His fingers began to stroke her hair. “You are so beautiful to me, and you don’t even realize how much. Maybe that’s a good thing, because I am at your mercy as it is.”

She turned her face to kiss the palm of his hand. “Don’t deny us being together, please.” Desperate to possess him, she reached her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

And that was it, a final attachment to functional thought snapping, the last pitiful reserve breached. His entire world was there before him, lying in his arms. If he were to die tomorrow, he would consider his life as being fulfilled having just known for a moment the love and trust of this one woman.

The hand that had rested so innocently on her hip came to life and began an intimate gentle journey, firmly pulling her closer. Fitzwilliam’s speeches and plans, all rational thought, vanished beneath the soft, warm, yielding flesh of a woman, his woman, and the desire in her eyes. He angled his mouth onto hers and crushed her to him, kissing her deeply and passionately—once, twice, and again and again.

When they finally separated, he rested his forehead on hers. The room was about to burst into flames, and he knew it. He made one more attempt at logic. “Amanda, I am rapidly losing control.”

She grunted impatiently, pulling his head down again, pushing his mouth onto hers; his hand came to rest between her silky legs.

“Richard,” she said, her voice breathless, “it has been a long time, since before my son was born. Please don’t be too disappointed with me.”

No longer coherent, he eased her dress down, her breasts bared to his touch.

“I love you,” she whispered in awe, her hands touched his hair, his cheek, his mouth. There was no sound in the room other than their breathing.

“I love you,” he said simultaneously, a growl beginning deep in his throat as his mouth went down to cover hers. He stood then, with her in his arms, to carry her to bed where, undressing each other wildly, they both went mad.

Fitzwilliam was in the grip of an overpowering insanity, much greater than he had ever known before. On fire, he now possessed no ability for coherent thought. He saw only red from inside his closed eyes and forgot time and place.

It was over much too quickly, the explosive release for both triggered nearly immediately by the anticipation of the deed. He was still inside her as he held her fast and rolled onto his side. Neither one was able to calm their breathing anytime soon.

They lay holding each other for a brief time, and then the madness overcame them again, staying with them much longer and growing even more intense than before.

Chapter 16

A disheveled Amanda dragged the heavy chair before the hearth and then took up the poker, shoving it repeatedly into an already roaring fire, while the rain and sleet continued to batter the windows. Even though she had noiselessly slipped into her dress, the back of which remained open with its millions of unreachable tiny buttons, the din from her slamming and thumping and grumbling could have raised the dead.

She found she was still in a wicked temper upon the discovery that her shoes remained obstinately damp. Well, heavens, that was apparently a deliberate insult, so she threw them across the room. Beginning to wheeze with her exertions, she now yanked a throw from another chair and tucked it around her lap for extra warmth. It was no use. Nothing seemed capable of warming her this morning.