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

She snatched a quick glance at the creature she had so recently left reclining upon the bed—the fiend, the sexual deviant. Before her eyes rested a repulsive debaucher—a seasoned rake upon his cot of crime, a seducer of innocents, sated and smug. She colored deeply at the vile sight and cursed herself for being even more drawn to him now that the deed was done, and done so soundly. Her angry stare dragged across his fuzzy barrel chest and his muscular tree-trunk arms and long powerful legs. She trembled with the remembrance of his overblown male…ego. Crazy, mud blond hair was both falling forward onto his forehead and wildly standing straight up around his head at awkward angles. He smiled sweetly at her.

She sighed. He was beautiful.

***

Fitzwilliam had no idea what to do next, a first for a worldly soldier having just bedded a beautiful woman. Ordinarily, he would kiss her cheek, leave his card, and be off, usually neither requiring nor desiring a second acquaintance. Au contraire, to his dismay now he felt possessive and jealous and disgustingly vulnerable. He was the first to admit he was captured, sunk, defeated. Merde.

He would make her see reason, his reason naturally, because for certain, he would never let her go now, so utterly female as she was—soft and warm. Lord, he remembered the heat of her kisses—kisses on his neck, on his chest and stomach. He remembered the shyness, the tender wondering way she had touched him, stroked him. How she had quivered and moaned with each of his strokes, then her little gasp each time he entered her. He remembered the feel of her silky, warm thigh against his cheek, her trembles when he kneaded and nipped her fanny, her panting when his mouth suckled her breast. Their hands and tongues had branded each other everywhere, their kisses more passionate than any others in his prior and most extensive experience. He abhorred the notion that she could regret any moment of it, any of the magic that they had experienced together.

He cleared his throat loudly. “So tell me, Amanda, what would you be doing right this moment if you were at the hospital?”

At first taken aback, Amanda thought for a moment and then put her head down. “Oh, I suppose I would be with the babies right now.” Her head bowed down, she smiled briefly—very briefly. “I spend as much of the mornings as I can with the newborns and young children, holding them and such. I love the babies. The afternoons are generally with the mothers, teaching them how important love and nurturing is to their child. Anthony believes most of these poor women have lived without decent families and cannot understand how to properly care for children, what they should feed them, how important tenderness is, so he has me speak with each mother before she leaves.”

The mantel clock ticked loudly. Fitzwilliam was drowning with his memories of loving her and caressing her body. They had fit together perfectly, were custom-made for each other. His hands still were warm from touching her. “You should have more babies of your own.” His voice sounded rough with emotion. “You are a good mother, Amanda, an excellent mother. Your son is quite wonderful.”

Her eyes began to water, and she turned her face away. “I prefer to not discuss this,” she whispered.

It was becoming harder and harder not to dash over and shake her, drag her back into his bed to hold her and comfort her several more times, to love her and worship her. This was not the most advantageous time however.

***

They had made love twice. Twice, and in broad daylight . That must be the very definition of a woman of easy virtue. What must Richard think of me? She groaned softly and shook her head. Well, goodness. She tried to persuade herself that her behavior in their first coupling was forgivable, since she had been, she now realized, almost as ignorant about passion as the most sheltered innocent. Why, she had no defenses against an experienced man of the world, and not for the first time, she wondered about her marriage.

For one thing, she had never seen a naked man before today, before Fitzwilliam. Her husband, Augustus, never had a naked moment in his life of which she was aware. Why, he never even slept with her. Occasionally he would appear suddenly by her bedside, all quaking and nervous in the darkness, quickly “do the deed,” as he called it, and then leave as soon as possible.

No, definitely their first coupling today had been a complete revelation. Her immoral conduct was not her responsibility in any way, was only the consequence of his wicked expertise. He was cunning. He was a devil. He was a man.

***