Mr. Darcy’s expression must have unsettled George as well. “Darcy,” he said in a warning tone, but the other man gave no indication he heard. They were a still tableau for a few seconds.
When Mr. Darcy moved, it was sudden and swift. Before Elizabeth could blink, he was standing in front of her. In another heartbeat, his arms were wrapped around her. Over the rush of blood pounding in her ears, Elizabeth could hear Aunt Gardiner and George shouting, but she could only stare, mesmerized, into Mr. Darcy’s eyes.
“Forgive me, Elizabeth,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her ear.
“Forgive you for wh—?” Mr. Darcy’s mouth was upon hers before she could finish the sentence. Elizabeth had been kissed before, but comparing those paltry offerings to this overwhelming experience would be like comparing a tiny rivulet to the Thames.
Despite a faint voice at the back of her head warning that this was wrong, she was flooded with a sense of rightness. This was the way kissing should be. She should kiss this man forever and never stop.
But then her body demanded more…more touching…more contact. Touching with lips and tongues was not nearly sufficient. They were too far apart. Her body pressed into his, her softness against the hard planes of his chest and the muscles of his legs. Her hand traveled up his back to tangle in his hair, which was every bit as soft as she had imagined.
But these touches were still not sufficient. Her body—her core—tingled and grew warm as if demanding a different kind of contact with the extremely male body opposite hers. Kissing was not enough. Touching through clothing was not enough. She needed to touch his skin—without the barrier of clothing—and have him touch her, exploring each other’s bodies until they merged together into one.
Oh, merciful heavens! What am I thinking? Where are these blatantly carnal thoughts arising from? Did kissing always have this effect? But no, the stolen kiss with John Lucas had not been like this. And kissing Mr. Wickham…
Mr. Wickham.
George!
Her fiancé!
Oh, goodness, I am kissing Mr. Darcy in front of my new fiancé.
Enthusiastically.
Even with that panicked thought in her head, it took a moment for her body to obey her command and pull away from the kiss. Even then she did not struggle in Mr. Darcy’s firm embrace. He touched his forehead to hers as their hearts pounded and their breaths came in ragged gasps.
Mr. Darcy straightened, glancing at her and glaring at George. “It is not enough,” he muttered to himself. “I must do more. I must make certain. Forgive me, Elizabeth.”
This was all the warning she had before his mouth plundered hers again. His taste and scent fill
ed her senses, and she could do nothing but enjoy the sensations.
And then she felt his hands. On her waist! Scandalous. He was caressing her through the thin fabric of her dress—in front of at least four witnesses.
She ripped herself from his grasp. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried, outraged.
Backing away, his hands in the air, Mr. Darcy could not have appeared more contrite. “I apologize. It was the only way to be sure…”
Elizabeth did not know what he was talking about, but she was well aware of her feelings about his actions. She curved her fingers into a fist—and punched him in the mouth.
***
Darcy had been prepared for a slap, but the punch was a surprise.
He stumbled backward with the force of the blow, pressing his fingers to his lower lip. They came away bloody. But no matter; he would endure far more for Elizabeth’s sake.
She stared at him, horrified, her chest heaving and her face flushed with anger. Then she very deliberately wiped her lips with the back of her hand, removing all trace of his kisses. She was magnificent. Many other women would have collapsed in a gibbering heap of nerves, but not his Elizabeth.
And she was his Elizabeth now. He had ensured it. In that instant after the horrible discovery that he had arrived too late to prevent the engagement, Darcy had realized he would far rather marry her and risk the disgrace of an alliance with the Bennets than see her wed to Wickham.
Pulling out a handkerchief, Darcy applied it to the cut on his lip. Only then did he turn to gauge the reactions of their witnesses. At some point Mr. Gardiner had joined the group. Darcy could picture a kitchen boy being sent running to fetch the man from his warehouse.
Gardiner regarded Darcy with an outraged expression, his hands folded over his chest. Mrs. Gardiner seemed close to tears—causing Darcy a moment of regret—her hand over her mouth. The maid seemed to think this was the most entertaining thing she had seen in years, and perhaps it was. The manservant’s forehead was creased with anxiety; perhaps he was concerned that someone would order him to lay hands on Darcy.
And Wickham…his expression was beyond description. If Darcy were not so anxious about Elizabeth’s reaction, he would have reveled in Wickham’s. The man was drawing deep, measured breaths through his nose and glaring daggers at Darcy. He knew he had been bested. Darcy would be quite pleased…
If it were not for the hateful glare from the woman he loved.