B006O3T9DG EBOK by Linda Berdoll

espied in déshabillé by other than family.
    That was unlikely. Darcy broad shoulders blocked anyone’s observation of her person. Still, one would expect him to close the door forthwith. Rather, he remained still as a statue, making no move to come into the room. It was as if, perchance, he awaited her to bid him enter. He stood with one elbow resting on the doorjamb, the other hand at his side. He drew the back of his fingers to his lips and as did, his chin lowered. His gaze was penetrating—enough to make her drop her hand mirror. Had he been a bull in a field, she would have fled. Because that inclination struck her so strongly, she stood. As she did, she did not notice that her handkerchief fell to the floor.
    Had she mentally furthered her metaphor in regards to her husband and the bull, her reason would not have returned with any greater haste. There was certainly no ambiguity in this gaze. His expression was copulatory. Her hand fled to her bosom as if to quiet the pounding in her heart. As she did not speak, he did—and his eloquence on the matter before them was unparalleled.
    “ Lizzy ,” he said.
    Her riposte was simply, “Eh?”
    Had she the composure to rally and offer another, finer éclat, it was lost in the moments that followed.
    He kicked the door closed. It was a full ten foot from thence to where she stood. He crossed them in no more than two steps. As she stepped backward, she was stopped by the edge of her dressing table. It mattered not, for he had overtaken her.
    Before his fingers touched her, she anticipated him. Closing her eyes, a blissful foretaste of the pleasures he would bring to her body made her sigh.
    But he did not caress her.
    Rather, he did something just as familiar and, if possible, more esteemed.
    Taking her face in his hands, he whispered, “My lovely Elizabeth,”
    In that she had felt quite unlovely not minutes before, these simple words repaired her. She gave herself leave to enjoy his sentiment, basking in his devotion so compleatly that when his hand crept beneath the hem of her chemise, she was expecting it, desiring it, but not witting of it. His fingers often prowled the soft flesh of her thigh just above her stockings. It was a region particularly vulnerable to his touch. His encroachment stopped quite abruptly.
    She opened her eyes.
    His eyes were looking directly in hers and his expression was not... salutatory.
    “Pray, good wife,” he queried carefully, “What is that?”
    It took a moment for her head (and other portions of her person) to be free of all manifestations of passion before she could answer that which he—most probably—knew. His finger hooked the edge of a two-legged garment worn by women of fashion.
    They were all the rage on the Continent.
    They were not at all common.
    The most elegant ladies in London wore them, even Princess Charlotte (which she knew, truly, did not excuse them). The ladies of fashion made a show of flashing them when they stepped into their respective carriages.
    They were made of lawn and some bedecked with the finest Belgian lace available.
    It was said if they are to be worn at all, they are to be handsome.
    She did so not want to be out of fashion....
    Mrs. Darcy had silently practised every argument in favour of lady-breeches for some time. With her husband’s unflinching inquiry, those good reasons and explanations fled from her consciousness. When she spoke, she endeavoured to speak with authority. Her voice, however, suddenly turned on her and all she could do was squeak.
    “They are all the fashion.”
    His retort was short and to the point.
    He said, “I do not like them.”
    That was no great surprise. Mr. Darcy did not care to follow fashion. At least he did not admit to it. As she gathered her thoughts for a rebuttal, she considered whether to point out that the buff waistcoat that was a favourite the year passed had been cast from his wardrobe. Moreover, he no longer wore knee-breeches except upon formal