Loving Mr. Darcy: Journeys Beyond Pemberley

Chapter Two Billiards

Lizzy woke as the sun crested the horizon, the merest traces of sunlight entering the darkly curtained room. Darcy lay on his side next to her, one arm lightly draped over her abdomen, his top leg trapping hers. It was rare, even prior to her accident, to wake before him. Consequently, she seldom had the opportunity to simply stare at his sleeping form. She grasped her adventitious good fortune, especially as she diagnosed a state of total wellness for the first morning since early April! Her mind was racing ahead with urges growing as she lovingly admired him. He slept with lips parted, hair in utter disarray, face relaxed and so youthful. His body was akin to an oven in generating heat. It was wonderful in the winter, Lizzy had discovered, as she had not once been cold at night for the first time in the whole of her life. Now that it was summer, it meant that he tended to shove all the covers off, lying mostly exposed. Such was the case now. The thin blanket swathing her body was barely touching him, loosely cloaking hips, lower back, and one leg only. The remainder of his perfect physique was bared for her rapt inspection.

With a delighted smile, she ran dainty fingers through his hair, down to a firm shoulder and chest, edging closer to him incrementally. He slept on. How many mornings he had roused her in a similar manner were unfeasible to recollect. Therefore, the twinge of guilt felt at disturbing his slumber was overshadowed by her desires and the certitude that he would not be annoyed in the least.

Darcy, she knew, was a deep sleeper. He required little sleep overall, a mere six to seven hours more than adequate, and his body utilized the time proficiently by entering a state nearing hibernation. Therefore, she had the advantage and used it. Without haste and as delicately as possible, she removed the blanket and commenced caressing him. He sighed faintly a few times, stretched once, and rolled toward his back thus exposing more of him to her tender touch. He slept on, breathing regularly for quite some time as Lizzy thoroughly enjoyed herself.

Lizzy never wearied of simply studying her husband. Knowing the delights of his flesh and the perfection to his figure had on several occasions led to her embarrassment. Her decadent musings frequently invaded her during evenings reposing in the parlor. If Darcy glanced up and caught the gleam in her eyes as she stared, he would smile and wink or raise a brow. However, Georgiana had far too often been the one to notice the frankly sexual gazes between her brother and his wife or to interrupt them in an amorous embrace, to their extreme mortification. Yet, they could not seem to stop themselves. Last night, at the Lucas dinner party, Lizzy is almost certain her father saw her run a hand over Darcy's derriere. Earlier in the day, Mr. Bingley had walked into the library mere seconds after they separated from a particularly heated embrace with Darcy massaging one breast and Lizzy brushing the slight bulge emerging in his breeches.

This morning, contemplating the vision before her feasting eyes, Lizzy could raise only the slightest remorse. Honestly, as logical as it was to conclude that they needed to reign in their passion when in public, she had no desire to do so. Let the world know how ardently they loved each other, and if it disapproved, so be it. Lizzy would never regret a single expression of her devotion to Darcy, and she knew he felt the same. Lightly, she trailed her fingertips down the line of hair leading from breastbone to groin, circling then dipping into his navel. He slept on but the unconscious response as her fingers feathered over thighs, groin, and lower abdomen was instinctive.

Steadily, she emboldened her attack, adding kisses to the agenda, finally noting a variance to his respirations and a definite physical consequence to her ministrations. With a mighty sigh of pleasure, he drew her to his lips and kissed enthusiastically before briefly encountering her shining eyes. With a sultry smile he sighed again, closing his eyes and sprawling fully on his back, bestowing unimpaired access.

My lord, he is gorgeous!

Never one to refuse an offered gift, Lizzy besieged his body with relish. Seriously kissing all over his muscular, downy-haired chest, Lizzy stimulated him in all the ways she knew he adored. She knew how sucking his nipples incited him, that lightly tickling down his rib cage and sides thrilled him, nibbling his ears drove him insane, and kissing his neck and the pulsing hollow of his throat made him groan. She did all this and more, delighting in rallying his urgency. Darcy was wholly aroused in minutes, fists clenched together to avoid taking control, breathing heavily, and rumbling deeply in his chest. Nonetheless, Lizzy took her time, glorying in the sight of clenching thighs, rippling abdominal muscles, and thick, wiry hairs… all of him virile and powerful and alluring.

She sat astride him, elbows locked and hands pressed onto his chest, fingertips embedded in hard muscle ridges as she moved, asking throatily, “Reminiscent of the dreams you had when first staying here, Fitzwilliam?”

He merely groaned, grabbing her arms and pulling her onto his body for a voracious kiss.

Down the hall, in the Master of Netherfield's bedchamber, Jane Bingley was being woken up in a similar fashion for the first time since her marriage. It was fortunate that the walls of Netherfield were very thick and that Georgiana, whose room was situated roughly midway between the twin dens of delight, was as deep a sleeper as her brother.

The couples entered the breakfast room much later, Mary and Georgiana already dining. Georgiana glanced up at the glowing countenances of her brother and sister-in-law, youthful innocence nonetheless fully aware of why they beamed and surreptitiously touched while filling their plates. Darcy piled his high, ravenous for good reason, and even Lizzy discovered her appetite tremendously improved. Georgiana never tired of witnessing her brother's uncontrollable happiness; her love for him was so heartfelt that observing the joy he and Elizabeth shared warmed her soul and overcame the occasional embarrassment at witnessed embraces.

Minutes later, the Bingleys breezed in. A rosy-cheeked Jane, arm in arm with her husband, met Lizzy's eyes for the briefest second. Lizzy nearly spit her tea at the supreme smugness visible on her sister's face. Mr. Bingley was frankly grinning like a fool, face ruddy. Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a meaningful look, vainly struggling not to laugh.

Darcy greeted his sister with a kiss to the cheek then sat across from her and beside his wife. Looking to Mary, who sat next to Georgiana, Darcy inquired, “Miss Mary, I trust you slept well?”

Mary jolted at the sound of Mr. Darcy's voice. Despite the near constant presence of the man at Longbourn during the course of her sister's engagement, Mary had probably exchanged twenty words with him. She was not afraid of him, exactly, merely unsure. He intimidated her, although she conceded that he did nothing to specifically tender the emotion, having been unfailingly polite and almost pleasant. Mary simply had no idea how to converse with him, nor any other man for that matter. She flushed at his serious gaze, briefly encountered his eyes with an expression of perplexity, as if having suddenly been addressed by a frog, and stammered something along the lines of concurrence regarding her night's slumber, then commenced studying her plate as if the answers to the world's problems dwelt therein.

Darcy frowned slightly. Miss Kitty he understood; found her annoying to be sure, but he understood her. Miss Mary baffled him. That she was somewhat shy he acknowledged, yet her shyness was not nearly as profound as Georgiana's or even his own. He had observed her in many lengthy conversations. She avoided men like the plague, universally treating them all as if inferior creatures, or at least so alien as to preclude any possible communion. She seemed to have not the slightest tinge of humor. Of course, many had erringly assumed the same of him, so he was willing to extend latitude. However, try as he might, he could not break through her shell. Frankly, he could not fathom why Georgiana had befriended her or what the two talked about.

His reverie was interrupted by Jane and Bingley taking their seats. Bingley continued to grin. Jane was her usual poised, serene self, although her color was definitely pinker than normal. With a small smile, Darcy spoke purposefully, “Mrs. Bingley, you slept well also, I trust? Refreshed and prepared to meet the day's activities?”

His peripheral vision noted Elizabeth biting her lip, a gesture he well distinguished as one employed to prevent laughing. Bingley coughed, blushed scarlet, and hid behind his napkin. Jane, surprisingly, engaged Darcy's eyes with a calm, albeit mildly teasing smile, replying, “Why, yes indeed, Mr. Darcy. I believe I slept better than I have in months. Thank you for inquiring.”

Georgiana noted the strange semblances on all the adult faces at the table, perceived the undercurrent of jesting, but could not divine the cause. Mary decreed them all mad and categorically dismissed them. Breakfast proceeded from there in a predictable and customary fashion. The gentlemen ate heartily, discussing with enthusiasm the planned billiard tournament to commence at mid-morning. The women planned an excursion into Meryton for shopping and lunch at the Raven Inn, Mrs. Bennet and Kitty to accompany them.

They parted shortly thereafter, Darcy sequestering Elizabeth in the library for a private farewell. “Are you over your nausea, dearest?” Lizzy had eaten halfway through her breakfast and then been unexpectedly hit with a severe aversion to eggs, inducing her to hastily rise and exit the room for the nearest chamber pot. Fortunately, she had not been ill, but it had teetered on the edge for a spell. Now, she felt almost completely restored, as long as she did not envision eggs.

“Yes, love, I am fine. If my oddly wavering stomach contortions were not so incredibly bothersome I suppose I would find it comical!”

He laughed and kissed her. “Do not tax yourself, Elizabeth. I will not be here to paddle you if you overdo, so I trust you to care for yourself and our baby.”

“I promise to behave. Now,” she said, straightening his flawlessly arranged cravat, “you enjoy yourself. I want to hear all the details of how my handsome husband prevailed at billiards, leaving a collection of crushed egos in his wake.”

The gentlemen of Meryton and the surrounding areas, when not gathering for smaller private socializations in their homes, met informally at the two pubs or the lone coffeehouse for gaming and to discuss politics and business. A large, red brick building located on the main street and annexed to the Ox Horn pub was humorously and pretentiously called the Reading Room, due to the cozy parlor in the rear dedicated to gentlemen's intellectual concourse while smoking imported cigars and drinking fine liquors. However, it was the billiard room that drew the largest crowds most days.

The large space housed several billiards tables, along with a few chess and backgammon tables. Darcy and Bingley had visited a few times during Darcy's previous sojourns; however, Darcy, unsurprisingly, had preferred the quiet solitude of Netherfield. Bingley adored socializing and frequently passed afternoons and occasional evenings with the young men of the community.

Last evening, during the dinner party at Lucas Lodge, Darcy had been invited to partake in the billiard tournament scheduled for today. Apparently, his reputation as a skilled player had preceded him; several of the local citizens were familiar with the name Darcy being whispered with reverence through the billiard halls of Town. Mr. Darcy was by no means the preeminent player in all of London, but he ranked among the top twenty. As a guest in the area, it certainly was neither expected nor necessary to include him, so he was honored by the inclusion. If it were any other contest, Darcy may have felt obliged to decline the offer or to curb his mastery. Not with billiards, though. After horseback riding, and of course his private activities with his adorable wife, there was no pastime Darcy loved more than billiards.

Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were greeted primarily with enthusiasm. Sir Lucas, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Phillips were already present as the designated officials for the tournament, busily organizing the equipment and records required for the matches.

“Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bingley!” Sir Lucas exclaimed, beaming at them. “What a delight it is to have you both join us in our meager entertainment.”

Bingley bowed. “Thank you, Sir Lucas. However, my occupation shall be that of a spectator. My billiard skills are minimal. For cert not a match for Darcy here, so it would be futile for me to attempt besting him.”

Darcy bowed deprecatingly, nonetheless noting several perturbed expressions amongst the gathered men. Apparently, not all the competitors were delighted to have an expert challenger. Those gents who chose to participate in the contest signed the ledger and their names were placed into a hat. The simple expedience of having Sir Lucas, as the highest ranking man in the region, draw the individual names for the first round hailed the commencement of the tournament.

The hall was packed. Chairs and stools were placed along the walls and the game tables removed for extra space. A long side bar was erected with a steady supply of finger foods provided, while beverages of all varieties, alcoholic as well as tea, coffee, cocoa, and juices, were kept flowing in a steady supply from the pub. The atmosphere was jovial and casual, remarkably dissimilar to such events at the billiards rooms in London. Darcy might have been distressed by this, but as a frequent rival of his cousin Richard, who took nothing except his military career seriously, Darcy was immune to constant chatter and distractions.

Darcy was paired with a Mr. Denbigh, a man of some fifty years whom Darcy had met previously. Denbigh, an adequate player offering Darcy a few challenges, was affable and talkative, clearly enjoying himself immensely regardless of the outcome. In the end, Darcy attained the required points with a wide margin, effectively eliminating Denbigh from the match. After a brief respite, Darcy paired with a Mr. Heigt. Heigt was in his early twenties, ruddy faced with flaming red hair, and nearly as tall as Darcy. In appearance, he resembled Bingley, but in temperament was comparable to Darcy. He also left no doubt that he took the match seriously and was not at all pleased to have Darcy partake. With an icy smile, Darcy attacked. No quarter asked and none given, the two men played with careful regulation and intensity. Darcy won with ease, despite Heigt's pose of expertise, and the loser's anger was obvious. Thankfully, he retained his composure and did not make a scene, although he departed shortly thereafter.

His third opponent, Mr. Ravencraw, was a distinguished man in his fifties. Darcy ascertained instantly that here was a first-rate player. In his first true challenge of the match, Darcy called on every skill he possessed. The game was twice as long as the previous two, and Darcy won by a slim margin, thus allowing Ravencraw to remain in the tournament.

Ravencraw bowed. “Excellent game, Mr. Darcy. Your reputation is well reported. I rarely travel to Town; however, even I have heard the name Darcy. I do believe I was fortunate to best your father once or twice at Whites. He was a supreme player as well, although I daresay you surpass him in skill.”

Darcy bowed in return, “Thank you, Mr. Ravencraw. My father was a superb player; however, I would merely be reiterating what he himself proclaimed in that my expertise transcended his. Of course, he trounced me substantially in both chess and fencing, so I was forever humbled.”

“Perhaps I shall be redeemed in the subsequent games and we shall meet again at the play-off. Just a dream on my part, sadly, as I cannot win over Mr. Dashwell and no one can beat Mr. Simpson.”

Darcy smiled. “There are few certainties in this life, Mr. Ravencraw. Chin up!” The name Simpson had been bandied about as the preeminent billiard champion of the county, but Darcy had yet to deduce which man was he. Thus far, Darcy had been too busy with his own games to observe any of the others. As a guest, this was a handicap, as he had no ready knowledge of the strengths, weaknesses, or strategies of anyone. By the same token, they knew none of his, so it balanced out he supposed.

Luncheon was served then, so all the gentlemen repaired to the dining room for a delicious meal served with the finest red wine from France. Darcy was historically not a heavy imbiber, except for a memorable handful of times in his life, and never consumed spirits during a match, so he passed on the wine. The atmosphere remained animated, many of the spectators already partially in their cups. Darcy shared a table with Bingley, Mr. Bennet, Lizzy's uncle Mr. Phillips, and three younger men, friends of Bingley, whom he had met at the Lucas's dinner.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy inquired, “which man is Mr. Simpson?”

Lizzy's father nodded toward a table by the window. “The fellow to the right of Sir Lucas.” Darcy identified the indicated man with staggered surprise.

“Are you certain?” he blurted, setting Mr. Bennet laughing.

“Quite. I have known him all my life. His eldest son was my closest companion, until he passed on some five years ago.”

Elliot Simpson was five and eighty if he was a day. He was a stooped, frail man closely resembling a sparrow in his fragility and delicacy. Darcy had noted him earlier in the day but had promptly dismissed the tremulous elderly gent. Frankly, he could not imagine how the same hands which currently experienced difficulty lifting his wine goblet could manage a billiard cue! He was honestly entertaining the notion that a jest was being played on him when Mr. Bennet spoke.

“I fancy the picture before you renders the erroneous conclusion that you have been misinformed. Let me assure you, my boy, place a cue in Simpson's hands and a new creature emerges. In all my days, I have never seen anyone with his mastery. He is a true wizard at billiards.” He glanced at Darcy's frowning mien, chuckling softly and smiling inscrutably. “Of course, there are few certainties in life,” he said, repeating Darcy's own words to Ravencraw, “so chin up!”

Darcy snorted but smiled faintly, privately anticipating the challenge, as hard as it remained for him to credit. Thankfully, after luncheon Darcy earned a respite for one round so was able to witness Simpson in action. He had sincerely never witnessed the like. The old man shuffled to the table assigned him, wheezing mildly, and took hold of his cue. Instantaneously, twenty years fell from his bearing. He straightened considerably, although still bowed, quivering hands settling around the thin wood steady and confident. He wielded the cue as if it were an attached appendage, his hand-to-eye coordination magical in its accuracy. His opponent, the aforementioned Mr. Dashwell, put up a good fight but lost by a fair margin.

Suddenly, the friendly match took on a note of true challenge for Darcy. In all the years of playing the finest players in London, Darcy had encountered only four men who could honestly be considered supreme masters of the sport. Even Darcy, as excellent as he was, did not fit into that magical realm of the gifted artisan, the virtuoso. That Mr. Simpson was such a man was without dispute. Therefore, it was doubtful that Darcy could defeat him, and he knew it. Nonetheless, like any legitimate lover of billiards or contests of any kind, he intended to try. Win or lose, the test of one's abilities was the paramount trial, not to mention what made it fun!

Now that the tournament was in its final stages—with the poorer players eliminated, leaving only the chief competitors—the excitement level had risen. With each round, as the total number decreased from eight then to six then to four, the atmosphere was feverish. Darcy attacked his next three bouts with all his might. The first two he won handily by wide point spreads. The third, the determinate playoff before the final game, was against Mr. Dashwell. It was Darcy's toughest challenge thus far, Dashwell being on an equal par with Darcy. It was a close game, each scoring readily after the other; however, Darcy won eventually by a mere twenty points.

Enraptured by the charged climate in the room as Sir Lucas solemnly announced the Championship Game between Mr. Elliot Simpson and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Darcy could not resist smiling inwardly. He experienced the same electricity as all the spectators whenever involved in these sorts of events; nonetheless, it amused him how men became transported by a simple game as if the world's continuance depended on the outcome.

Simpson and Darcy bowed to each other, exchanging pleasantries as the officials prepared the table, cues, balls, and scoreboard. The spectators gathered around, clamoring for the best viewing locations after procuring their preferred beverages.

Darcy won the string, choosing the white ball and earning the first strike, scoring a point easily. Thus, the game began. It ended up, not surprisingly, being the longest game of the entire tournament. Darcy had the time of his life and Simpson did not disappoint. He was one of the finest players Darcy had ever opposed. All his skills were put to the test as the two men fought ferociously for each point. Simpson, to Darcy's amazement, never once fouled, an accomplishment in itself. The scoring was close for a time, but eventually Simpson's mastery ruled and he pulled ahead. Darcy followed on his heels, yet never managed to supplant. Simpson triumphed, as they all expected, the elderly man maintaining his reign as Hertfordshire's billiard champion for practically all of the past fifty years. The end point spread was a slim twelve points, the smallest in recent memory. This exploit alone garnered Mr. Darcy of Pemberley a place in tournament history.

The crowd erupted in jubilant congratulations. Simpson was gracious and Darcy effusive in his praise. The drinks flowed freely, Darcy now happily sharing in a couple of glasses. For another hour or so, he and Bingley conversed and made merry before finally breaking for home.