All tied up
“I am always most glad to oblige you, but shouldn’t you prefer Wilcox to manage this for you?” Elizabeth asked, her hands at her husband’s throat.
Darcy stood stock still as he had once at the Meryton assembly, but gave her a fond look quite foreign from his earlier expression.
“If you don’t mind, I prefer you,” he said.
Elizabeth pulled the end of the cravat through the loop she’d made, then frowned.
“I don’t see why, he far exceeds my skills,” she said.
Darcy’s hand went to her waist.
“He never throws the cravat to the floor and pouts.”
“Shall it be the Mathematique or the Irlandaise?” Emma wondered, reclining prettily on the chaise in her dressing room.
“I assure you, dear Emma, I haven’t an opinion,” George replied, very clearly appreciating the tableau she had arranged, including the glimpse of ankle.
She had learnt as Mrs. Knightley that George’s passions could be set quite aflame by such a sight.
“I know, but one of us must,” she replied.
“It is a matter of duty?”
“The neighborhood requires its most respected gentlefolk to appear properly attired and I cannot oblige,” she said, patting her rounded belly.
“Marianne Brandon. What are you wearing?” her husband asked in a voice like Death.
Well, not Death, but with a degree of gravity and awe once might associate with Death.
He didn’t look like he would sound like Death. His color was high, his ordinary hazel eyes shone brightly, his breath coming fast.
If he touched her, surely his hands would be trembling.
“What do you mean, sir?” she asked, all innocence.
As she’d hoped, she was quickly swept into his embrace, one hand coming to toy with the length of muslin at her neck.
“You are wearing my cravat.”
