Leap into Love ~ A Countdown Deal

St Valentine’s Day is coming, love is in the air and, as luck will have it, it’s a leap year. So what better way to celebrate our favourite couple and their  Leap into Love than with romantic excerpts from our books and gifts for our readers? (Such a great idea, Jennifer!!)

I think my readers would say that one of the most romantic scenes in my books is in a certain Chapter 16 😊. If you haven’t read it already, please scroll down for a snippet.

The e-book version of THE JOURNEY HOME TO PEMBERLEY will be on a countdown deal from 12am PST today, which I think is 3 am EST and 8 am GMT (with any luck, I got that right and set up the available countdown deals to run in parallel).

And now I hope you’d like to spend some time in Mr Darcy’s private book-room 😉

* * * * * * * *

“I should not blame you for my disappointment. I only saw what I wished to see. Or rather refused to see what was clearly spelled out: that you are too right-minded to barter your affections, and would sooner devote yourself to other people’s children than marry where you do not love.”

A sob racked her chest. This was too much – this was unbearable!

“Not so!” Elizabeth choked out. “And I am not right— right-minded,” she gasped, and her voice broke under the assault of more sobs, violent and unconquerable, that robbed her of breath. Yet she fought through them – fought to force the words out. Tell the truth. Beg his forgiveness. “I lied— Deceitful— A coward—”

Sobs still choked her, truncating her words and muddling her senses, till she could scarce tell what sort of a jumbled mess she was making of her long-overdue confession – indeed, whether she was able to form the words at all. Not barter. Love. Could not marry him… marry where she loved. Could only lie… all lies… horrible lies… monstrous…

Nor could she make much sense of his words either. She could only hear his voice – soft – pleading – urging her to calm herself – urging her to breathe. And all the while, his hands were on her shoulders. A firm clasp. Warm. His fingertips stroked her back – rubbed the edges of her shoulder blades with light, persistent pressure. Nothing had ever felt more soothing.

Another muffled sob rose in her throat when he raised his hands from her shoulders and cupped her face, his thumbs stroking away the tears. Yet it served no purpose, for fresh ones sprang as if they would never cease, distorting his image.

She could barely distinguish the contours of his face. Not that she could see him all that clearly anyway; not in the poor light and from that angle. He was too close – yet still not close enough. Instinctively, Elizabeth leaned forward and blinked to rid herself of the wretched screen of tears as she raised her eyes to his. She saw his lips move to form her name, soundlessly at first, then whispered with aching tenderness.

“Elizabeth… Whatever I said, it was… It came out in the heat of anger. I should have known better than to lash out and distress you with reproaches. Shh, my love. Don’t cry, I beg you. I never meant to make you cry,” she heard him say and blinked again, her eyes brimming anew at his words, heartbreakingly gentle.

How was it possible that he should love her still, and seek to comfort her, when she had brought him naught but pain?

She could not tell from his turn of countenance what he had made of her confession – that is, assuming she had made any sense at all. She rather doubted it. At some indeterminate point, her broken sobs must have subsided, yet she had not registered their absence until now, when she found she could breathe with ease.

That was no guarantee of fluency, and Elizabeth could only hope for some degree of it as she made to speak more intelligibly this time – when suddenly, without warning, his arms enveloped her and his lips were on hers.

Her very first kiss – their first kiss. Eight months ago, it might have been soft and tentative. It was not in the least tentative now. It was fierce and hungry, and Elizabeth gasped for breath as she surrendered her mouth to his.

She could taste the strong flavour of brandy on his lips, but it merely served to remind her that he had been drinking because he was lonely and desperately unhappy. She knew without being told that the fervid kiss had nothing to do with the torrid haze of insobriety, but sprang from stark need and unbearable heartache. He was no more intoxicated than she – or rather, it was the same sort of intoxication that conquered them both and rendered them flushed and breathless as they clung to each other as if in fear of being wrenched apart.

Any degree of distance was insupportable – not to be contemplated – so Elizabeth twined her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, wishing his hold would grow tighter still. She revelled in the clasp of his hands when he obliged – warm hands stroking her hair, her back; strong fingers digging into her flesh and igniting trails of fire with their caresses. Wave after wave of heat swept over her, fuelling an almost painful yearning.

Yet she could not have drawn back from its glorious lure if her life depended on it. It was he who pulled away and tore his lips from hers with a groan and a tortured, “Oh, Lord! Elizabeth, forgive me—”

But she would have none of it – would brook neither his retreat nor his contrition. Her hands shot up, and she weaved her fingers through his hair to hold him and draw him back to her as she stood on tiptoe to meet him halfway.

Another groan broke free of his chest when his lips crushed hers with almost savage desperation. It might have been a tortured sound. It might have been elated. Elizabeth could not tell, but as his hands roamed over her, claimed her, she was left in no doubt that he was as unwilling to release her as she him.

She twisted her fingers into his hair, succumbing to the fierce heat that set her skin on fire and made her wish she could melt into him. No degree of closeness seemed to be enough. Her hands left his hair to stroke the nape of his neck and grip his shoulders with every ounce of strength that she possessed. She could not have enough of his delectable flavour either – the brandy could not hope to mask it. Inquisitive and insistent, the tip of her tongue probed deeper to explore the inner contours of his mouth, and a low moan rumbled in his chest, sending an exquisitely forbidden thrill rippling through her. Not one, but dozens of forbidden thrills that rocked her to her very core and guided her lips into further exploration. His chin; the line of his jaw, now rough with a late-night stubble; his neck – sinewy and warm, the muscles taut, the pulse beating forcefully against her lips when she pressed them to the spot where she could feel the wild rush of blood through his veins, and it made her own blood sing.

Her lips travelled further to explore the top of his chest where the folds of his shirt came apart – something she had wished to do all those months ago, at the inn – and the muffled sound that escaped him was glorious music to her ears.

His clasp was glorious too, and the faint but noticeable tremor in his muscles made her heart lurch as she encircled his waist and buried her face in the folds of his shirt, revelling in his treasured scent, the underlying warmth of his skin and the strength of his arms around her – the only true haven she had ever known.

His cheek came to rest on the top of her head and they remained thus, motionless but for their heaving chests as they fought to catch their breath – a lengthy effort. They were both still struggling for air when Darcy’s left hand quitted its place at her nape to stroke the side of her neck, then drifted slowly upwards to cup her cheek, so large that it covered her face from her chin to her temple. His fingertips weaved through the wispy tendrils he found there, and he turned his head by the smallest fraction to drop a kiss into her hair. Nestled against him, Elizabeth pressed her ear to his chest, and closed her eyes as his thundering heartbeats joined forces with his ragged breaths to drown out the world.

His heartbeats slowed eventually, and the ragged breaths became a steady murmur, yet they still did not stir, and neither of them spoke. Elizabeth could not bring herself to curtail the first moments of fragile peace she had known since the day when she had learnt of Lydia’s disgrace. But the fact that peace was the furthest notion from his mind only became apparent when his voice finally broke the too-long silence.

“Is this another girlish fantasy?” Darcy asked with almost painful hesitation.

Elizabeth winced. The subdued accents of anguished uncertainty tore at her heart, and the callousness of the old falsehood weighed on her more heavily than ever. Drawing a shaky breath, she pressed a kiss into the soft skin below his thumb and said simply, “No. It is not.”

It patently was far from enough. His hand slipped from her cheek to raise her chin, and he drew back a little to look her in the face, making her guilt-ridden heart twist yet again when she found that the same anguished uncertainty clouded his eyes and was plainly written in his every feature.

“Then tell me what it is before I lose my mind,” he said in a gravelly whisper.

* * * * * * * *

Thanks for stopping by in Mr Darcy’s book-room. Have a lovely and cosy February, check out the countdown deals at .com and .co.uk.