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Charlotte had always been rather proud of her hands. She never dared admit it out loud, of course, as properly brought up young ladies knew better than to openly acknowledge any true superiority of either mind or person. She had long since accepted that as a single woman yet to secure her future, it would always be better to pretend modesty than to confirm arrogance.
In the privacy of her own thoughts, however, she could admire her hands as much as she wished. She could appreciate their dexterity when put to use in her mother’s kitchen, or their strength in helping to care for her younger siblings. She could enjoy their smooth skin in her favourite gloves, or how well they looked tucked into the arm of the newest gentleman to come to town. She felt nothing for the men themselves, of course, but there was something eminently satisfying about a delicate, pale hand against the rich fabric of a gentleman’s jacket.
And yet, there was nothing quite so gratifying as the sight of her own familiar hands tracing the skin of Elizabeth Bennet’s body. In the safety of her bedchamber, locked away from siblings and parents and all other responsibilities, Charlotte could admire the way that her hands brought Elizabeth pleasure again and again through gentle explorations of breasts and stomach and legs. In stolen moments, Charlotte learned how to tease pleasure from her body over hours, or surprise it out of her in an instant. Elizabeth allowed Charlotte to have her way and explore her body at her leisure, a luxury that Charlotte would be eternally grateful for. Tangled in skirts or threaded through hair, buried deep inside her or tickling teasingly over her skin, her hands knew Elizabeth well.
She knew that their time together was fleeting and her desire to chase forbidden pleasure with Elizabeth, however overwhelming it could be in the moment, would never distract her from what she knew to be her duty. They did not discuss their future often, as they both knew on some level that their lives would diverge in some painfully necessary way. But Elizabeth was a romantic, bent on nothing more than the purest, deepest love to guide her through her days. And as they could not be together in the way they wished, Elizabeth would accept no deviation from her ideals and would live as an old maid with her head held high, if that was what it came to.
Her romantic notions were admirable in a way, but Charlotte privately considered them quite foolish as well. Charlotte was not a romantic and never had been. Whatever romance dwelled within her breast must only be satisfied with breathy sighs smothered in pillows and the feel of Elizabeth’s hand clenched in hers as she coaxed one more orgasm from her trembling body. And despite her own convictions, she felt the inadequacy of her time with Elizabeth every day. She knew it could never be enough to satisfy her, and that she would always crave more. She felt sure that there was some kind romance contained in love denied, the memories one carried through a life otherwise devoted to duty. There must be hundreds of stories describing such folly, after all. She just never considered herself subject to it, until she surrendered herself to the feelings she couldn’t contain around her dearest friend. The moment that Elizabeth showed the smallest hint that she returned Charlotte’s feelings, she’d known she was doomed.
And when the day finally came for one of her hands to be duly ornamented with a foolish man’s ring, she could still take pleasure in them. Nothing William Collins could do would make her forget the joy she experienced with Elizabeth. She knew exactly what she would give up along with her maiden name. Charlotte knew very well that Elizabeth’s sense of honour would not allow their coupling to continue once she was joined in matrimony to another. She knew that once she abandoned the home of her father for that of her husband, she would never again be welcome in Elizabeth’s bed. Elizabeth would not allow her near enough to drink in her joy, but she could take solace in the memories of all their times together. Elizabeth would extend her hand to Charlotte in nothing more than friendship, but they both knew that their history would not be erased by any marriage either one of them entered into. For Charlotte knew that Elizabeth would fall one day. She, too, would seek the security of an appropriate marriage. Charlotte hoped that it would be a happy one, whenever it came to pass.
For her own part, she would never forget the feel of her best friend clenching around her fingers as she stifled her cries as best she could. She would never forget the taste that she licked from her fingertips or kissed from her lips. To her grave, she would carry the sight of her own hands wiping tears from Elizabeth’s eyes on the eve of her wedding. And to her marriage bed, she would take a determination to make the most of the life she had chosen, while vowing to never give a single hint of what had come before.