Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The soft knock at her door sent panic racing through Elizabeth's veins. Jane entered without waiting for permission—sisterly privilege—her face creased with worry.
"Lizzy, you missed breakfast. Father seemed rather concerned when I mentioned—" Jane stopped mid-sentence, taking in Elizabeth's appearance. "Oh my dear, what's wrong?"
Elizabeth pulled the coverlet higher, hoping it might mask any lingering scent. "I felt unwell in the night." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
Jane crossed to the bed immediately, her maple-sweet scent making Elizabeth's stomach turn. Cool fingers pressed against Elizabeth's forehead. "You're burning up. Shall I send for the apothecary?"
"No!" The word emerged too sharp, too desperate. Elizabeth softened her tone. "That is—no, thank you. I'm merely tired."
"Shall I close the window?"
"No, it's too stuffy," Elizabeth said.
Jane's hand slipped from Elizabeth's forehead to touch her wrist—how many childhood illnesses had they nursed each other through? "You're quite warm. Lizzy, are you sure I shouldn't send for someone?"
"I just need more rest," Elizabeth said. "You needn't bother anyone, not in this weather."
The sky was still a miasma of drizzle with intermittent snow punctuating the hour. Jane's brow creased. "It isn't a bother at all."
"It is—I shall be myself again before luncheon." Her smile felt like tissue paper, thin and fragile. "Please, Jane. I need only quiet."
At last her sister acquiesced, taking with her the responsibility of deflecting their mother's concerns and their father's certain questions. Elizabeth could not be more grateful.
But gratitude quickly soured into something else as Elizabeth listened to Jane's footsteps fade.
She thought of her mother, who would crow with delight at having an omega daughter—such improved marriage prospects!
—and her stomach churned. She thought of her father, who had raised her to value wit and intelligence above accomplishments, who had treated her as different from her sisters.
Would he look at her differently now, see her as merely another omega daughter to marry off?
The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd rejected Mr. Collins partly because she refused to be valued only for her ability to produce heirs.
Now her body had revealed itself capable of exactly what society most prized in a woman—the ability to bear alpha children, to submit to an alpha's will, to serve as the perfect complement to masculine authority.
She could still feel it—that moment last night when Mr. Darcy's command had stripped away her will.
Her treacherous body had answered him instantly, instinctively, as though some ancient part of her had always known to bow to his authority.
Even the ghost of his voice in her memory brought whispers of that terrible, irresistible pull.
Elizabeth pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in the clean scent of lavender water and lye soap—neutral, safe things that wouldn't betray her.
Yet beneath it all, she could still detect traces of him.
His scent had somehow woven themselves into her very skin, marking her as surely as if he'd branded her.
She forced herself from bed, legs unsteady as a newborn foal's. The washbasin beckoned. Cold water, harsh soap—she scrubbed until her skin turned pink, then red, then nearly raw. Still his scent lingered, not on her body but somehow deeper, as though it had taken root in her bones.
The looking glass revealed a stranger. Her eyes held knowledge they shouldn't possess, her mouth looked swollen despite having been kissed only once.
She touched her lips, remembering the desperate press of his mouth, how he'd groaned her name like a prayer and a curse combined.
How different from his icy dismissal this morning, when he'd looked through her as though she were furniture.
A fresh wave of mortification crashed over her. She'd begged. Actually begged him, clawing at his shirt, pleading for things she hadn't even understood.
The morning dress she'd worn countless times before felt wrong against her skin—every seam a line of irritation, the muslin rough as burlap.
Elizabeth tugged at the neckline, then the sleeves, then abandoned the attempt entirely.
Her second choice proved no better; the stays dug into tender flesh, the chemise might as well have been woven from nettles.
Back to bed she went, inexplicably drawn to rearranging the pillows.
One needed fluffing, another required thoughtful positioning.
The counterpane wasn't quite right either—she smoothed it, tucked it, then pulled it loose again.
Her fingers found the wardrobe handle without conscious thought, retrieving her warmest shawl, then another, spreading them across the bed in overlapping layers.
A third joined them, creating a cocoon of soft wool and familiar textures.
She caught herself mid-motion, holding her winter pelisse like it belonged on the bed rather than her body. What was she doing?
Elizabeth forced herself to dress properly—the plainest morning gown she'd packed, minimal stays, no unnecessary ribbons or trim. She needed information, needed to understand what was happening to her body, her mind.
At the door, she paused, lifting her wrist to her nose. Lavender soap, a hint of rosewater, nothing more. It would have to suffice.
The library would have books—perhaps something that might explain what was happening to her.
Elizabeth made it only to the top of the stairs before Caroline's voice drifted up from the morning room below, pitched in that particular tone she reserved for gossip.
She froze, her hand white-knuckled on the banister.
"—never seen him so thoroughly out of sorts. Poor Mr. Darcy barely touched his breakfast, and when Charles attempted conversation, he received nothing but monosyllables."
"How unlike him," Mrs. Hurst replied, though her tone suggested she found it more amusing than concerning. "He's usually so composed, even when Charles is at his most trying."
"Indeed. Though I cannot blame him for his ill temper, considering the circumstances."
Elizabeth pressed herself against the wall, knowing she should retreat but unable to move. The floorboards beneath her feet seemed determined to creak at the slightest shift.
"Whatever do you mean?" Mrs. Hurst asked.
Caroline's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried perfectly up the stairwell. "He went to Mr. Bennet first thing this morning—before seven o'clock! Charles told me he practically stormed into the breakfast room demanding to know which chamber Mr. Bennet had taken."
"No!"
"Oh yes. And when he returned not twenty minutes later, his expression could have curdled fresh cream. Apparently Mr. Bennet declined his very generous offer to arrange carriages despite the weather."
Mrs. Hurst tittered. "Declined? However did he manage that?"
"Some nonsense about the roads being too treacherous still, and not wishing to impose upon Mr. Darcy's staff.
As if the Bennets ever concerned themselves with imposing!
" Caroline's heather scent grew stronger, as though she'd moved closer to the doorway.
"Mr. Darcy apparently insisted the weather was clearing, that he would personally ensure their safe passage, but Mr. Bennet remained obstinate. "
"How mortifying for poor Mr. Darcy."
"Precisely what I thought. Imagine, trying to rid Charles's home of unwanted guests only to have them refuse to leave! Though I suppose we cannot expect better from a family that sends their daughters to estates uninvited in rainstorms."
Elizabeth's fingernails carved crescents into her palms. The urgency of it, seeking out her father before the household had properly risen, spoke volumes about his desperation to distance himself from what had occurred.
"Mr. Bennet did seem rather cheerful about it all," Mrs. Hurst continued. "When I passed him in the library earlier, he was humming."
"Humming! While poor Mr. Darcy has barricaded himself in Charles's study, refusing all company. He claimed pressing correspondence, but Charles says he's merely staring out the window like some tragic poet."
"Perhaps he fears further imposition from certain young ladies." Mrs. Hurst's tone turned sly. "After all, we know how desperate some can become when an eligible alpha is near."
Caroline gave an unpleasant laugh. "If only said eligible alpha noticed them. You have seen the change, have you not?"
"I have. He thinks nothing of the woman anymore, that much is clear." Her sister's words carried the weight of triumph. "A promising sign indeed."
"Oh, and our conversation last evening!" Caroline's voice pitched higher with excitement.
"Louisa, he actually sought me out—can you imagine?
He seemed quite... intent, speaking so earnestly about compatibility and understanding between certain types of people.
When he looked at me—oh, the way he looked at me!
—I truly believe there is hope. An alpha of his standing would never speak so meaningfully unless his intentions were quite serious. .."
Elizabeth stood still in the corridor, their voices fading as they moved deeper into the house. She'd heard enough. More than enough.
Knowing she should go to the library and find out whatever she could about her new designation, Elizabeth left the stairs and strode straight past the corridor and out the front door.
She retreated to the gardens, desperate for air that didn't carry the mingled scents of breakfast and bodies and memories she couldn't escape.
The cold bit through her thin morning dress—she should have brought something, even a shawl—but the discomfort was minimal. The heat under her skin kept her warm.