Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Elizabeth forced herself to take another bite of toast. The toast scraped down Elizabeth's throat—dry, flavourless, necessary.
Darcy sat opposite, his breakfast cooling while he studied it with the bewildered concentration of a man attempting to decipher Latin without instruction.
Morning light poured through the windows, the listless light turning the hollows beneath his eyes into something raw and bruised.
Caroline leaned toward him, her fingers brushing his sleeve.
"Mr. Darcy, you look quite tired. Did you sleep poorly? Perhaps the room was not warm enough?"
"I slept adequately, Miss Bingley."
Caroline's hand fluttered to her throat—a gesture that drew attention to the elegant line of her neck. "How dreadful when weather disturbs one's rest. I do hope tonight proves more peaceful for you."
Elizabeth looked away, focusing on cutting her eggs into precise squares. Each scrape of knife against porcelain felt overloud. Jane chatted with Mrs. Hurst about new curtains, their voices a blessed distraction from the tension coiling through the room.
Darcy pushed back his chair.
"If you'll excuse me." He didn't wait for acknowledgment, striding from the breakfast room without looking at anyone. Without looking at her.
Caroline's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Her gaze slid to Elizabeth with feline satisfaction, as though she'd scored some private victory.
After breakfast, Elizabeth retreated to the morning room with her embroidery, desperate for isolation.
Her plan was simple: occupy every waking moment with activity—stitching, walking, anything that might drain her completely and grant her the oblivion that had escaped her these past two nights.
The window seat had scarcely taken her weight when footsteps announced the death of her solitude.
"Miss Eliza." Caroline glided closer, silk skirts whispering against the floor. "How industrious you are this morning."
Containing a sigh, Elizabeth elected to set aside her work for the moment. "I find needlework soothing."
"Do you?" Caroline settled into the chair opposite, arranging her skirts around her. "Though I confess, I've noticed something rather... unusual about you today."
Elizabeth's needle paused. "Oh?"
"There's a particular scent about you." Caroline's tone was all innocent curiosity, but her eyes glittered with malice.
"Quite distinctive, actually. Sweet, rather.
.. cloying. Have you been unwell?" False concern dripped from every syllable, but Caroline's eyes glittered with something far less charitable.
She can't smell him. She can't.
Elizabeth had scrubbed her skin raw before dawn, standing in the copper tub while gooseflesh covered every inch. She'd called for fresh water twice, ignoring the maid's confused expression. The lye soap had left her skin tight and dry, but surely—surely—it had washed away any trace.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I'm quite well, thank you."
Caroline leaned forward slightly, inhaling with theatrical delicacy.
"How curious. It's almost like..." She paused, letting the moment stretch.
"Well, it reminds me of those little bottles one can purchase in certain London establishments.
You know the ones—for ladies who wish to appear more. .. appealing to particular gentlemen."
Elizabeth's fingers tightened on her embroidery hoop. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're suggesting."
"Don't you?" Caroline's smile was razor-sharp. "How fascinating that a sensible girl like yourself would suddenly develop such... exotic inclinations. Though I suppose desperation can drive even the most practical person to rather extraordinary measures."
"Miss Bingley—"
"Oh, there's no shame in it," Caroline continued airily. "Half the unmarried ladies in London resort to such aids. Though I must say, the application seems rather heavy-handed. Perhaps less would be more convincing?"
"I assure you, I am wearing no artificial enhancement of any kind."
"No?" Caroline's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "How very strange. Because that scent is quite unmistakable to anyone with experience in such matters. Though I suppose if one were new to these techniques, one might not realize how obvious the effect appears to others."
Those omega perfumes from London chemists were ten shillings a bottle—Caroline had openly derided a supposed friend of hers for trying three different brands last Season.
Though every London apothecary sold omega essence in cut-glass bottles, Elizabeth had never understood the appeal.
Why would anyone want to smell like synthetic roses and musk when they could simply be themselves?
Surely, if a beta snared an alpha husband through such means, they were building a life on dishonesty rather than true love?
"Yes, I imagine so," Elizabeth said, her smile sharp as broken glass. "Though I pity any woman foolish enough to build her marriage on such foundations. One cannot wear a mask forever without it becoming a prison."
"Just so," Caroline said sweetly. "Besides, everyone knows the most eligible bachelors require authenticity above all else. Along with genuine breeding, natural grace… The sort of qualities that cannot be purchased in bottles or acquired through wishful thinking."
"Then we are of the same mind," Elizabeth said.
"Of course. You've always struck me as far too proud for such artifice—too convinced of your own natural charms to resort to assistance. Though pride, I suppose, can be a luxury only the truly secure can afford."
"Miss Bingley."
Both women turned. Darcy stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression carved from marble.
"I believe my aunt once mentioned that ladies who concern themselves overmuch with the personal habits of others often reveal more about their own character than those they criticize." His voice carried the precise neutrality of a man delivering a verdict. "I found her observation quite astute."
The colour drained from Caroline's face, leaving her complexion the shade of curdled milk. Then heat rushed back, staining her cheeks crimson.
"I—of course, Mr. Darcy. I merely—that is—"
Caroline gaped. Closed her mouth. Opened it again.
Her hands went first to her throat—no words there—then to her carefully arranged curls, as though proper speech might be hiding amongst the pins.
All her prepared venom had evaporated; she looked exactly like what she was: a woman caught mid-cruelty by the very man she hoped to impress.
Darcy's expression remained unchanged, as though he'd commented on nothing more significant than the weather. The very blandness of his features made the cut deeper.
"If you'll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to."
He turned without waiting for acknowledgment, his footsteps fading down the corridor with measured precision.
Caroline's gaze snapped to Elizabeth, and for one unguarded instant, pure hatred blazed in her eyes. Then she swept from the room, her skirts catching on the doorframe in her haste. The sound of ripping fabric followed her retreat.
Elizabeth sat frozen, her embroidery forgotten in her lap.
The silence pressed against her ears. Darcy had defended her—publicly, decisively—against Caroline's cruelty.
Yet he'd done it with such clinical detachment, as though correcting an error in arithmetic rather than protecting someone who'd spent the night in his bed.
He'd rubbed his seed into her flesh. Defended her. Then walked away as though she meant nothing at all.
The embroidery hoop slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering against the floor. She didn't bend to retrieve it.
Elizabeth abandoned her embroidery where it had fallen, desperate for air that didn't taste of Caroline's perfume and accusations. The corridors blurred past as she fled toward the entrance hall, yanking her pelisse from its hook without waiting for assistance.
The December air struck like a slap. Ice glazed every surface, treacherous beneath her half-boots. Patches of snow clung to shadowed corners while mud churned where sun had touched the ground. She picked her way across the lawn, her breath clouding in rapid puffs.
Outside, the world had been scrubbed clean and merciless.
Elizabeth stood in the middle of Netherfield's lawn, arms spread wide, face turned up to catch snowflakes on her tongue like she had as a child at Longbourn.
If anyone watched from the windows, let them think her mad.
Madness seemed infinitely preferable to the alternative—sitting in that stifling manor, pretending her body didn't still hum with muscle memory of Darcy's hands.
The December air scraped her lungs raw, each breath a small violence that cleared her head.
She needed that clarity, needed something sharp enough to cut through the fog of the last few days.
Everything had changed. Nothing had changed.
She was an omega now—that fundamental truth rewrote her entire future—yet Darcy still looked through her as though she were furniture.
Her boots found a patch of virgin snow, and she crushed through it with vicious satisfaction. The ice beneath caught her heel, sent her stumbling, but she recovered without falling. Always recovering, never quite falling. The story of her life since arriving at Netherfield.
Wind whipped her skirts around her legs, tugged pins from her hair. She must look a fright—cheeks reddened, hair disheveled, pelisse buttoned wrong in her haste to escape. Caroline would be appalled. Darcy would find her lacking in propriety.
Good. Let them all find her lacking. She was tired of being found at all.
The cold bit through her pelisse, sharp enough to make her eyes water.
Or perhaps that was something else entirely.
She tilted her face toward the pewter sky, letting snowflakes catch on her lashes, melt against her overheated cheeks.
Out here, she could blame the cold for the ache in her chest, the trembling in her hands.
Out here, she could pretend she was still the same Elizabeth who'd rejected him at Hunsford—proud, independent, utterly in control of her own fate.
What a spectacular lie that had become.
Elizabeth gulped the winter air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. Better the bite of December than the slow suffocation of Netherfield's drawing rooms, where every breath tasted of her own humiliation.
Movement through bare branches—Bingley emerged from the copse, his greatcoat flapping.
"Lizzy! Thank heaven I found you. Jane sent me—she's quite concerned. This weather is far too bitter for walking."
Elizabeth's teeth chattered as she forced a smile. "I needed air."
"Air you'll find aplenty indoors, I assure you." Bingley's good-natured face creased with worry. "Jane will have my head if you catch your death. Please, allow me to escort you back."
She had no choice but to accept his offered arm. "Any word on the bridge repairs?"
"Nearly complete, I'm told. Another day, perhaps two at most." He guided her around a particularly vicious patch of ice. "Though I confess, having family here has been rather pleasant."
"Pleasant," Elizabeth repeated numbly. "Yes."
The dining room that evening pressed against Elizabeth like a physical weight. Candle flames wavered in the overheated air, making shadows dance across the walls. Every scent assaulted her—Mrs. Hurst's lavender water, Mr. Hurst's port-soaked breath, the greasy mutton that turned her stomach.
And Darcy.
God, Darcy.
He sat directly across from her, close enough that each shift of his body sent fresh waves of dark chocolate and autumn leaves washing over her. When he reached for his wine glass, the movement stirred the air between them. Elizabeth's fork clattered against her plate.
"Lizzy?" Jane touched her wrist. "You're flushed. Are you quite well?"
Elizabeth slipped her arm away from her sister's touch. "The room is rather warm."
"Warm?" Mr. Bennet glanced up from his plate. "I find it perfectly comfortable."
Jane pressed her palm to Elizabeth's forehead. The touch burned, Jane's familiar berry-maple scent suddenly nauseating.
"You're burning up. Perhaps you should retire early?"
Elizabeth lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against floorboards. "Yes. Yes, I think I shall."
She didn't look at anyone as she fled. Couldn't. The stairs stretched endlessly upward, each step requiring conscious effort. Lock the door. Bar it with furniture if necessary. Endure.
Everything swayed. Elizabeth caught herself against paneled wood, legs threatening mutiny.
The heat—Christ, the heat—it blazed through her like wildfire through dry grass, consuming everything in its path.
Worse than yesterday's torment. Worse than the humiliation of begging Darcy for relief she hadn't understood.
Her body felt foreign, too small to contain whatever writhed beneath her skin.
She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, using pain to anchor herself.
But even that couldn't stop the trembling, couldn't quiet the howling need that had her pressing her fevered forehead against cool plaster.
The corridor stretched endless in both directions.
Too far to her room. Too far to anywhere safe from this consuming fire.
Sweat beaded along her spine, between her breasts, behind her knees. Every heartbeat sent fresh agony pulsing through her, and she pressed her burning cheek to the blessedly cool wall, wondering if one could die from wanting something one didn't understand.
Strong hands caught her before she hit the floor.
"Elizabeth."
Her name alone, ragged and desperate on his lips. The familiar dark richness of him wrapped around her, and she had to bite back a sob of relief despite her struggle to wrench herself away.
"I can't—I shouldn't—"
The words came out broken, desperate. She couldn't do this to him again, couldn't burden him with her need, couldn't stomach another morning—
Darcy didn't answer. His arms swept beneath her knees, lifting her against his chest. Elizabeth's protests died as he strode down the corridor toward his chambers.
"You can and you will." His voice was flat, emotionless. "I'm not letting you suffer."
No tenderness in the words. No declaration. Just stated fact, as though he were discussing ledgers or estate management.
He shouldered open his door, kicked it closed, deposited her on the bed with efficient movements. He stepped away, and soon the lock was turning.
Elizabeth pressed her face into his pillow, drowning in his scent.