CHAPTERONE
The rain beganas a whisper against the windows, soft droplets that gathered and ran in rivulets down the glass.Elizabeth traced one with her finger from her perch on the window seat, watching it merge with another, then another, until they formed a small river racing toward the sill.Outside, the sky had turned the color of old pewter, heavy clouds pressing down on Netherfield's grounds like a weight.
"Such dreadful weather," Mrs.Bennet proclaimed from her chair near the fire."Thank heaven the bridge suffered that damage.Can you imagine attempting to cross in this?We might have been swept away!"
The bridge's central support beam had cracked clean through, the wood blackened with rot that the rain had finally exposed.Bingley had reported that the local carpenter had taken one look at it yesterday morning and shaken his head—the whole structure needed shoring up before anyone could cross safely.With the roads already turned to thick mud that swallowed carriage wheels up to their axles, bringing in proper timber would take days.But Mrs.Bennet had declared it a catastrophe requiring at least a week's delay before they could safely return to Longbourn.Mr.Bingley, still glowing with newlywed happiness, had insisted they must stay until proper repairs could be arranged.
Elizabeth watched the rain turn to sleet, ice crystals mixing with water, coating the garden paths in a treacherous glaze.Trapped.That's what she was.Trapped in this house with its elegant rooms and careful distances, trapped with her own realizations that had come far too late.
Three days since Jane's wedding.Three days of careful maneuvering through hallways, timing her appearances in the breakfast room, finding urgent letters to write whenever footsteps approached the library.Three days of avoiding him.
Months ago, she'd understood everything he had done.Ever since Lydia had laughed over tea during her wedding visit in August, carelessly mentioning Mr.Darcy's role in her marriage."Four thousand pounds!Can you imagine?And tracking them all the way to London himself.Wickham never stood a chance once Mr.Darcy decided to hunt him down."
The words had frozen Elizabeth mid-reach for her teacup.Four thousand pounds.The searching.The negotiations.The saving of her family from complete ruin.All done quietly, without seeking credit or acknowledgment.
She'd loved him then.Or perhaps admitted what she'd known since reading his letter at Hunsford, since walking through Pemberley's galleries and hearing his housekeeper's praise.Certainly since that moment by the stream when he'd smiled at her with such unexpected warmth.
But what use were such admissions now?
From her seat, she could see into the drawing room where Caroline Bingley held court beside Mr.Darcy, her hand resting on the arm of his chair.He sat reading, or pretending to read—the page hadn't turned in ten minutes.Caroline's voice carried clearly.
"Lady Catherine writes that the grounds at Rosings are particularly lovely this year, despite her mourning.Poor Anne.Such a sudden decline."Caroline adjusted her shawl, ensuring her omega scent—that cloying heather—wafted appropriately."Her ladyship mentioned she hopes to see Pemberley's mistress share Anne's refinement."
Mrs.Hurst made some appropriate sound of sympathy.Mr.Darcy turned his page at last.
Elizabeth closed her eyes.A beta.She'd always known it, been comfortable with it.Betas made excellent governesses, companions, maiden aunts.They didn't inspire the protective instincts of alphas or suffer the physical vulnerabilities of omegas during their heats.They were practical.Steady.Unremarkable.
"It's pathetic when someone reaches above their biology," Caroline had hissed yesterday when they'd passed in the corridor."You understand, don't you, Miss Eliza?An alpha of his standing...well.He was quite clear at dinner last week.'A beta could never truly satisfy an alpha's needs,' he said.Such refreshing honesty."
The insult had struck deep, yet Elizabeth had simply curved her lips upward and withdrawn to the safety of her room.Caroline possessed an instinct for weakness that Darcy lacked—she knew how Elizabeth's breath caught at his footfall, how she hoarded his words to others like winter provisions, sifting through them for traces of forgiveness, of possibility.
He gave her emptiness.
He'd been unfailingly polite all week.Proper.Distant.He rose when she entered, inquired after her health when society demanded it, passed the salt when requested.But his eyes slid past her as if she were furniture.When conversation required his response to something she'd said, he directed his words to the air slightly to her left.
Yesterday at dinner, she'd attempted a small joke about the weather.Jane had laughed.Bingley had chuckled.Across from her, Darcy had continued cutting his meat without a glance.
It was worse than anger.Worse than the proud disdain he'd shown at the Meryton assembly.This indifference, this careful erasure of her from his notice—it spoke of a man protecting himself from further harm.She'd wounded him at Hunsford, thrown his proposal back with accusations and bitterness.Of course he'd armored himself against her.
He'd once asked for a beta's hand, knowing it could never satisfy him.
Now he knew better than to repeat such folly.
The sleet grew heavier, drumming against the windows with increasing force.Ice was forming on the bare branches of the oak tree, turning them to crystal.Beautiful and treacherous.
"Mr.Darcy," Caroline's voice rose again, "you must tell Mrs.Hurst about Pemberley's succession of drawing rooms.She's quite curious about the arrangements for large parties."
A pause.Then his voice, low and measured."They are adequately sized."
Caroline laughed—that practiced, tinkling sound."So modest!They're magnificent, Mrs.Hurst."
Elizabeth stood abruptly, needing movement, needing distance from that voice and its implications.The rain had become a proper storm now, wind driving the ice against the house with sharp, insistent taps.The ground had become a morass of slush that would breach any walking boot, penetrate stockings, and cling with miserable tenacity.There would be no fleeing Netherfield today.
The library offered temporary refuge.Her father sat ensconced in his usual chair, spectacles perched on his nose, a volume of philosophy open on his lap.He glanced up at her entrance, one eyebrow lifting at her expression.
"Lizzy.You look as though you've swallowed vinegar."
She attempted a smile, but the wool of her shawl scraped against her neck like sandpaper.She yanked it off, then immediately felt exposed without it."The weather has me out of sorts."
