The soft knockat 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.
