by Iris Lim
As long as I don't know — it's in my best interest to get along with these siblings.
"Richard looked so very handsome that day." Georgiana's now reminiscing, eyes sparkling at the thought of her obvious crush. "When he stood up with Fi— oh, and Jane too!"
Georgiana looks at me. She's gushing so much I'm pretty sure she's about to hug me for no reason.
"Jane was very pretty as well, Lizzy."
So there is a Jane in this universe. My heart lifts; I feel lighter than I have for days. I grab Georgiana's hands. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure she was."
"You had not noticed?" She wonders out loud at me. Goodbye, heartening thought of Jane's existence. This was my wedding we're talking about, apparently — and I probably shouldn't have sounded like I wasn't there.
"Oh, but of course!" She exclaims in response to herself. "You must have had only eyes for your groom."
Well — that works.
"I gues— am afraid so." I smile at her, keeping her unguarded. "Your brother was — so very handsome too."
At this, Georgiana jumps up, squealing. Romance is timeless for teenaged girls, apparently. She flies towards Darcy. "Shall we not show her the portrait?"
She's obviously very bad at whispering, so I smile like I heard her. I look at Darcy. His jaw and lips are set, determined — but his eyes twinkle.
"Very well," he relents, smiling gently. Georgiana predictably jumps and squeals. She rushes for the draped rectangular item in the corner. I guess portrait really means — portrait.
"Look, Lizzy! We have waited so very long for your wedding portrait!" She's hauling the thing all by herself. Darcy dashes over to help. "The artist is known for his exquisite work. It is no wonder it has taken months to prepare."
I smile faintly. I mean — wedding portrait? The last thing I need is physical representation of Darcy's 'kiss-the-bride' moment with my doppelgänger.
But the siblings look excited, so I play along. They tilt the item upward until it's standing up in front of me.
"Shall we?" Darcy smiles.
"Indeed!" Georgiana exclaims. She reaches for the cloth — and whips it off.
I gasp — because, thankfully, it's not a kissing portrait. Just the two of us standing close to each other.
But that's not why I gasp.
I'm suddenly tempted to reach my hands out — to trace the faces like a clichéd movie heroine discovering her heritage for the first time. So I do. I reach out — I touch the surface of the painting. It's well done, to be honest. The clothes pop; the faces glow. Darcy looks exactly like he does in real life.
And in the portrait, on his arm, is a lady in a gold-kissed white dress — who looks exactly like me.
I sigh.
Is it any wonder he thinks I'm his wife?
"Do you like it?"
I look up. Considering the words, I'd expect it to be Georgiana who asked.
But no, it's definitely the other guy.
I put on a small smile. "It's great."
• • •
"I daresay Georgiana overexerted herself with the portrait," Darcy says as he takes his usual spot — the seat beside me, with only the midnight-snack tray between us. He's smiling. "She was very anxious to have your approval."
I smile hesitantly. I put down my painted teacup, still disoriented by nice Darcy. He's a good man — I've learned that much. He works diligently, cares dutifully. His tenants and servants praise him like crazy. Despite the ridiculous levels of autonomy he has around here, he seems to use it really well. He gives me whatever he thinks I want even when I ignore him.
But nice? That only started today — this afternoon, to be exact.
And I know for a fact it has to do with what I'd overheard.
"Hey, Darcy," I start, pre-empting whatever casual conversation he had in mind. He looks tentatively at me. I know it's probably not the awkward white nightshirt thing. He thinks that's normal. But he, of course, is doing his handsome chin-on-hand thing. I exhale loudly. "I — I need to talk to you about something."
He just blinks for a few seconds. I'm about to say that we should forget all about it when he finally answers, "What concerns you, my love?"
The pet names, for one. I shrug. The aesthetic soft glow from the fireplace is hardly enough to keep away the chills around here. The cold nights make the loneliness even worse.
"Lizzy," he calls me, and I look at him. Even the best razors in England can't remove all the stubble. As someone who usually prefers clean-shaven men, I'm oddly attracted to the gruff touch. He reaches over to take my hand. Again, I let him. "Is anything the matter?"
I smile faintly, still unsure of what to do, what to say.
"I — heard you — today," I start, bracing for impact.
He nods. Just nods. He grips my hand tighter.
I take a deep breath. It comes out in staggered segments before I can get the next words out. "You and Georgiana — you are, uhm, worried."
He frowns, and then he nods. He pulls my hand up and kisses my knuckles. The sensation is seriously distracting. "Yes?"
With his prodding and all, I gulp and continue, "I'm — sorry. I, uhm, I've been, well — distant?"
Did people even used to use the word like that back then?
He nods anyway. So, sure, whatever, he gets it.
I breathe out. "So, uhm — I've been a little — troubled. I get that. It's just that — I, uhm, I'm not very used to this."
He nods sadly, leaning forward. "Is Pemberley not to your liking, darling? I have instructed Mrs. Reynolds to adhere to your every request. The library has been duly refurbished. I apologize for any negligence —"
"No, it's not that." I grab his arm to stop him. When he meets my eye again, he looks totally unnecessarily guilty. "It's not — Pemberley, okay? The place is — nice."
He nods, unconvinced. I have no idea what to do with him. Is this the kind of knight in shining armor that all the girls want?
"Lizzy." He interlaces his fingers with mine. "Please — allow me to do all in my power to ensure your comfort. I cannot rest knowing you have none of your own. Are you lonely? I can arrange easily for the Bingleys to visit. Richard comes soon — he, I know, cheers you well."
There's a painful edge to his voice — like he doesn't want to believe what he's saying.
"I am — not lonely," I lie. It's not like he can bring real Gigi or Jane here anyway. I smile a little. "Look, I just — Darcy, I'm not really — used to be here."
That's as close as I've come to the truth the entire time I've been here. I watch his response like a hawk.
He's sighs deeply. "Right, of course — it is not Pemberley. You have visited before, after all. I understand your hesitation, Lizzy. It is I — is it not?"
What?
I'm sure I look completely puzzled. "You?"
"I am the sole cause of your discomfort. Forgive me, Lizzy." He's kissing my hand again. What's with his hand fetish? "I apologize for the many attentions. Certainly, you long for your free-spirited roams. I am a fool to think my Elizabeth would be gladly shackled to Pemberley."
There's a strange thrill from hearing him say the words 'my Elizabeth.' But, hey, first things first.
"Don't — worry, okay? It's not you, and it's not Pemberley, and it's not — anything wrong with — this place." I grip both his hands. I lean closer, driving the point home. His eyes are just inches from mine, and they're searching, guessing. I try not to back down from the intensity.
"They — we do not vex you?"
Interesting word choice, but whatever. "No, no — of course not."
I don't really know why I'm assuring him. It's not like I wanted to be here. There's just something — vulnerable about this great master humbling himself to listen to my worries. It feels like he's made so much effort that I probably should at least make the same.
"What does then, my love?"
My mind is racing, fighting off the hormones that are screaming 'hot,' 'male,' and 'British' simultaneously. Ther
e's something soothing about his presence — something intimate and almost erotic. I don't miss the fact that his lips are just inches from mine.
"Lizzy?"
"I am — unaccustomed," I say. I'm weighing the odds, testing the gamble. I don't have any better ideas, so I base it on the painting and risk it. "I haven't been — Mrs. Darcy for long. It's — nice. But it's also — different."
He nods, looking very understanding. The gamble seems to be paying off.
"I hope you understand," I go on slowly, gauging his reaction one word at a time. "I have — I have nothing against being here. I just — need time — to adjust. Is that — alright?"
Let's hope that buys me time to figure things out.
He's nodding, gradually smiling. He buys it. I'm speechless and grateful. "I would be a brute to hold your qualms against you, Lizzy. Pemberley has been my home for decades; to love it and to love you often twists my mind to unequal expectations. Please, forgive my neglect."
"Oh, no — no. There's — nothing to forgive." I smile. I'm crossing my fingers this conversation will settle things once and for all, and I'm deliberately ignoring that little reference to the 'L' word again.
"Lizzy, you are — you are my heart of hearts." The room feels warmer by the minute. He's leaning closer — and closer. I know he's whispering, but his voice sounds far too close and far too everywhere. "I would not forgive myself for causing you discomfort. It is — great relief to know I lie not as the source of your pains."
My hands are pressed against his chest. I feel his heartbeat — so heavy, so real.
"Yet, I have allowed your circumstances to haunt you thus. Lizzy, please — forgive me."
I blink once, twice. "There's nothing to for—"
His lips are on mine, blotting out every other sensation. My eyes drop close. My lips move instinctively, warmly against his. My hormones rage, my body burns. He slips off his seat and crosses over — and I'm trapped between the cold chair and tall, hot, sexy William Darcy. I plant my knees together, my subconscious common sense acting faster than my melting body. It doesn't stop him because he's leaning, and kissing, and French-kissing. My mouth opens without thought. My tongue slides over, and under, and around his. His hands cradle my neck and my back. My hands first in his shirt.
It's all so right and so wrong, so new and so familiar. I moan approvingly when he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. He gasps before the next kiss. "Lizzy."
Wait — what?!
I'm off and away in seconds. He's standing where he'd been when we were making out. I'm standing by my bedroom door — ready to die.
He's looking at me weirdly — probably confused. I am so thankful for his loose, billowy clothes right now, because I do not need to see the growing erection I'd just felt against my abdomen.
"Goodnight, Darcy." I pant. "Nice — talk."
I slip into my room and slam the door shut. It'll take a while to get over that.
Six
"Lizzy."
I shake my head, eyes resolutely shut. Stray, prickly locks of mahogany hair press against my cheek. I roll to the right.
"Lizzy."
One cheek burrows deeper against the pillow. The other feels a wet, soft sensation.
"Lizzy." His voice grows firmer.
"Go away," I mumble, still desperately grappling on to the last shreds of a wistful, birthday-party-themed dream.
"Lizzy, you must rise." There's no doubt about whose voice it is now. I groan.
Based on first-hand witness accounts by Jane, Charlotte, and Gigi, I can be a grumpy riser.
"Lizzy, today is — oh!"
I've kicked him somewhere in the thigh. Figured he should be grateful he's not short enough for the same gesture to hit the crotch.
"Darcy, no." I flop over to my left, turning my back to him. This side of the pillow is wet — guess I got drooling last night. "It's like five in the morning!"
Birthday dream, please, come on.
"I am afraid that is a very reasonable hour to rise on Sunday," he says. He doesn't sound one bit bothered by my morning tantrum.
I groan, really loudly.
"Lizzy, the servants wait."
Like that's ever mattered to the one-percenters. I squeeze my eyes shut, curling my body into the fetal position.
"Lizzy, if you do not rise, I shall have to carry you to breakfast."
He sounds remarkably serious for such a silly threat, and I relent (read: uncurl) a little. Then, all of a sudden, I start to realize a bigger fact — a significantly more important situation that my dislike for leaving a comfortable dream has distracted me from.
What's Darcy doing in my room?
I'm sitting up instantly, heavy eyes be damned. I squint — both eyes, then one, then the other.
"Ah, she sees reason."
I flick my eyes completely open — just in time to see a simply-clad William Darcy crossing his arms and leaning handsomely against the bedpost. It's one step up from his flowery nightwear, but it's one casual step down from the usual coats and tails and hankies-on-the-neck. Add to it all the fact that he's actually smirking — it's the classic bad boy pose with a twist. The twist being, of course, that he's not a bad boy at all.
I smile a little, confused. "Why are you here?"
He doesn't seem offended. I try to remember that between today and last week's kissing episode, we've come to establish an almost friendly routine. I wake up alone and get dressed, he wakes up alone and gets dressed, we meet in the lobby area thing we share, and we head down to breakfast. He doesn't try more than soft pecks on my forehead or scalp, and we politely greet each other goodnight.
It's been working.
At least so far.
I yawn. "What's the rush today, Darce?"
I forget to be British sometimes.
"We must not be late for church, Elizabeth."
Ah, right — the whole Anglican formal church thing. I guess traditional Sunday worship matters enough to him that he starts the routine today before we dress up by ourselves.
I offer a tired smile. "Okay. I got it. Could we get Lilieth? I'll see you in the lob— I mean, the sitting room."
He looks at me quietly for a moment, looking like he has something more to say. My hazy mind can't decide to interpret the act as his wanting to compliment or complain against me.
"Darcy?"
"Right, of course." He straightens up. The easy-going charm morphs right back to stiffness. "I'll call for Lilieth. Good morning, Lizzy."
"Good morning, Darcy." I smile. He smiles back a little and leaves for the door.
For the next half hour, I do my morning routine — most of it just sitting pretty while Lilieth fusses. She preps the clothes, the hair, the water, the shoes. She briefs me about all the mild gossip trending among the servants, and I nod casually through it all. It's supposed to be familiar, really.
Except I've started to feel smaller and smaller under her scrutiny.
"Lilieth."
She stops the hairbrush mid-air. "Yes, Mrs. Darcy?"
I try to put it delicately. "Has Mr. Darcy — uhm, said anything recently — or, maybe, you know, today?"
"Said anything? I do not understand, madame."
She walks around until she's in front of me. She's in pensive little-girl mode again.
"Don't worry, Lilieth. You — haven't done anything wrong."
She smiles, probably relieved. "Is something else wrong then, madame?"
I look at her, the wide eyes and sincere concern, as I formulate my question. "Has Mr. Darcy — said anything regarding — about — us?"
"You?"
"Uhm — yeah." How exactly do you phrase 'does he gossip about me' nicely? "Does he — say anything, you know, about me?"
"Mr. Darcy has always loved you, madame."
Damn you, L-word.
"Yes, I know," I go along with it, hiding my sigh. "It's just that — he's been — strange. He's been, you know, he's —"
"Is it about the rooms, Mrs. D
arcy?"
Uhm, wait — the what?
I perk up like a prairie dog. My eyes zoom instantly on her face. The world suffers a little quake. The rooms — it means the sleeping arrangement — it means the sex. It means — has he —
"What about the rooms?" I demand.
Lilieth freezes.
"Lilieth," I say. I'm positively glaring.
She starts panting and looking around. For a second, a bystander could've been fooled that she — not I — is the victim in this whole nothing.
"It is nothing, Mrs. Darcy."
"It is not nothing."
"It is. He has said — nothing."
Like hell he hasn't.
"I think you're lying." The ugly part of me starts seeping out like green, malicious goo. "Why else would you say that? You're obviously hiding something. You're being disloyal, aren't you? You —"
"No, madame." Ah, she pleads. "Mr. Darcy has been nothing but faithful. He hasn't spoken a word!"
The declaration halts my anger for a little. I pause.
I speak a few seconds later, "Has he really never said anything?"
Lilieth nods violently, trying to smile. I sigh. For a moment, all is calm — until another thought comes up.
"And the servants?" I suddenly realize I want to know.
"They —" Her smile and voice falter. "They would not dare —"
"What are they saying?" Once again, I'm growing into my boss voice, my big-sister voice — the one Lydia hates.
"They — they would not —"
"Lilieth," I warn.
"They say the master loves you, madame," she blurts.
Okay — sure. What's the catch?
"But?" I press, holding my breath.
"But — perhaps — perhaps." She hangs her head — then peeks at me.
I try not to glare at her too much. "Yes?"
"They say that perhaps — Mrs. Darcy has lost her fancy for the master."
What?
I breathe in sharply. I'd expected something bad — she wouldn't hesitate otherwise — but, well, not this. Since when had this whole thing become my fault?
At the back of my mind, a nagging thought reminds me that Darcy's always been the magnanimous one around here (or heck, even around there). For the past days, he's been — kind. It's more than nice and more than good. He — he's been looking genuinely happy to be doing what we're doing. Sure, I'd kissed him back that night. I'd been the one sending weird signals.
