by Iris Lim
It's an intimate gesture — his arms wrapped around me, his jaw against my temple. And it feels really darn good.
"Darcy," I whisper, barely hearing myself.
"Hmm?" He hums against my hair.
My mind scrambles to tell me this is a very bad idea — that this is wrong, that this will complicate things from now on. If I do so much as kiss him tonight, there's no stopping where it'll lead. And, before you know it, I'll be stuck here, married to a strange man — forever.
"Yes, Lizzy?" His words barely make it through my fuzzy mind. I'm drunk — drunk on his charm, his voice, his touch.
"Darcy, I —" I trail off again, because his hands have shifted. They're sliding, up and down, on the curve from my waist to my hip. His lips are kissing me — from temple to ear to neck and back. I feel every last inch of me shiver.
No, Lizzie, no — my mind rallies. He's not — I'm not — we're not together. For all I know, he probably has a different wife — another Lizzie — and she's maybe trapped something in another universe, out-of-place in the modern world and getting that promotion —
Huh.
I open my eyes, heart swelling in newfound clarity.
Even if there is another Elizabeth Bennet out there — and that's a very big if — then wouldn't she be enjoying the life I'd worked so hard to build?
Enjoying that promotion over a probably absent Darcy?
This Darcy behind me nuzzles my neck. I struggle to stay coherent between his and my breathy sighs.
If I've switched places with another Lizzie, then she's probably living the high life — indulging in San Francisco, and women's rights, and the internet. But what if I wasn't the only one who'd made a switch? What if — what if Darcy — also did?
I whip around, almost crashing into his chin along the way. He gazes down at me, three-fourths lovestruck and one-fourth surprise. I look back, searching. I breathe in his scent. It's the classic English gentleman's sandalwood and earth and stone — but, in some ways, it's also mixed with aftershave and cologne and a hint of office carpet.
My eyes lock with his again.
Is this, is he —
"Lizzy?" He whispers gently.
I start to smile, increasingly overwhelmed with the growing realization that this isn't just a random British landlord who happens to look like Darcy.
It's not.
"Are you well?" He asks again.
I feel my eyes tearing up. It all feels crushingly familiar.
I don't know what happened with the accent and the ease and the British charm. I don't know how long he's been here. But, for all intents and purposes, I realize it's him. This is my Darcy.
Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't.
Maybe his spirit has been lifted from the present and sent to indwell someone from the past. Don't ask me the mechanics — I don't know.
But I feel it, I know it. He's here — he cares — and he loves me.
"Lizzy, if you —"
I launch myself into his arms, my mouth against his. I kiss him quickly, fiercely, voraciously. I taste him, I touch him. His hands leave a searing trail up my ribcage, across my breasts, down my waist, and around to my bottom. My hands travel upwards to his hair and downwards to his hips. He presses me closer, kissing me back with matching intensity. I feel us burning up, roasting in flames of passion.
His hands start bunching my nightgown, gradually lifting the hem. I grin at the act, and soon I'm scrambling to pull off his shirt as well.
His mouth finds my jaw, my earlobe, my neck. I whimper and moan. I kiss his hair, his forehead, his nose.
There's no doubt where this is leading.
And I am perfectly happy and content about it.
"Lizzy." He breathes against my bare shoulder. I suddenly understand the purpose of buttons and ribbons at the collar.
"Darcy," I whisper back, relishing the soft tenderness of his lips.
"Hm," he hums against me, kissing back towards my mouth.
His tongue licks that perfect spot beneath my ear. "Oh, Darcy. Oh!"
I feel him smiling against my jaw.
"Fitzwilliam," he whispers.
My blurry mind doesn't get it.
"Darcy, yes," I go on. My hands have pulled the back of his shirt far up enough to expose intimate new parts of him that I'm aching to get my hands on. "Yes, Darcy."
"Lizzy, come," he mumbles against my collarbone. His face pulls back, his arms stay around me. "Call me by my Christian name."
"Name?" I gaze at him, brain foggy and body limp. I smile. "What's wrong?"
He pauses. I wait for his next assault.
It doesn't come.
"Lizzy," he repeats. For some reason, he's hesitating. "Come, be not so formal."
I frown. Our almost-naked bodies are entangled together in the middle of a bedroom. How much less formal could we get?
"Formal?"
He leans our foreheads together. At least he's still here, with me.
"Darling, you call me not 'Darcy' in the bedroom."
I — don't?
My mind races, cataloguing how husband and wife talk in the bedroom? It's not like I would know.
"Honey? Darling?" I start trying. There's got to be something there.
He pulls back further — and then he's looking at me, like he's analyzing if I know.
The panic hits me squarely on the chest. I smile, hard. "Sweetheart? Dear?"
He lets me go, takes a few steps back. I start wondering all over again if he really is the same Darcy — in body or in spirit.
"Uhm, sweetie? My love?" I walk forward, but he's backing away faster than I'm struggling forward. "Darcy, what's wrong?"
He stands by the door. His hand pauses on the handle. His face looks — confused.
My hands wrap themselves around me, shielding my vulnerability.
Was he wrong? Was I wrong?
Is he really someone else in a parallel universe — and he's only realizing just now that I'm not his wife?
"Goodnight, Lizzy," he says, before he goes.
The door swings firmly shut.
And, after half a minute of staring blankly in cold, total shock — I drop on to the bed and let the tears go at it, more sexually and emotionally frustrated that I've ever been in my entire life.
Given that I've dated the manipulative George Wickham, that's saying a lot.
But right here, right now — Wickham is the furthest thing from my mind.
I hear Darcy's door slam shut on the other end of the lobby. I sniff.
If this is my version of embracing marriage — then I totally suck at it.
Seven
It's been two damned days already, and we still haven't talked. Sitting at the breakfast table across a stone-cold Darcy, I can almost wish we hadn't kissed. At least we'd been friendly before that happened.
"Lizzy, are you —" Georgiana cuts herself off with a cough, her fifth since she started eating. I feel bad for the bread on her plate, so I redirect the sadness to looking at my own.
It's a better choice than looking at Darcy.
Stone-hearted Darcy.
He clears his throat beside me. I can practically hear the indigestion. "Georgiana, are you well?"
It stings a little (however petty it is) to know the concern isn't directed towards me this time.
"I am — well." Georgiana coughs again. I look at her properly for the first time today. The golden curls, usually neat and pristine, drop in messy locks around her face. Her face looks extra pale, and her already-sparse breakfast lies completely untouched on the gold-rimmed plate.
She blinks quite a bit before looking at her brother. I don't follow her gaze.
"Dr. Haddon visits today to tend to Lizzy. You shall seek his diagnosis as well." He leaves no room for argument. Georgiana lowers her head as I do, and she nods.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Darcy wipe his mouth, drop his napkin, push away from the table — and leave.
Without kissing me.
; The second time in a row.
I gulp, forcing my tears in check. Who'd have thought those kisses would ever matter?
"Lizzy —" Georgiana starts again before another coughing fit. The stupid virus won't let the poor girl get two words in.
This time, I turn and reach over to pat her back. I know it doesn't help, but hey, it makes me feel useful.
"Thank — you — Lizzy." She stops after a few more spurts.
I nod. It takes a moment to realize that I don't have anything useful to say.
So I say what Darcy said, "Are you well, my dear?"
She looks straight at me. Her eyes look sad and tired. Then she nods. "I am well."
"You don't look well." Depressed or not — I used to mother Lydia. Some things are instinctive.
Georgiana smiles feebly at me. Then she shrugs.
"Georgiana?"
She blinks really hard. Her eyes fly down to the clenched hands on her lap.
"Hey." I stand up and walk over. I lift a hand to soothe her shoulder. "What's bothering you?"
She shakes her head violently, before another coughing fit hits her. I pat her back until it subsides.
"Dr. Haddon should heal you soon," I assure, looking down with a heavy heart. For all her patrician habits, Georgiana's a dear. It helps to have someone to play music and choose clothes with. Good parlor games are one in a hundred.
She looks up at me with a very pained smile. I frown. At this, her eyes well up instantly, and then she's sobbing in front of all the servants.
"Georgiana!" I lean down to hug her. "What's wrong?"
She sobs, and coughs, and sobs and coughs again. It's frustrating, very.
"Georgiana." She sniffs against my shoulder. I pat her head.
It takes a whole minute before she's coherent enough to talk again. She pulls back when she does. "I feel ill, Lizzy."
I nod readily. At least she admits it.
"Dr. Haddon — I — I do not know if he will help," she mutters between more sniffs.
I nod again, prompting her.
"What — oh what would Fitzwilliam say?" She cries. Then her face is in her hands and she's sobbing violently again.
I feel compassionate and sad and utterly confused. I ditch the whole lady mistress act and crouch beside her. Eye level adds empathy — comms class taught me that much.
"Who would say what?" I find myself asking.
She looks up from her hands. Her eyes are wide, her brow furrowed. "I — uhm, Fitzwilliam himself."
Fitzwilliam — the word reverberates like a fading echo. I frown hard. When did I hear it again? Was it during —
"Brother will be so ashamed of me!" Georgiana exclaims before disappearing into her palms again. I stay shock-still, the epiphanies heaping. "I am so unworthy, Lizzy. Dr. Haddon cannot know my depths of remorse."
Her words are mumbled and slurred by her buried face — but I hear enough to piece things together.
"Georgiana, is something — wrong?" I say at last, once the sobbing lessens. I gulp the other thoughts aside.
She swallows visibly too. I wait her out.
"The Good Book says all work together for good," she says slowly, her face slowly lifting. "But what of the wrong we do?"
Wrong?
"I'm sure you haven't done anything that bad," I offer lamely. It's not like I have much context to go by.
She looks at me then — eyes swollen, nose red. She clutches my hand. "Will you tell Fitzwilliam not to worry?"
I stare at her, unsure of what to promise. I'd have to admit that at this very moment, I was more anxious to court his favor over hers.
"I feel ill from my concealment of the truth, but he — he cannot know what I have done."
Her certainty about her brother's negative response only makes me feel worse. Because, seriously, if she's sure he'll be upset about his real sister — how's he gonna deal with a fake wife?
"Lizzy, please — do not tell."
I look at the poor, unfortunate creature. Even the embroidered rosebuds can't make her pretty today. I smile faintly. "Alright."
• • •
Fitzwilliam Darcy — of course. I'm surprised it took me this long to straighten it all out.
I scoff all to myself as the door to the study looms. (Ugh, looms, now I'm talking like them.) My hands are sweaty against my embroidered dress. The marble floor feels extra cold.
But I have to do this — just must.
I blink when I finally get in front of that fateful door. I blink — a lot.
If not for Georgiana — then, maybe, at least, for my own sanity of mind — I need to talk to him.
"Mrs. Darcy —"
"Please, leave us be, Lilieth," I talk like Georgiana would. I can't have anyone beyond Darcy getting suspicious. So I keep my head held high, my back straight — the perfect romance-novel heroine.
"Yes, ma'am." It works, and I'm all alone in the hallway.
I inhale and blink, exhale and blink. I lick my lips. I dry my palms against my unfortunate skirt. I hear noises inside — shuffling, stacking. He's working, he's there. And here I am, useless and insecure, about to confront him about leaving my bed cold.
Oh, and about his sister, of course.
It takes a long time — maybe minutes, I don't count — before I raise my hand and knock.
"Come in," he calls out right away. It's his 'I'm busy' voice. I know it, have heard it a hundred times echoing from his Pemberley office. If I were smart, I'd turn around and run right now.
But somehow, I'm not.
The movements inside stop while I stand stone-still in front of the door. I'm direly relieved that Lilieth's not here to see this.
"Come in?" He says again. His voice is wobbly, unsure. I lick my lips, laugh a little, inhale — still hesitating pathetically.
I hear his chair shift against the floor, and I wonder if he's pulling himself towards or away from the desk. Should've been thankful for wheeled office chairs and their lovely inconspicuousness. I roll my eyes. It's been a while since I've felt this way: in the principal's office for smacking Will Collins, at Matlock's door for accidentally deleting his folder on the shared server.
Huh.
I'm never getting that promotion, am I?
So, being so adequately experienced in appearing at the boss's office and all, I do the only sensible thing at the moment.
I knock again.
"Yes?" Darcy's signature baritone responds right away. There's no escaping this time. "Is someone there?"
Breathing out that last, giant sigh of empty courage, I grab the handle and swing the door open.
"Darcy."
"Lizzy."
We say these simultaneously.
He looks — surprised. He hovers over the desk, half-standing behind it. I force myself to keep my eyes on the face, not the yummy muscles he's hiding under all those embroidered layers.
Because, well, I know.
"Darcy," I start before he does. He nods a little. His hands stay propped on the table, but his eyes follow me. I walk closer, slowly. I wet my lips and try again. "Fitzwilliam."
The word strikes gold. His eyes widen, his chest rises, his hands draw back until he's standing up straight. I smile a little. He smiles back a lot.
"Yes?" His voice comes out hopeful and desirous. I'm suddenly super thankful I'd closed the door behind me.
"I — I, uhm." I gulp. My hands twist each other. I fight that urge to lower my eyes. He's meeting mine point blank; I owe him as much. "I — I want to say, uhm. I've —"
He leans forward a little every time I stutter. I think he's just three leans away from tumbling forward. So I smirk a little, and say, "Darcy, I — I've missed you. I'm sorry. Maybe I don't really understand what's going on, and I — I don't know how I kinda, you know, forgot your name in the heat of the moment, I —"
"Lizzy!"
I look up, suddenly realizing my eyes had dropped after all (apologies and concessions aren't really my thing). But that's not the bigge
st surprise.
That's title belongs to the fact that he's already circumnavigated his desk and now stands right in front of me, chest to my chest and hands at my shoulders.
"Lizzy," he says again, passionate, hungry. I stare at him, confused and surprised and — happy. His eyes are deep chasms of wonder. "Thank you."
I blink, taken aback. I mean — thank you?
"I have missed you, my love," he goes on. My heart starts the steep ascent from chest to throat. His hands on my shoulders grip tighter. I involuntarily step closer. "I — I have longed for you these days."
Right, of course he did.
He's been waiting for me, the stupid guy.
I blink the tears away. They come anyway. I press my face against his chest. He pulls me close. Guess I can't blame the guy for waiting. Once bitten, twice shy. So, you know, try thrice — or more!
"Lizzy!" He breathes into my hair. I hug him closer. The expanse of his torso gives me plenty to snuggle with. The warmth of his body feels so, so welcome. "I am sorry for neglecting you so."
I shrug between the tears. I sniff unbecomingly. "It's okay."
I don't bother asking if he understands that, because he's hugging me like he does. I grasp at him closer, higher. My hands slide up his back. My knees knock against his shins. He's tall, always has been, and gives me plenty more to touch.
He groans against my neck, and suddenly I'm kissing him. Our lips, tongues, hands roam over frills and flats and buttons and ties. Fingertips find hairpins that soon find the floor. Lips find ribbons untucked over skin. Legs find legs to stroke and grind. My breath fragments into short, choppy spurts of air between gasps and moans. I wonder, quite openly, if the office-sex fantasy is applicable in Georgian England.
"Darcy," I moan. "Fitzwilliam."
He hums against my neck — kissing, biting, teasing. I'm counting down until my legs give way complete—
Three harsh, distinct knocks at the unfortunately unlocked door interrupts the passion. We both grunt, unsatisfied. He pulls away, one out-of-breath soul from another, and frowningly re-adjusts his cravat. I'm not much happier with my rumpled gown.
"Mr. Darcy," Lilieth's voice barely carries through the heavy door, "Dr. Haddon waits, sir."
We both stay standing, panting, shaking hands braced on weak hips. I shoot Darcy a look. He smirks, and it's the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
