Page 24 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
INFECTION INTERFERENCE
An hour passed, and then another. Colonel Fitzwilliam paced the room, waiting for a second opinion from Lady Catherine’s physician. Elizabeth and Georgiana maintained their vigil at Darcy’s bedside. She pressed cool cloths while Georgiana held his hand.
If they didn’t reduce his temperature soon, the bleeding would begin. Bingley wasn’t yet back with the ice wagons, and there was no telling how soon Lady Catherine and her physician would arrive.
“Brother, drink some more, please,” Georgiana coaxed, holding the willow bark tea to his lips. “You must regain your strength.”
Darcy’s eyes were closed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. Every so often, he’d startle and wince. Who knew what disturbing images flitted across his mind?
“You’ll stay,” he murmured. “You won’t leave me.”
“Yes,” both Elizabeth and Georgiana spoke at the same time.
Elizabeth bit her lip, realizing he’d been addressing his sister.
She looked up to see Georgiana’s worried expression.
Her resemblance to her brother was striking—the same dark eyes, the same proud bearing, though softened by youth and feminine delicacy.
“Miss Bennet,” Georgiana said, her voice trembling. “I cannot thank you enough for your care of my brother. Your devotion has been extraordinary.”
Elizabeth managed a small smile. “Your brother would do the same for anyone in need.”
“No,” Georgiana said with surprising firmness. “Not for anyone. Fitzwilliam does not give his trust easily. That he allows you to tend him so intimately…” She trailed off, her meaning clear enough.
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. Intimately. The word hung between them, acknowledging the tender familiarity that had blossomed in the sickroom.
“I do what I can.” Elizabeth stared into Darcy’s eyes as he turned to face her.
“Lizzy, dearest,” he said. “Pemberley’s ice house. We need…”
“Yes, we’ll get the ice for you,” she promised, unable to help dabbing the sweat off his brow.
“Kiss me, Lizzy, before I… pass,” he said, so softly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The request was utterly improper, yet the desperate vulnerability in his voice made her heart ache.
“You’re going to get well.” She glanced at Georgiana, her face flushing with the impropriety of his request.
“It is well, Miss Elizabeth,” Georgiana said, kissing Darcy’s cheek. “He needs to know we will stay at his side. He may be my older brother, but he needs to know we care.”
Elizabeth followed Georgiana’s example, whispering, “Darcy, you know I care about you.”
“After I leave, will you take care of Georgiana? Will you keep Pemberley for her? Seal it with a kiss.”
She couldn’t deny him the small comfort, so she leaned forward, intending to follow Georgiana’s example with an innocent sisterly gesture. But as her lips approached his cheek, Darcy turned his face, and suddenly her mouth was against his.
The world stopped.
His lips were burning hot from fever, yet impossibly soft.
His free hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as he kissed her with desperate tenderness.
Elizabeth had never been kissed on the lips before—had never imagined the shock of it, the way her entire body seemed to catch fire, the way her heart raced as if trying to escape her chest.
She should pull away. She should be scandalized, outraged at the impropriety.
Instead, she found herself leaning into the kiss, her eyes closing as something deep within her responded to his touch.
This was madness—kissing a delirious man who thought her his wife—yet she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything beyond the tender pressure of his mouth against hers—so tender that it brought tears to her eyes.
Could he truly mean all of this, or was it only a dream world for him?
The sound of the door opening broke the spell. Elizabeth jumped back quickly, expecting to find Jane. Instead, Caroline Bingley stood frozen in the doorway, her expression a mask of shock and outrage.
“Miss Eliza, have you completely abandoned all propriety?” Caroline demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet of the sickroom.
Behind her, a tall, imposing figure pushed her through the door. She wore black traveling clothes and appeared like a dark bird of prey.
“Fitzwilliam! What is the meaning of this?” Lady Catherine’s gaze settled with frigid displeasure on Elizabeth. “Why is this… person… at my nephew’s bedside?”
Elizabeth tried to draw away or drop into a curtsey or simply fall into a yawning hole in the ground, but Darcy’s fingers tightened around her hand.
“Aunt Catherine,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been all day. “You’ve come to celebrate our marriage.”
The room went utterly still. Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. Our marriage. Even knowing it was delirium, the words sent a treacherous thrill through her heart. Part of her—a part she barely dared acknowledge—wondered what it would be like if his fevered claims were true.
Lady Catherine’s expression contorted from shock to fury. “What nonsense is this? Fitzwilliam, you are delirious.”
“Not nonsense,” Darcy insisted, his gaze never leaving Elizabeth’s face. “Tell her, my love. Tell her how you accepted me at last.”
My love. The endearment burrowed in her heart as she stared into his fervent, dark eyes. Even in delirium, could he truly mean these words?
And more terrifying still—did she want them to be true?
Georgiana made a tiny squeak while Caroline huffed disdainfully.
“They’ve been playing house,” she said sharply. “I told Charles that this arrangement was entirely improper, but when Mr. Bennet suggested it, my brother bowed to his influence.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Lady Catherine’s voice could have frozen summer itself, “you have not married this woman. You are ill. You have been shot defending her questionable reputation, and now your mind wanders in fever.”
“Half of Pemberley is yours now, Elizabeth,” Darcy continued as if his aunt had not spoken. “I’ve arranged it all. You’ll care for Georgiana if I don’t survive.”
“I will not have my nephew’s care left to untrained hands,” Lady Catherine declared, her eyes narrowing at the surgeon conferring with Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The colonel bowed to his aunt. “Aunt Catherine, this is Mr. Johnson, the surgeon. He extracted the bullet from Darcy’s shoulder.”
“And allowed this harridan to paw all over his wound? No wonder he’s taken a turn for the worse.
” Lady Catherine stared at the connection between Elizabeth and Darcy’s hands.
“I cannot allow this continued impropriety at my nephew’s bedside.
You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you.
Taking advantage of my nephew’s feverish delusions. ”
The colonel hesitated, clearly torn between family loyalty and the distress such an action would cause his cousin. “Aunt, perhaps we should consider?—”
“Consider what? That this fortune hunter has somehow convinced Fitzwilliam they are married?” Lady Catherine’s voice rose to a hellish pitch. “That she has manipulated a fevered man into promising her Pemberley?”
Elizabeth’s face burned. “I have done no such thing, Lady Catherine. I have cared for Mr. Darcy as duty required.”
“Duty!” Lady Catherine all but spat the word. “What duty does a country nobody have to the master of Pemberley? You have orchestrated this entire situation, from the rumor that led to the duel to this… this charade of devotion.”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face at the accusation. “Lady Catherine, you misunderstand?—”
“I understand perfectly,” the older woman interrupted. “You will leave this room immediately, Miss Bennet. Your services are no longer required.”
“No!” Darcy cried, struggling to rise from the bed. “You can’t take her! She’s my wife!”
His wife! The question arose unbidden, shocking her with its intensity. Do I want to be his wife?
Lady Catherine froze, her expression hardening into something truly terrible. “What did you say, Darcy? What will your mother say to this madness?”
“Leave him alone.” Elizabeth’s temper flared. “Can’t you see he’s gravely ill? Please, I beg you, do not distress him further.”
Lady Catherine’s expression hardened. “Miss Bennet, you will leave this room immediately, or I shall have you removed by force.”
“Lizzy, no.” Darcy’s voice was weak but insistent. “Don’t let them separate us again.”
The plaintive quality in his voice nearly broke her resolve. Elizabeth looked down at his face—so familiar now after days of tending him, so dear despite all that had passed between them—and felt her heart constrict.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said gently, “you must rest and allow the physicians to do their work. I will return when you are stronger.”
“Promise me,” he insisted, his grip on her hand almost painful now. “Swear you’ll come back.”
Lady Catherine made a sound of disgust, but Elizabeth ignored her.
“My heart won’t ever leave you.”
Something in her tone must have reassured him, for his grip relaxed. Elizabeth took the opportunity to gently disentangle her fingers from his.
“A kiss,” Darcy murmured, his eyes holding hers with fevered intensity. “Before you go.”
Elizabeth froze, acutely aware of every person watching this intimate exchange. Granting such a request would be utterly improper, yet refusing him in his desperation seemed cruel.
The colonel stepped forward. “Miss Bennet, perhaps it would be best if?—”
“I understand,” Elizabeth said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I shall withdraw of my own accord.”
She rose from the bedside, gathering what dignity she could.
She found Georgiana’s concerned gaze and addressed her, “Miss Darcy, I have kept detailed notes of your brother’s condition these past days.
You will find them in that leather-bound volume.
Perhaps they may be of some use to the physicians. ”
Georgiana nodded. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. Truly.”
“He must be bled immediately,” Mr. Johnson cut in. “The delay has endangered him exceedingly. The ill humors must be removed.”
“I’ve brought my physician.” Lady Catherine ushered in a silver-haired woman, introducing her as Mrs. Porter. “We shall not bleed my nephew. Mrs. Porter’s poultices will draw out the infection without further weakening him.”
“Elizabeth,” Darcy called again, his voice rising in distress. “Don’t go.”
She paused at the threshold, holding his gaze as a promise. “Rest, Mr. Darcy. I shall return when you are better.”
“Come, Lizzy,” Jane murmured, guiding her out into the corridor. “You’ve done all you can.”
The door closed behind them with a finality that echoed in her chest.
“What if these are his final moments? What if I never see him conscious again?” Elizabeth asked her sister.
“You care for him, Lizzy. More than you once did.” Jane wore a pinched smile. “But now, it’s time to go home.”