Page 15 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“My dearest Elizabeth,” he breathed, the words barely formed against her skin as his lips wandered with gentle hunger along the curve of her neck, rising to her jaw.

He drew her closer by the waist, his other hand stroking her back.

His every touch was an unguarded declaration of desire he did not hide.

She felt entirely encompassed by him—his arms firm around her, his legs beneath hers, anchoring her in a closeness that left no doubt of his desire.

The quiet shock of sensations and nearness was wholly new to her.

“I am not certain you are real, but if I were, I would speak now. I would beg for your hand.”

She did not move. She could not.

As suddenly as the moment had come, it passed.

With deepening sighs, he stilled, his hold gradually loosened.

His head dropped forward against her shoulder, heavy, and slack, his soft hair tickling her neck. His breath settled into the unmistakable rhythm of unconsciousness.

Elizabeth sat very still, stunned. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

What had just occurred?

Her first thought was escape. Her second—how?

If she fled and were seen leaving a darkened room with him in it, it would be ruin.

If she were found here, in this posture, ruin again.

He had not meant to offend. She knew that with a profound certainty.

He had not been master of himself. Something had unmoored him.

It had loosed not merely lust, but longing.

His head rested against her collarbone. His undone cravat exposed his strong neck. His words—still echoing—had not been coarse, only devastating.

“I am not certain you are real, but if I were, I would speak now. I would beg for your hand.”

Very cautiously, she shifted his head from her shoulder, easing him back against the chair cushions as best she could.

The book he had left on the side table shifted, falling to the floor with a resounding thud.

Elizabeth stilled, holding her breath as she listened intently for any sound.

She must not be seen seated upon the lap of a gentleman.

The crackle of the fire, a soft hiss as it burnt, blended with a rustling sound she could not identify.

She slowly rose with as little noise as she could manage.

With her cheeks aflame and her heart unsteady, she slipped out—silent as a shadow.

She closed the doors and pressed herself against the wall, carefully checking for activity.

Seeing none, she hesitated. Mr. Darcy was unwell.

He ought not to be left alone to remain unconscious in whatever state he was.

With the doors closed, he might remain unnoticed until a maid came to lay the fire the next morning.

Might his man seek him out? It seemed too much of a risk to leave him unattended and alone.

She gradually turned the knob and cracked the door apart a crack.

Mr. Darcy was as she had left him, snoring softly, his head tilted back.

His face in repose was strikingly handsome, with its aristocratic features softened into something like boyishness.

Elizabeth tore herself away from her unseemly staring and left the doors ajar. She made her way back towards the stairs. In the dining room, a footman was tidying the furniture. To her vast relief, it was Thomas.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, straightening from his work.

“Good evening, Thomas. I seem to be always coming to you with a request. When I passed the music room, I believe I saw Mr. Darcy in there, asleep. Might you let his man know where he is?”

She must appear both foolish and obvious. Would Thomas suspect something other than what she said? Her passing the music room was not sensible, given its location. But she would trust Thomas to be discreet.

“Certainly, miss. Good evening.” Thomas betrayed nothing with his correct bow and immediate departure. She had to hope he did not question her request. She rushed up the stairs to her chamber, trusting that she was unobserved.

Elizabeth sat in the straight-backed chair near the hearth, her shawl still clutched around her shoulders. Sleep was out of the question. She had never imagined such a thing could occur. Mr. Darcy had not been himself. He had been out of his wits. That was the only phrase that fit.

He had not raved. He had not pawed or pleaded or slurred. His words had been strange, yes, but gentle. Reverent. After he fell asleep, she eased him back into the chair, rose from his lap with a trembling calm, and left the room without a sound. Would he even remember she was there?

She could not — would not tell Jane. Surely not whilst she was in such a state of confusion.

If Mr. Darcy recalled what had happened, what might occur?

Would she be the object of that gentleman’s guilt?

Whatever else she thought she knew of the man, Mr. Darcy had a firm sense of honour.

If he believed his actions meant he was obligated to …

The thought sent a wave of panic through her.

No. No one else had observed what had occurred.

They were alone in an out of the way room, and the house was quiet.

He might not even recall the events. Her head fell into her hands.

What he had spoken of —of wanting to speak but not daring.

Of something that might have been love. It had not felt false, but it had not been spoken by a man in his right mind.

Elizabeth rose to stand by the window. She could not undo the night.

She could only wait—and see what, if anything, he remembered.

Her mind was too muddled to know what even to hope for.

The position of a lady’s maid rarely encompassed the removal of chamber pots to the privy.

There were plenty of chambermaids for that.

Sophy Blanchard had long since risen from so humble a station.

Nonetheless, here she was, returning to her lady’s chamber with a clean pot, having had no choice but to have performed that service herself.

Miss Bingley was decidedly unwell when she had finally come up after dinner.

Sophy had barely had time to whisk away that dreadful carnelian silk gown her mistress was so enamoured of before the lady cast up her accounts with little regard for where it flew.

After the performance was repeated more times than Sophy could count, and the lady, washed and dressed in a clean shift, was tucked into bed, Sophy faced the aftermath.

It was not to be borne. She could not endure the stench emanating from the chamber pot whilst she spruced up the chamber and dealt with the mess.

Yet there was no response to her pulls upon the bell cord.

After several minutes of clenching her teeth to avoid adding her own contribution to the foul-smelling vessel, she threw a towel over it and descended with it herself.

She knew how to perform the task. It was beneath her, but enduring the disgusting odour was not within her strength.

Passing through the deserted scullery, Sophy encountered no one at all.

Had the house been deserted in the middle of the night?

She crept out of the servant’s passage to see whether the footmen remained at their stations.

She had hoped to encounter Simon upstairs for a clandestine chat during his usual rounds, but he had not appeared.

No footmen at all were in evidence, so she proceeded along the rooms. The doors to the music room were ajar, with the firelight casting shadows across the floor.

Sophy considered the unattended fire in the night—was no one seeing to the safety of the house?

She nearly dropped the now, fortunately empty chamber pot when she peered into the music room.

That guest Miss Bingley detested so—Miss Eliza something—she was sat in the music room, quite entirely unchaperoned, upon the lap of Mr. Darcy!

Containing her gasp with effort honed by exposure to the frequently astonishing remarks of Miss Bingley, she hurried back to the servant stairs and ran to Miss Bingley’s chambers. When her mistress awoke, what a tale she would have to share!

Darcy awoke with a start. Fletcher was speaking to him, his words garbled in his ears.

The room was dark—only the embers of the fire remained, casting a dull orange glow against the hearth.

His cravat was loosened, his coat half-unbuttoned.

His mouth was dry. The dim fire pulsed in uneven waves, the faint glow shifting oddly at the edges of his vision.

Black spots burst like sparks across his eyes, dissolving into streaks of green and pale violet before vanishing.

His head throbbed—not sharply, but in heavy, unpredictable waves.

His hands were unsteady. He braced himself against the chair.

The room seemed to tilt, his balance uncertain, his breath shallow.

He tried to rise too quickly and nearly fell.

With one hand braced against the arm of the chair he steadied himself and looked around.

Fletcher was holding his other arm with unexpected force.

As he attempted to rise again, he found he did indeed require the support of his man.

He straightened, slowly. His back ached. He had fallen asleep—no, not asleep. Something else. The music room. He was in the music room. How had he come here?

Whilst Fletcher led him from the music room, he struggled to gather the order of events. Hurst had collapsed after dinner, unwell, pale, splayed across the floor. There had been a commotion—Mrs. Hurst distressed, Miss Bingley sending for the apothecary. What then had happened?

He had remained downstairs—but whether to be of use, or because he had been in the way, he could not say with certainty. Somewhere in the confusion, he had come to be in this room.

There had been claret at dinner. Perhaps brandy. He did not recall partaking. The dull fog in his head was not from drink.

Then—Elizabeth.

The memory struck sharply, uninvited, not as one recalls a conversation or a scene, but as one remembers a dream that refuses to vanish entirely. He stopped momentarily, inhaled sharply, then Fletcher’s grip urged him along.

Her scent—lavender, roses. The warmth of her close beside him. The silk of her gown beneath his hands. His hands?

She was against his chest. Was that real? A dream?

No, not a dream. He could feel again the weight of her seated on his lap, her breath uneven against his. His arm about her waist. The touch of her hair against his face. Yes. The solid warmth of her seated in his lap, the sensation of her soft skin. What the devil had he done?

He stopped moving and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard, his posture wobbling. He had kissed her. That was certain.

His stomach tightened. Had it ended there? Fletcher urged him forward. Suddenly knowing he would not wish to be seen in this hallway, in this condition, he forced himself to move forward even as his mind whirled.

Had he released her? Had she pulled away?

He pressed a hand against a doorframe, steadying himself as another wave of dizziness caught him.

What might he have done? Enacted the vivid dreams he had had since she had arrived at Netherfield?

The stairway stretched unnaturally before him, its length uncertain, as though the walls themselves shifted.

The steps felt steeper than he remembered. His hand clung to the railing as he climbed, his other arm held by Fletcher. Each footfall measured, deliberate.

At the landing, the shadows seemed to lurch and settle again. He stood for a moment, drawing breath to steady himself before continuing.

The memory would not settle. His breath quickened, his heart faltering and surging again in his chest. Only flashes: her nearness, his voice speaking words he could not now fully summon. He drew a ragged breath, his pulse still uneven. He must get to his chamber.

His chamber door yielded. The fire was banked, his bed beckoning him.

He made no attempt to assist Fletcher in removing his garments. He lowered himself with more caution than dignity.

The room tilted once more as he closed his eyes.

He had spoken. He knew that much. Words spoken without thought, but with feeling too dangerous to be dismissed.

Had he declared himself? Had he offered for her—there, in this state?

The answer eluded him, veiled behind the fog in his mind. He pressed a hand to his temple. Her voice hovered at the edge of memory—quiet, urgent, calling his name.

He had said something. He had meant it. He could still feel the emotion, a raw place behind his ribs.

He could not know for certain what had passed. That was the worst of it. His own mind betrayed him — offering only fragments, impressions, flashes of sensation. The rest belonged to her memory, not his.

If she intended to press her advantage — His jaw clenched. Would she?

She ought rightly expect redress. But she had no aspirations of wealth or position. She had never been one to seek his approval. She might say nothing. Preserve her silence. Protect her own dignity. But even in silence, the matter would not simply vanish. Not for him.

He must find a means of speaking with her privately. Discreetly. Before anyone else intervened—before her family, or society, or God only knew who — could fix the matter in terms not of his choosing.

His last thought before sleep overtook him was of Elizabeth—her voice, her face, her scent, the unbearable uncertainty that something had passed between them.