So, as you can see, I decided to continue. And thank you for being so... uh, vehement, about it. ;) It was very convincing. However, despite all your eager entreaties for me to continue (wow, I just can't stop the fancy-speak, can I?), I'm still kinda nervous about 'messing with a good thing', so I'd still love to know what you think. And, on top of that, I'm just less sure than usual about a few aspects of this chapter. I'd say which ones, but that would be giving them away...

Some of you (four at last count) have given me some very good suggestions, at least three of which I'm planning on incorporating into my story later on, maybe even the next chapter. So... thank you.

Um, I think that's it, except that I feel the need to clarify: I have decided to mess around with the events of the story, and it will not be the same from here on out. However, I still maintain that it could have happened more-or-less the same, and if you prefer it that way, just look at the last chapter as a one-shot, and don't read on. Otherwise... have fun and be sure to review!

Anonymous Reviews:

jen: Well, as you can see, I decided to... Thanks for the review! :)

cee: Wow, thanks! Extra points for "deign" and yes, I think I will. :) Thank you so much again. I always thought that comment would hurt him the most - it's a pretty darn harsh thing to say, after all. Aw, my imagination is brilliant! Thanks again (again)... :)

Courtney: Thanks!

Elizabeth awoke feeling luxurious, well-rested, and recovering from a wonderful dream. She stood with a smile and walked over to the window to be met with a beautiful day that perfectly matched her mood, sunny and cloudless.

It was only when her eyes wandered over the stone wall not far from the house that she remembered the events of the night before, and she instantly lost all enjoyment in the day, her stomach threatening to heave and her balance suddenly failing her, as she sat down abruptly on a nearby chair.

-xxx-

Darcy woke, feeling gritty, too hot under his covers, aching all over, and quite possibly the second-most miserable he'd ever been in his life. Second, of course, because the previous night topped the list.

He stood unsteadily, making his way to the window and observing the beautiful day with a sour expression. It seemed as if the world only wished to taunt him; even more so since it had begun raining again as he walked back to Rosings, and he had been forced to trudge through nearly two miles of muck in the raging downpour. Although, that had given him the benefit of being too preoccupied with getting out of the rain to dwell on… things. And once he had reached Rosings and made his way to his room (leaving a sizeable mud trail) Darcy had been far too tired to do anything but collapse in his bed and sleep. But now he was free to think of it, and he could no longer prevent himself from remembering –

Darcy was disturbed from his increasingly melancholy thoughts by his footman entering just in time. The man noticed his master's oddly flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, but put it up to dreams of his lady-love; after months in Darcy's service it would have been impossible for him to note the attraction he felt.

-xxx-

All through breakfast Elizabeth felt awkward and paranoid, jumping at every small noise, convinced it was Darcy come to – to – well, she was not quite sure what, but she was certain that it would be horrible. After all, the man, the supposed gentleman, had kissed her the previous night! They were not engaged!

Although he certainly wishes to be… Elizabeth could not help thinking, before forcibly shaking such thoughts from her head. The reasons behind Darcy's proposal were unimportant. What mattered was the way he had proposed; how he had insulted both her and her family, not to mention taken advantage of her shocked state, and even refused to apologize for what he had done to poor Jane…

But he did apologize; he simply did not regret trying to protect his friend; can I blame him for that? And what of Mr. Wickham? The same stubborn little voice protested, and Elizabeth could not help but bite her lip, unable to continue mocking Darcy when remembering Mr. Wickham.

Had she truly been so wrong about him? Elizabeth had, after all, always prided herself on being able to discern people's true characters; surely she could not have been so far off the mark?

But all the evidence seemed to prove Darcy correct; from simply the complexity of his tale (who would be able to come up with all those details on the spot?), as well as the nature of it – however little Elizabeth might like Darcy, she was sure that he would never make up something so horrible happening to his sister; not with the way his face had softened as he spoke of her. And, of course, there was the way that Wickham, while eager to tell her his tale of woe, never dared to announce it publicly…

But he was such a nice, charming man! Surely he could not have done such horrible things!

Elizabeth was interrupted from her thoughts by Mr. Collins pausing in his long dissertation, (on the magnificent and plentiful, and very expensive, windowsills at Rosings) to ask where she had been the previous evening.

She instantly flushed red, and stuttered a little in her reply, but he was oblivious. "I-I was on a walk, sir, when I was held back by the rain."

Of course, mention of the rain prompted him begin anew, this time on the state of the esteemed and condescending Lady Catherine's grounds, and Elizabeth soon tuned him out, returning to pondering what Darcy had said.

-xxx-

Breakfast was a horrid experience for Darcy, with his Aunt Catherine persistently questioning him about where he had disappeared to the previous night, Colonel Fitzwilliam joking good-naturedly with him about the same, and his own stomach rebelling against the sight and smell of the food, making him quite nauseous.

Added to all of this, Darcy was beginning to feel increasingly warm, no matter how many glasses of water he drank. Finally throwing down his fork, he rose from the table and strode away without a word, leaving behind his untouched food and astonished Aunt, paused mid-sentence.

Darcy had stood from the table with the intent of taking a walk through the grounds to breathe in some fresh air and hopefully calm himself; however, he had hardly made it outside before a great weakness swept over him, and he was forced to lean back against a convenient wall simply to keep his balance. The world swam before his eyes, dizzying him until he squeezed them shut.

His thoughts were in a muddle, and for a few short instants he was completely insensible; finally, fearing for his health, realizing that perhaps it was not simply heartbreak that plagued him, Darcy opened his eyes and straightened off the wall, with the intent of going back inside to his room and lying down.

However, his brief moment of clarity soon passed as, in straightening off the wall, Darcy caused his head to rush once more. A great heat swept over him, and his eyes turned quite glassy as he staggered forward a few steps, falling into an illusory world.

In reality, Darcy was still standing in the near-deserted path entrance, on a bright sunny day with few clouds.

However, his feverish mind interpreted things quite differently, so that it seemed to him he was standing in the temple again, with rain pouring down around him, and watching Elizabeth approach him, looking amused and calling his name. At the sight of her, Darcy smiled widely.

Had Darcy not been so fully in the grips of his delusion, he may have noticed that Elizabeth's voice was much deeper than ever before; and her shape was quite less pleasing and feminine, with indeed no light curves to feast his eyes upon; and her hair considerably shorter, her chin rounder, her face older, and of course her eyes not the ones he had always so admired: in short, Darcy's 'Elizabeth' was in reality his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had followed him shortly after he left the breakfast table.

"Darcy!" he now called smilingly, drawing closer, "What prompted that? I don't think I've ever seen our dear Aunt so offended. A great trick, to be sure, but from you? The model of politeness?"

However, the Colonel's smile soon dropped off his face when he took in the sight of his cousin; Darcy's cheeks were flushed bright red, his eyes glassy, he was swaying unsteadily, and wore a rather disturbing grin.

"Darcy? Are you alright?"

At this innocent question, Darcy laughed and stepped forward, his odd smile growing wider. Looking slightly demented, he began to speak, somewhat incoherently. "Ah! My dearest Miss Elizabeth… Charmed to see you here again; yes, it's been quite an experience at this spot for us both, has it not?" He chuckled again, his smile fading as he gazed sadly at Fitzwilliam. Then, however, he visibly rallied his spirits, and gestured at the sky. "Horrible rain we're having, is it not?"

At first, when it became apparent that Darcy was mistaking him for their acquaintance, the lovely Miss Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam was amused, but when he began to talk about the nonexistent, if apparently heavy, rain, all mirth left him, and he stepped forward, taking his cousin by the arm.

"Yes, terrible," he said indulgently, "Aren't you tired, Darcy? Let's go back to Rosings, alright?"

He reached out to take his cousin's arm, but Darcy snatched it back, muttering something about being 'the last man'.

Darcy, in yanking his arm away from Elizabeth's hand (though he wasn't quite sure why he had done so, as he would love nothing more than to be held by her and to hold her in return), upset his precarious balance, and stumbled back several steps. When he finally caught himself, a furious heat spilled through his body, and suddenly he was advancing forward, shouting through his rage how she did not have the right to touch him, not after how she had so brutally rejected him…

Somehow, though, in the process of walking forward, his legs buckled, and the world tilted sideways, colors shifting and lights sparkling across his field of vision.

He heard a familiar voice cry his name as if from a great distance, but he had no way to reply, as he was floating away from his body, and all was fading to black…

-xxx-

After breakfast, Elizabeth had taken advantage of the beautiful day to go for a long walk, hoping to clear her head. However, she had been so caught up in her thoughts upon leaving, that she had unwittingly begun to walk down the same path that led to the temple; and she was so preoccupied, that it was not until she began to climb the hill leading to it, that she realized where she was.

Elizabeth instantly wished she could turn back, but her own nature would not allow her to; in turning and leaving, she would be seeming to avoid the thoughts that plagued her mind, and Elizabeth prided herself on never backing down from a challenge. Surely this was a challenge if there ever was one!

Finally reaching the temple, Elizabeth walked forward to the place she had stood last night, and leaned on the wall once more, closing her eyes. Almost instantly, her imagination conjured up the image of Darcy standing in front of her, eyes speaking of tenderness and love, soft voice beseeching her to accept him…

She quickly opened her eyes, and drew a hand across her face with a sigh. How could she dwell on such things? She hated the proud, disagreeable man, and always had!

Elizabeth was well on her way to storming back down the hill in a fit of righteous anger and indignation (of the type that had been, perhaps too often, directed towards Darcy in the past), when she was brought up short by a single thought: But why?

Why did she hate him? Elizabeth had always been so sure in her hate, that when someone tried to question it, she dismissed them on the spot; but hadn't Darcy given her good reason to question it now? What were her reasons?

Elizabeth laid them down, trying to justify herself: he was proud; he was rude; he looked down on all as below him; he believed that everything would work out the way he wished, simply because of his money; he had cruelly mistreated Mr. Wickham; he had similarly interfered with both her sister, Jane, and his dearest friend, Bingley's happiness; he had insulted her entire family; he had taken the liberty to kiss her and embrace her, in a most ungentlemanly manner…

At this, though, Elizabeth ran out of reasons; and, due to her inherent fairness, she felt obliged to think over the ones she had set out – to, in a fashion, play the devil's (in this case, Darcy's) advocate and attempt to refute her own arguments.

The most obvious place to start with was Wickham. Indeed, after what she had heard the previous night, Elizabeth wasn't sure why that even belonged on her list of grievances. While there was little true evidence either way, the passion in Darcy's speech – not to mention the incredibly personal nature – touched something deeper within her than Wickham's simple list of misfortunes. At the time, his manner had seemed deeply saddened, but brave; but now, having witnessed the true depth of Darcy's feelings on the subject, Elizabeth could scarcely believe that she had ever been fooled by Wickham's shallow acting.

"Yes," she murmured aloud, "Yes, I do believe that Mr. Darcy was right all along about Mr. Wickham's true nature; and I can hardly blame him for his treatment of the man now; indeed, I think I ought to commend him for his restraint!"

Having easily dismissed one of her main reasons to dislike Darcy, Elizabeth set out to prove the others similarly wrong; and, if she could not dismiss outright most of them, she found that she could at least concede that they were merely human faults, and not a fair basis for any deep dislike.

For instance, Darcy's considerable pride: yes, it was not a good trait; but was it necessarily a bad one? After all, Elizabeth possessed quite the pride of her own, which she had to admit had been slighted – and could that be another reason for her dislike of Darcy? Elizabeth, upon further thought, was quite ashamed to admit to herself that, yes, a great foundation for her dislike had been built when Darcy offended her with his comment about her being 'barely tolerable'. Yes, she had joked about it, but with a sister like Jane, and a mother like Mrs. Bennet (who was so favorable to her eldest and youngest two daughters that she dismissed the second-eldest and middle out of hand) Elizabeth could not help but be a little bit self-conscious about her appearance, though she tried not to be; so Darcy's comment had unwittingly cut her deeper than she'd shown. What was it she had told Jane? "I could easily forgive his pride, if had he not mortified mine." That was truer than she'd known; and as such, Elizabeth thought it only fair that she forgive Darcy of his pride, if she wished to forgive herself of her own.

Of course, thinking about his pride led Elizabeth to think about Darcy's habitual rudeness and his looking down on all the people of her acquaintance, which was less easy for her to forgive. However, now that she was actively attempting to find ways to excuse him, Elizabeth could see that, perhaps, much of his rudeness and apparent scorn derived from his refusals of conversation or dancing; he had not actually slighted anyone other than her, and had, on the whole, been perfectly polite; simply distant. And had Darcy himself not explained this just several days previous? "We neither of us perform to strangers." Perhaps – laughable though it seemed – Darcy truly was shy. And if so, Elizabeth could hardly mock him for such a fault.

On the topic of performing to strangers... Thinking with a clear head, Elizabeth could freely admit that Darcy had good reason to insult her family, though it was hardly politic to do so. Her mother she could barely defend; Mrs. Bennet was, quite frankly, a nervous fool. Although she loved her daughters, she knew little about how to care for them, beyond marrying them off; and, due to her love of gossip, lack of modesty or privacy, and limited match-making skills, it was easy to imagine why Darcy would not care for her. Another of her mothering faults was clearly evident in both Kitty and Lydia, who, while Elizabeth agreed deserved to be out, she had to admit were not nearly as mature as they ought to be. Both were the most outrageous flirts, at the very best bordering the line of propriety, and far too obsessed with the militia. As for Mary... while there was nothing wrong with her quiet nature, her habit of quoting Fordyce's sermons and making generally discouraging and depressing (while at the same time superior) comments was certainly disconcerting and rude. Her piano-forte skills, too, were not as good as she liked, and it did not recommend her much when she played in public, especially not when she played somber pieces at something as upbeat as a ball, as she was wont to do. When it came to Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth was far less eager to admit fault, but even she could not deny that her father's habit of hiding in his library or study, rather than participating in any social activity, could be seen as quite rude; although it was merely his distaste of fools (such as his wife) and idle conversation (such as his wife's) that led him to do so – much like Darcy, Elizabeth realized with amusement.

And as for his attitude about his wealth – well, Elizabeth may resent it, but even she could hardly deny that it was the way of the world. Those with money and status generally got what they wanted more often, and a man as wealthy and well-bred as Darcy had probably never been refused a thing in his life… before now.

Elizabeth stood at this thought and began to pace, unwittingly following the same path Darcy had the previous night as he explained Wickham's misdeeds to her. She was fully aware that she had been avoiding two issues in her mind; that of Mr. Bingley and Jane, and of the highly inappropriate embrace and kiss she and Darcy had shared.

Exhaling harshly and halting in place, Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly and buried her face in her hands. Though she wished nothing but to avoid thinking about these two issues, she could not simply leave them alone; and so Elizabeth began attempting to sort through her feelings.

First, the way Darcy had separated Jane and Bingley. Even just thinking about it, a wave of anger on her sister's behalf swept through Elizabeth – but, trying to think logically, she ignored it. What Darcy had done was most certainly wrong – there was absolutely no denying that. However, he had done it with good intentions; after all, if it had been in her power to save Charlotte from her loveless marriage to Mr. Collins, would Elizabeth not have done the same? Of course, the situations were highly different, and unlike Darcy, Elizabeth had talked things out with her friend and was willing to accept her decision and support her. But even so, Elizabeth could not truly despise Darcy for acting as he had.

However, despising or not, Elizabeth could not truly forgive Darcy's foolish actions any time soon; the only thing that might persuade her to do so was if he reversed them – which he had promised to do. The only thing that remained was to wait and see if he followed through on his promise… though Elizabeth had the odd feeling that he would.

And now, having thoroughly gone over every other topic, Elizabeth could delay thinking about Darcy's – and her own – indecorous actions no longer, much as she wished to. So, with an inward sigh, Elizabeth finally confronted it.

What Darcy had done was wrong in the eyes of any respectable society – he had taken liberties that, had anyone observed them, would have forced them into a marriage of convenience, simply in the interest of preserving her reputation. Elizabeth knew that she was perfectly within her rights to slap him for taking advantage of her in such a way – though perhaps she ought to have done it straightaway, rather than waiting until after he had re-proposed, the way she had.

And yet… And yet Elizabeth could not find it in her to be angry at Darcy. The slap the previous night had taken with it the extent of her shock and anger; now, when thinking about the event, Elizabeth was filled with a feeling akin to – unexpectedly enough – nostalgia. The memories of the kiss brought back the feelings she had experienced, held in his arms with his lips pressed to hers: the way that, for a short time, Elizabeth had truly believed his love for her, because she could feel it in his arms around her, could taste it on his lips.

That kiss had made her feel so unbelievably cherished and loved, while it lasted, that Elizabeth could not help but to respond, as hypocritical as the action may have been; and now, remembering it, she could not help but smile almost fondly, and press two fingers to her lips, before snatching them away as she realized what she was doing.

It had been her first kiss, and it had been beautiful, but it was not as if it would ever happen again, given the way she had spurned Darcy. Elizabeth was shocked to realize that she actually felt a bit disappointed at this thought.

Shaking that emotion out of her head, Elizabeth turned and began the walk back to the Collins' house.

And so it was, that in a single long walk and a deep examination of her feelings, that Elizabeth Bennet lost all hate towards a certain Mr. Darcy. She most certainly was not in love with him; but she was willing to concede that he was a true gentleman that deserved her friendship at the least; and that he was far (and climbing farther) from being the last man she would ever wish to marry.

Sadly, this realization had come one day too late.

-xxx-

Darcy tossed and turned in his bed for many hours after his cousin had, with the help of several servants, managed to get him there following his collapse. Of course, the sight of the dignified man being carried urgently through the halls of Rosings attracted quite a bit of attention, and the doctor was immediately called for.

Upon examining Darcy, he determined that the man was a victim of a dangerously high fever; most likely the result of walking home through the pouring rain, becoming drenched and probably getting hypothermia. It was, the doctor said, a miracle that he'd managed to fight the fever and function normally as long as he had; his collapse was long overdue.

When Fitzwilliam conveyed the fact that Darcy had in fact been experiencing delusions before he passed out, the doctor reassured them that it came hand in hand with the fever, and was not a sign of any greater disease. In fact, he told them, Darcy should be perfectly fine, providing that his fever broke soon.

Truly, that was what those at Rosings were worried about the most; for if Darcy's fever did not break within the next 48 hours, he was as good as dead. Once it did break he would be well on his to recovery – but as it was, he was still well within its hold.

The entire household, from Lady Catherine to Fitzwilliam to even Darcy's footman, blamed themselves for not noticing his illness sooner, and prayed for his recovery.

However, the man himself was unaware of all this, trapped in a confusing world of heat, strange colors, pain, and a pair of cold, angry, disgusted – but still incredibly fine – eyes.

An added note: I have little-to-no medical knowledge, so I'm pretty much just guessing about the delusions and fever and so on and so forth. I do know that back in those days, a fever was a serious business that people died from, but that's about it. It's somewhat important to my plot, for various reasons, so I hope that it's correct. And as for Darcy's behaviour when deluded and whatnot, I know it's ridiculous, but just bear with it anyway please.