Chapter 1: An Intolerable Evening
"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men."
Bingley frowned but it was a look of concern rather than annoyance, "You're especially cantankerous tonight, Darcy. You are not getting one of your headaches are you?"
"No, I simply…" Darcy felt a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes. He winced. He was getting a headache, a particular kind of headache that could only mean one thing and it was coming on fast. He needed to get out of here! "Yes, I think I am."
"I will order the carriage."
That would take too long. The pain was already spreading to his nose and ears. Darcy needed to leave Now. "There is no need. I will walk back to Netherfield."
"You should not walk if you are unwell. We can all return to Netherfield. The others will not mind leaving early."
No! The pain was moving up his forehead, his eyes felt like they were popping out of his head. He forced himself to reply calmly, "There is no need the walk will do me good."
When Bingley looked as if he was about to protest Darcy continued. "I am sure of it. Riding in the carriage will only exacerbate my condition. I always recover better in solitude and the moon will be up by now I will have plenty of light."
His whole head was throbbing now but he continued. "Return to your partner and enjoy her smiles. Trust me Bingley I have suffered these headaches for many years I know what is best to be done."
Bingley finally agreed and Darcy made his way out of the ballroom as quickly as he could without actually running, fighting the desire to push everyone out of the way. The pain was shooting down his neck into his shoulders. He got out the door and broke into a run, undoing his tailcoat and pulling it off as he ran. The pain was moving down his back into his legs it wouldn't be long now. He needed to get out of sight!"
He spotted a group of evergreens. Perfect. With a quick glance around and a prayer that no one would notice he yanked off his cravat as he dove beneath the branches. Ignoring the scratches, he struggled out of the rest of his clothes. He rolled his clothing into a ball and stashed it in a spot where he hoped it would be unnoticed until he could come back to retrieve it (that was always a problem) and breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could let himself go. The pain was always worse when he fought the change. The hair on his arms and legs was already thickening into fur.
A short time later Darcy emerged from the bushes on all fours and, as was the etiquette in these situations, howled at the moon.
Contrary to those conclusions which one might reasonably draw from the events reported thus far, Mr. Darcy was not a werewolf. No, werewolfism, as he often thought, would be a considerable improvement. A werewolf had the advantage of predictability. He could make his excuses and avoid going into society on the night of a full moon. Darcy never knew when he was going to change. Additionally, there was a certain dignity in turning into a wolf. This was something else entirely.
Mr. Darcy was descended, on the maternal side, from a noble line; and on his father's, from a respectable, honorable, and ancient family. He was the master of Pemberley, a man of considerable fortune with an income of ten thousand a year, a man of good character and scrupulous dignity. It was downright humiliating for him to be turning into a dog.
AN: This one is just for fun, a short story based on rather a silly premise I wanted to play with. I know it's not going to be for everyone, but then nothing is and there are literally thousands of options. The second chapter will be up momentarily, no promises on posting schedule after that.