Darcy's lips twisted as he watched Elizabeth leave the library. He should not have teased her so, but in her presence, he found it difficult to help himself. And despite everything, he found it thrilling. He was glad the Miss Bennets were leaving Netherfield the next morning so that he might feel more like his regular self.
He cleared his throat. Compose yourself, he thought sternly.
Just because a girl was a lovely country miss who was both well-read and engaging, it did not signify. He knew his role in life and in his family. He could not afford to become enamored with someone of so little consequence. It would never do for the heir to Pemberley to marry a country nobody. He knew he had to choose a society lady, one who knew how to host large London dinners and make small talk with society heiresses. Elizabeth Bennet was witty–-to be sure–-but she was also the kind of woman who spoke her mind far too freely.
He'd made up his mind. Miss Bennet was dangerous. She made him do things and think things he was not usually a party to. Such as reading incantations out loud. He idly thrummed his fingers over the book in his hand. How stupid. He tossed the thin, old book onto a shelf. His world would be simpler once Miss Bennet was gone. Duller, he thought, but simpler, which was how he preferred things.
Darcy was nearly out of the library when a strange, cold sensation came over him. He touched his brow and saw that he was sweating. Outside, steady rain still fell. Suddenly, he felt very weak and fatigued. Perhaps he should go upstairs and lay down instead of shooting billiards with Bingley. A sharp ache tensed in his head, and Darcy wondered for a moment if he might be ill. Had he eaten something off? He paused, his heart pounding. He was certainly having some kind of reaction to something. He went into the next-door sitting room where Bingley and the others still played cards.
"There you are, Darcy. Did you hear the storm?" Caroline said, looking up for her cards. Darcy nodded brusquely, annoyed by her attentions and still perspiring. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a thimble of brandy.
He looked back at Bingley and his sisters, who watched him carefully. "By all means, do carry on with your game."
"Are you all right, Darcy?" Bingley said, his eyes narrowing.
"I'm fine," Darcy said, straightening his vest after he downed his drink. "Perfectly well. Thank you."
Bingley and his sisters looked at him curiously. But he was not well.
Then, Darcy rushed from the room, where the group heard him retch outside.
"Something infectious," Bingley said as they both observed that Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet complained of illness and were absent for dinner that night.
"Miss Bennet complains of a headache, while Darcy says fever. Perhaps they are not related at all," Bingley's sister, Louisa said in her high voice, slicing a piece of beef.
"And yet we all have eaten the same meals and are well," Bingley said. "It is odd."
"Yes, very odd," Caroline said. "Hopefully the Bennet sisters will leave tomorrow and take their various ailments with them."
Bingley put down his fork. "That is unfair, Caroline. A headache is not contagious."
Caroline's eyes narrowed as though she were put upon."Still, Charles, even you must admit they are not easy guests to have."
Charles opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. He had a strange feeling about the Miss Bennets' visit, but no logical way to explain it. He was excited to have more Miss Jane so close, but, of course, she had been ill and he had not seen her for days. The effect was oddly anti-climatic. But his sisters and Darcy were peevish about the guests. He wished to see Jane properly while she was well. But he felt a peculiar dislike coming from both his sister and Darcy.
The next morning Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly. She had slept poorly and a pulse throbbed behind her left eyebrow. She touched a hand to her head.
Something was wrong.
She did not recognize the room she was in. Her eyes darted from one side of the dark room to the other. Where was she? She knew she had slept at Netherfield, but what room was this? Had she been moved? A knock came on the door, immediately followed by its opening. She heard footsteps and waited to see the lady's maid from behind the bed's canopy.
But the footsteps were slower, heavier. An uneasy prickling went down her back.
"Good morning, my lord." The voice that spoke was masculine. What was a man doing here? The man she thought had been Bingely's valet strode to the window and opened the curtains, flooding sunshine into the room.
Elizabeth automatically sank down into the bed and pulled the sheet high around her. "What is the meaning of this?" Her voice sounded strange and low. She tried to clear her throat, but her heart was pounding too fast.
"What is the meaning of this?! Who sent you here?" She asked as he set down a tray of hot tea on the bedside table near her.
The valet's eyebrows rose with mild concern. "I awake you at this time each morning. Would you prefer I return later?"
"You shall not return at all!" Elizabeth said, clutching the sheet over her body, her body heavy and awkward, panic strangling her throat.
The valet blinked with confusion. "Very well. My apologies, my lord." He moved to the door, shooting her a final questioning look before he walked out the door.
Why did he keep calling her 'my lord'?
With the sunlight streaming in the room, she now clearly saw the dark heavy furniture, the men's jacket hanging on a hook, and the stiff, dark boots against the wall. She was in a man's room! That was Mr. Darcy's jacket and his shiny Hessian boots in the corner. How had she gotten into Mr. Darcy's bed? Whatever happened, she was ruined! Jane was ruined! Why could she not remember?
She sank into the bed and put her hands over her quickly-filling eyes. One of her hands touched the other and felt a cool, heavy ring. She was wearing a ring?
Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked at the signet ring with the gold D on her hand, blinking uncomprehendingly.
Then she saw her hands as though for the first time. Large, masculine hands with well-trimmed square nails. These were not her hands. A soundless cry rose from her throat. She pulled back the covers and saw her long, muscular legs etched in dark leg hair.
She clasped her hands to her chest and felt sinew and taut, warm muscle. Slowly, she stood up and stepped to the room's only looking glass, tears now brimming from her eyes. There stood a surprised-looking Mr. Darcy in his great shirt, his hair rumpled from a night of sleep.
"No," she whispered and saw the gentlemen's own lips move, putting her hands to her face in disbelief. But Darcy's face was hers now, her rumpled dark hair, her broad shoulders. She sank to the floor and fainted.
A brisk knock on the door awoke Elizabeth and her eyes fluttered open. Same room. She started to stand and saw Bingley's blond head poke into the room from behind the door. "Darcy, are you ill? Chalmers said you weren't feeling well this morning. I thought we'd go riding before the women got up. Good lord, you're on the floor!"
Bingley called out to a servant and rushed into the room to Elizabeth.
"Darcy, did you fall? Take my arm, old boy."
Elizabeth reluctantly swept her arm around Bingley's shoulder and let him pull her to her feet.
"I-I am not myself," Elizabeth stammered, unsure of what to say.
"You don't seem well at all. Let's get you back to bed."
With Bingley and another servant's help, she was eased back onto the bed. She had never been this close to a man before, other than her father, and she tried not to notice the fresh scent he wore and how his skin felt against hers.
Bingley paused and looked into her eyes. "You look quite…unwell," he said. "Did you eat something off last night?"
Elizabeth tried to remember the night before. Could a late supper have made her so off quilter? Might it make her imagine things? See things that were not real?
"I do not know," she murmured and leaned back into the pillow. Though she knew she had slept on it, it smelled startlingly foreign. Like a man, she thought with alarm.
"Darcy, get some rest," Bingley said. "Perhaps the port was off, although I feel fine. I'll have the cook bring you some honey tea if you'd like."
Panic rose in her throat. "I'm not Darcy," she said.
Bingley laughed briefly. "You're not? Then what are you doing in my home?" He patted Elizabeth's arm. "I've known you since school and I can assure you that you are, in fact, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Sometimes I wish you were not, but now is not one of those times."
Tears filled her eyes again, but now she had the urge to hide that reaction from Bingley. She needed to think. Or maybe to sleep. Perhaps this was a horrible dream and she just needed to wake up. Elizabeth chewed the inside of her lip.
"Shall I have someone sit with you?"
Elizabeth shook her head fearfully. No, she needed to be alone.
A servant entered the room carrying a steaming cup of tea. "Here you are. Cook's special sickbed toddy. Cures all. Even if you were in your cups last night."
Bingley held the tea in front of Darcy, nodding to drink some.
Elizabeth did not refuse. The hot sip of liquid nearly scalded as it coated her throat. She coughed. It was mostly whiskey, but she swallowed it. Better whiskey than this state, whatever it was, she thought as it burned down her throat.
Elizabeth woke again suddenly when the clock chimed 11 am. Then she heard nothing except the metronomic tick of the clock echoing in the large bedroom. She knew whatever was still wrong before she opened her eyes.
She felt different. She could feel that her body took up more space now. She flexed her hand and studied it. It was ridiculously large, nearly twice what she was used to. But the skin was cool and softer than she expected. Her nails were neat and a small callus on her left palm.
Of course, Darcy's hands were well tended. He had a personal valet to tend to him.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, pulled back the covers and walked to the looking glass, this time knowing what to expect. Still, it was a shock.
The wavy dark hair touched his shirt collar. Quite thick, almost too long to be fashionable. She pushed back the hair and studied her face. Unsmiling pink lips, pale skin, a strong chin mottled with dark beard stubble, and large grey-green eyes. She ran a hand over the jaw, feeling bristling hairs on his chin. The face was handsome, but not perfect. One eye was infinitesimally higher than the other. There was a tiny faint scar under the arch of his left eyebrow. She wondered what happened to cause that scar.
She pulled up the nightshirt and examined Darcy's legs. They were very muscular and well-formed. Then she pulled the shirt up higher, heat flooding her cheeks. She had never seen a full-grown man's member before.
Oh! She dropped the shirt and bit her lip. If this was a dream, it was a terribly realistic one.
She swallowed and pulled up the shirt again, really examining it in the mirror. It certainly was not the most elegant thing she had ever seen. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching it swing back and then forth as she did. She had never considered how it might move on its own. She leapt up and down and watched it fall into place. She knew somehow it went into a woman on the marriage bed, but she was not sure how it got in there. Her cheeks blazed again.
She was looking at Mr. Darcy's manhood. She nearly choked.
She pulled off her shirt and studied Darcy's broad shoulders and firm biceps, then turned around and looked at his backside. Mr. Darcy was in admirable shape, like the statutes of Greek gods she had seen. Again, her cheeks burned in flames as she realized was looking at a naked man for the first time. She placed her hands on her hips. Yet it was her body.
Elizabeth suddenly missed her feminine curves and small, but strong legs. She had never considered she'd wake up one day and it would be gone. Did this mean Mr. Darcy was currently in Elizabeth's body? She needed to find him and see if he knew what happened. How could they undo whatever occurred, or was this simply a horrible dream she was trapped in?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Her mouth tightened. Bingley again? Elizabeth grabbed the nearby robe and pulled it around herself.
Mr. Darcy's valet—she was unsure of his name—entered, his head respectfully down. Sutter? Sawyer?
"Good afternoon, sir. Shall I dress you for the afternoon? Or do you mean to stay in bed?"
Elizabeth glanced at the slant of the bright sun outside the window. Was it really that late? "Yes, very good," she muttered and he began collecting shirts and clothing items from the room.
Maybe she had gone mad. That would explain it. She had gone insane somehow and she fancied she'd woken up as Mr. Darcy. Her heart pounded in her chest. Logically, she knew being Mr. Darcy was not the worst fate in the world, but she wished heartily to be back to being herself: insignificant Lizzy Bennet. She wondered how Jane was faring, and if Darcy-as-Herself was now visiting Jane. She eyed the half glass of amber cognac on the side table. There was a way to find out. In a flash, she picked it up and threw it back and poured herself another. If she were going to be dressed by a man, she needed courage.
Her valet–Sutter, Sawyer-eyed her glass and merely raised an eyebrow in reaction, but said nothing as the warmth spread through her chest. A giddy realization came to her. What could he say? Even if it was unwise to drink during the day, he was Darcy's servant, not her parent. He–-nor anyone else–-could tell Mr. Darcy how to behave. She shook her head. This dream was so queer.
She downed the rest of the glass and allowed the valet to take her robe. She stood, naked, but the valet barely glanced at her. He was smoothing the shirt and pants he held as Elizabeth stepped into them. She pulled on the clean great shirt and felt a wave of relief now that she was covered. She stepped into the pant he held open. No undergarments here, she thought queasily, but then, now as a man, she did not need them. And no skirts or corsets. She pulled up the pant as the valet tucked in her shirt, moving carefully around Darcy's nether regions.
"Do be careful," Elizabeth said. "Delicate area."
"Of course. I'm sorry, Sir," the valet said quickly.
The valet buttoned the shirt and she worked on the wrist sleeves.
In a few moments, the suspenders and stockings were pulled up and the valet grabbed a waistcoat and held it while she stepped into it. The valet tied her ascot and Elizabeth marveled that she was the very model of a gentleman in her garb.