Switched

by Iris Lim

  She could not resist a glance towards Darcy, and he rewarded her with a small smile of his own.

  “I'm sure we shall find the dishes delightful,” he said lowly, perhaps too lowly for public company. Elizabeth's chest tightened increasingly under his lingering gaze, though she found it impossible to look away.

  “I can't say much for your tastes, Georgiana, if you like the food tonight,” Caroline Bingley, unhappily neglected, called out in a voice as loud as a tropical bird's. She was gratified, undeservingly, with all eyes being turned towards her. “I prefer my stately dinners, of course, but Eliza could hardly know what our dear guests prefer!”

  “Caro –”

  “No, no, Charles, don't you go about defending your darling wife. Oh, the wonderful produce that she has wasted!”

  Elizabeth swallowed as Bingley's stiffened form beside her clearly indicated that none would be coming to her defense tonight. Caroline would roam free – cursing and insulting every creature she would wish to offend. The woman was horrific, an utter villain – but what hostess would she be if she were to encourage a quarrel at her very own dinner table?

  “The dishes shall prove lovely, I am sure,” Darcy repeated gallantly across the table – and successfully silenced Caroline for the subsequent hour.

  Gratefulness and affection swelled in Elizabeth's heart, unrepressed. She braved the amuse-bouche and the soup courageously, glancing only at her plate and at Georgiana. They exchanged subtle smiles whenever Caroline began another rant, before each resuming focus upon their food.

  “The spoons are entirely wrong!” Caroline cried when the platters and cloths were cleared for the meat to come. “You abuse the family china, Eliza.”

  “I apologize, Caro, for forgetting your preferences in my desire to please our guests,” Elizabeth bit back quickly.

  Having few successful retorts in her arsenal, Caroline Bingley seemed content to have her complaints responded to with single lines resulting in little to no conversation – or dismissed entirely.

  This arrangement, Elizabeth found, suited her just fine.

  “And what of dessert, Eliza?” Caroline whined when the clearly successful meal – as evidenced by the smile Darcy sent Elizabeth's way after every dish arrived – drew close to its end. “I find it most negligent of you to ignore my advice on what Miss Darcy prefers. The young lady is a dear friend, and I –”

  “I much prefer the lemon cream,” Georgiana spoke softly just as the very dish was served.

  Elizabeth looked towards her former sister, ready to offer her quiet thanks, when Darcy himself interrupted, “As do I. You make a wonderful home – Elizabeth.”

  His eyes flew instantly to Elizabeth, and she returned his gaze with shock, then passion. The stilted smile he had offered upon Brigham Park's entrance today had been traded in for a genuine, heartfelt grin. His features, objectively handsome before, now composed themselves into the most attractive face she had ever seen. She had seen her fair share of handsome men, particularly plenty in redcoats.

  But tonight – at this very hour – there was no man she would rather have on her side than the gallant, handsome, dashing, and wonderful Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  The small gasp that escaped her own lips compelled her to recollect her senses, and she buried her attentions into her dessert. To be gaping after one's guest was bad enough – to do so before her groom and his bride was utter scandal!

  If there were any further words exchanged during dessert – and she was fairly certain Caroline exchanged a few with herself – Elizabeth could not remember a single topic mentioned. Bingley's gracious praise for her hosting, Caroline's subsequent sneer, and Jane's unexpectedly easy concurrence for the separation of the sexes passed by in a mangled, blurry mess in Elizabeth's mind. She almost thought, as the women made their way to the drawing room, that she saw Fitzwilliam eyeing her gown – perhaps noticing its similar coloring to the one she wore that morning, a few mere hours before their fateful first meeting.

  Did he remember how he had almost kissed her then? Did his heart pound as hers did when she recalled their bodies pressed together in a silly game of sardines?

  Caroline's whines echoed throughout the room almost as soon as they entered.

  Did he remember when he did kiss her – when their embrace by the lake had turned to something much more?

  The door had barely closed behind them when Jane claimed the need for fresh air. Elizabeth, happy for the chance, quickly expressed the need for a book herself.

  • • •

  Brigham Park, purchased with pride, had always proven itself to be worth every shilling. The sprawling gardens and airy halls promised constant joy; the rustic furnishings comfort. After multiple attempts to purchase a variety of estates throughout England, Bingley had found himself guided by his trusted friend to choose the one closest to Pemberley.

  He had never regretted the choice.

  “Jane?” He attempted softly at the sound of a nearby branch. His body felt heavy tonight, laden with words and hopes unspoken.

  The silence greeting him drew focus upon the guilt in his heart.

  What gentleman would stalk his own gardens for a glimpse of another man's wife? Was he no better than the men in London's drunken brothels – or Kind David himself in his pride?

  Perturbed, Bingley landed himself upon the nearest bench.

  Despite Jane's many claims that her sister Elizabeth was the true outdoorsman, and not she, he himself had seen only fleeting proof of the fact. Indeed, Elizabeth wandered from Brigham Park every morning – meandering into corners of the estate that he himself had never sought. These gardens, however, she had never touched.

  And Bingley was exceedingly grateful for the fact.

  “Charles,” the soft whisper of his name arrived with the light rustling of a well-made gown.

  He turned instantly, eyes searching in the dark. Lovers, after all, seldom needed candles to illuminate what their hearts already knew.

  “Jane.”

  “Charles.”

  He rushed towards her voice, grateful beyond measure that his memories of these gardens had not been tainted by Elizabeth's presence – thankful that Jane had understood his many references to his garden's blooms tonight.

  “You – you look stunning,” Bingley stated to the darkness as his manly hands found her slender ones.

  “Charles, you cannot –”

  “Please, hush, Jane – my Jane.” His voice quaked; his hands shuddered. The mere suggestion of tonight's dinner party had been his first misstep. Indulgence of the thrill in his heart when he had seen her tonight – adorned so beautifully in lavish blue – had only been the inevitable consequence. He shook as he lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Jane, oh Jane – you shine brighter than the brightest evening star.”

  “Charles.” She swallowed audibly, fingers tightening upon his own. “I cannot, I do not –”

  “Do I offend you, my darling? Do I –”

  “No,” she answered quickly. Her hushed voice could not contain the fervor that radiated so clearly from her shoulders. She stepped closer, closing the yard between them. “I feared you would not come.”

  Her fears, so thoroughly mirroring his own, kindled further understanding. His left hand still entwined with hers, his right drifted to her shoulder.

  “Your fears, your worries,” he spoke gently, every thought heavy upon his tongue. His right hand rested on the curve that descended from her elegant neck. “It pains me to witness.”

  “But your life, Charles.” Jane breathed, voice airy. His eyes slowly deciphered her pretty face etched with worry. “How can Caroline and Elizabeth, they –”

  Her kindness bid her silence, and he loved her all the more for it.

  “Your beauty exceeds your appearance.” Bingley heard his own voice trembling. “Your kindness, your grace –”

  “Can never equal yours,” she responded.

  “No, Jane – you –” Words failed him as threatening tears assau
lted his eyes. With darkness as cover, Bingley breathed and heaved his deepest sigh yet. “You are the best of all women. I cannot – I dare not – consider myself worthy of you.”

  His heartbreak thrummed palpably between their chests. The mere two inches separating their persons refused him serenity.

  “Charles,” she claimed his name as if offering a caress. His fingers twitched to touch her face.

  “If Brigham Park could have selfishly kept its first mistress – I live forever a happy man.”

  “Charles, please, do not –”

  “I live in a home of turmoil, Jane. I cannot promise any happiness when I –”

  “But you must try,” her voice, suddenly forceful, ceased his spiral of self-pity. The tight fingers grasping his hand tugged at his soul. “Charles, please, promise me. Let not any sadness in my own life spur you away from your happiness.”

  He keenly doubted the existence of any happiness apart from her. He unfortunately also doubted the propriety of expressing such thoughts at all.

  “If I had but the choice to regard you not as a sister,” he said instead, voice low.

  Her glistening eyes suddenly hovered unmistakably closer. His chest tightened almost painfully.

  He swallowed loudly as he drew closer, his lips a mere inch from hers. “My happiness is found only in yours.”

  “Then choose to be happy,” came her clear yet muddled answer – before he pressed his lips upon hers.

  • • •

  “Elizabeth!”

  He dashed forward instantly at her emergence – gathering her into his arms without a spare thought. He found gratification when her arms wound willingly around his shoulders, though he feared he would not have let go even if she had not done so. A horrid guest he was – but he could not bring himself to regret escaping Bingley's company the very moment he could.

  “Fitzwilliam.” His broad shoulders nearly swallowed her voice – and he unwillingly forced himself to step back slightly.

  Her withering frame felt fragile in his arms.

  “I came – I'm sorry,” she muttered, eyes wild. The pain that weighed so plainly upon her chest trailed through her shoulders, up his arms, and to his heart. His mind burned in anger over every insult he could recall from dinner.

  “Miss Bingley has no right,” Darcy growled – angry at nearly every person in the house save Elizabeth. “To mistreat her sister so, she is an utter –”

  “No, please,” Elizabeth's eyes and voice pleaded. He looked down, surprised at the restraint. “To seek contentment where I find none – is a troublesome matter. The power of your empathy can serve only to willow my already-wavering intent.”

  “Elizabeth –”

  “Fitzwilliam.” She drew closer, her nose a mere inch from his chin. “Your assistance – was valuable.”

  “Your strength – for yourself, for Georgiana –” He longed to add 'for me.' “I cannot fathom the difficulty of the life you endure.”

  “It is not horrific.” Her lips shook. He longed to close his eyes to her pain – yet found himself unable to ignore it. “Mr. Bingley – tolerates me.”

  “But you are not a woman to be merely tolerated!” Darcy stepped back, suddenly fuming. The grief in his heart nearly erupted at the touch of the anger in his veins. “You are – Elizabeth, it suffers me to surrender you to a man who knows not a smidgeon of your true worth.”

  Two tears escaped her eyes. Darcy knew his own eyes brimmed as well.

  “Dearest, darling Elizabeth.” He returned to his former stance before her. His limbs burned with fire of an entirely different kind. “Your vivacity and life, your passion and wit – how can a man not treasure you?”

  Her shoulders quivered, her eyes enlarged. The heat of her body radiated clearly between them.

  “Elizabeth,” he spoke her name softly as his hands reached for her neck.

  She kissed him instantly, fiercely – hands fisting upon his lapels. His lips crashed against hers with hunger and fire and pain. The dull volumes of Bingley's library nearly spun alive in anthropomorphic rapture as the trails of their passion ignited every surrounding item. His hand on her back pressed her tightly against his chest, her hip quickly settling right between his thighs. The touch of her body – intimate and warm – fueled the sensation already brewing between his ribs.

  Her actions did not protest – but instead encouraged – as her curves fell soundly against his body, her hands wandering before his dared to even move. They shifted quickly across the room, nearly knocking down vases and sculptures in their wake. The back of his knees nudged precariously upon the edge of the chaise, a mere breath from pulling her down upon it.

  Her hands grazed heatedly above, below, and around his body – grasping at textures beneath his tailcoat. His lips wandered from lips to cheek to jaw to neck to collar to lips. So intense was their exchange that it took Darcy's hands upon her bosom – her breasts gathered under his warm palms – that her resulting gasp of pleasure awakened both parties to awareness of their ill-timed passion.

  Shaking hands returned to the relative chastity of shoulders and waist, neither willing to part entirely. She panted against his chest – he against her hair.

  “Jane –” she whispered helplessly against his cravat, every pant heaving her bosom against his body. Guilty yet ecstatic, he treasured every touch.

  “Charles,” he said with a sigh – far less sympathetically than Elizabeth sounded.

  Any man who had license to touch his Elizabeth thus – to feel no guilt in such intimate caresses – may as well go to hell.

  “I apologize not for taking liberties that ought only to belong to your husband,” Darcy muttered, blinded by anger and envy.

  He did not expect the laughter that mingled with her laden breathing. “He is no husband to me.”

  His mind took two moments to understand.

  “You did not – you have not – “ He pulled back to meet her eye. He searched, hoped, wondered. “You are – a bride.”

  She nodded her head in minuscule motion.

  His joy and elation and shame and confusion rose with every breath.

  “Elizabeth –”

  “Fitzwilliam, but you –”

  “No!” He pulled her in tightly against his chest, cursing the fact that he would need to let go before the morning came. “Jane is no wife of mine. You – you are the only bride I shall ever come to love.”

  • • •

  The full moon caused the treetops to glisten as their carriage rumbled back towards imposing Pemberley. The light that had illumined her heart from the very first moment Charles had met her eyes tonight radiated still, unquenchable.

  She nearly didn't care that her groom sat across from her this very moment.

  “Did you enjoy the evening, sir?” She asked politely when the horses inevitably slowed at the harsher part of the road.

  Darcy – often so dark and severe – appeared almost distracted tonight. His eyes looked unseeingly at the floor of the carriage; his hands lay unmoving by his sides.

  If he was in no mood for conversation – then it was all the better.

  Jane sighed, fighting her smile, as she redirected her gaze beyond the curtains. The five precious stolen kisses in the garden tonight proved fleeting yet revelatory. The light touch of Charles' fingers on her waist, his lips over her own, brightened her world as no other touch had ever done. His smile as they parted moved her heart until it nearly lifted off from her person and fluttered in the space between them.

  How was she to acknowledge another man as her husband when her own heart longed for another?

  Georgiana, thank goodness, dozed gently by her brother’s side. There would be no witnesses to the carriage’s awkward silence, at least.

  “I'm sorry.” Darcy's muttering followed a near-kick he sent her way when the wheels hit uneven ground. The carriage resumed its fluid movement soon enough.

  “It is no bother, sir,” she answered kindly – and waited for him to ret
urn to his stoic staring.

  She had no such luck.

  “I hope you enjoyed the evening, madam,” he deflected her own prior inquiry to her.

  “Yes.” She dared not say more.

  What kind of lady would she be, after all, if she were to divulge the true source of her joy tonight?

  “Brigham Park retains its charms well through the seasons.” The civility in his voice hinted at boredom – serenity.

  How did the man remain so calm after an evening so powerful?

  Guilt tugged at Jane's heart at the knowledge that she was most probably the only party in the carriage who rejoiced tonight. She had no reason to expect, after all, that Mr. Darcy had delighted in playing the neglected guest while his host had dallied in the garden with her.

  The deliberation she invested into refusing to blush caused her limbs to grow faint and weary.

  What sort of lady was she – pray, what sort of guest – what sort of sister?

  One thought of Elizabeth caused the weight of her actions tonight to flood her heart entirely. Jane nearly wept at the sensation.

  She was thankful, frankly, that her groom chose not to speak again the rest of the way – for she would have no words to offer apart from broken confessions.

  Elizabeth had Charles – the kindest, sweetest, happiest man in the world as her groom. Was she to throw herself in the way of her happiness? It was true that Charles had made no secret of his turmoil, of his grief when torn between sister and wife – but what would she be if she were to excuse her own recklessness as she pursued contentment, even at the cost of destroying her sister's?

  Wife – the word carelessly thought re-emerged into her consciousness. The knife that had crept wordlessly into her heart twisted ferociously.

  In the darkness of the night and the suddenly stifling carriage, Jane Bennet lifted her cross at the foot of the family altar.

  She herself may never become the happy wife of an upright man – but she may still yet allow dear Elizabeth to be.

  Chapter 9