Switched Page 7

  “Sir!” She reached out, almost touching him, before folding her hands to her waist. She licked her lips, feeling quite embarrassed over both their respective responses. She looked to his left, and then his right, before refocusing upon the man himself. “Fitzwilliam, the lake is yours. I believe I would be counted rather barbaric for stealing it from you.”

  “Not if the treaty is one of peace.”

  “Have we signed a treaty, sir? I'd like to believe I would recall such an event if it had come to pass.”

  “The King himself bore witness, I believe.” Darcy's voice sounded lighter by the minute. “His footmen ensured we used the golden quills.”

  “And ink of pure ruby waters.” Elizabeth smiled, happy.

  Fitzwilliam smiled back at her, dimples deep. Her heart fluttered of its own accord.

  “I am happy to see you here today,” he said simply. So often exposed to Caroline's barbed comments and Mr. Bingley's noncommittal mumbles of late, Elizabeth's spirit almost soared at her current companion's frankness.

  “I hope I do not intrude,” she replied softly.

  “No – never.” Darcy inhaled, standing taller. “Your presence has always only been welcome.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  The world fell silent around them, save the birds' gentle songs. She wondered, for one quick moment, if anyone would be the wiser if she chose to merely stay here forever.

  Brigham Park, at least, would not mourn her – nor she it.

  “Would you care to sit?” His offer interrupted her thoughts – and she quickly acquiesced.

  Cheered by the clear waters, bright sun, and fragrant flowers, Elizabeth smiled. Their current poses, seated on the lake's bank a mere two feet from each other, felt almost scandalous. His sleeve brushed hers whenever he shifted. Her shoulder felt his breath skimming gently over its skin.

  Heartbeat rising, Elizabeth sighed.

  “Do you fare well with – Bingley?” His question, so natural on the tongue of any other villager, sounded foreign and intrusive from him. The pain his six words sent through Elizabeth's heart tore at her flesh.

  “No,” she found herself answering. She sighed again, eyes closed. “He is – bearable, truly. It is merely the – unceasing need to create the appearance of harmony.”

  “Without understanding the very essence of harmony itself,” he finished for her.

  Elizabeth nodded, pained. Why must the man who truly understood her be the man so cruelly taken away?

  She let the silence reign for another while more before she asked, “And how fare you – with Jane?”

  She turned slightly to face him, both eager and afraid to learn his thoughts. His tight-lipped countenance displayed pain of his own.

  “She is – quiet,” Darcy mumbled at last, eyes trained upon the ground. “We seldom – speak.”

  “A wordless marriage?” Elizabeth tried to sound humorous, though her humor fell flat.

  “I suppose.” Darcy smiled sourly.

  Elizabeth wondered, for the first time since their horrific switching of places, if the Darcys’ marriage were as unhappy as hers. But had Jane not assured her repeatedly of her happiness, of her contentment in Fitzwilliam's kindness? Perhaps it was merely her shyness that Darcy described.

  Longing for such contentment and acceptance for herself led a stray tear down Elizabeth's face.

  “Elizabeth.” Darcy noticed instantly, turning to press a thumb to her cheek. She faced him, her tearful eyes to his worried ones, and felt the shivers his touch sent down her jaw, neck, and body.

  Would there ever be a time when a woman would be permitted to love her sister's groom?

  “I – I – I am sorry,” Darcy blurted after much difficulty. His shallow breathing surprised her. His hand sprawled to cover her face, fingertips brushing against her ear. She almost could not hear him over the thudding of her own heart. “We should not – Bingley and I –”

  She blinked, confused. What was he attempting to say?

  At least, after much visible struggle, Darcy pulled back and tossed his head towards the sky. Eyes closed, his whole person shook. Elizabeth waited, wondered. When his shuddering would not stop, she reached her hand towards him – and stilled him by the arm.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she called; and he stopped.

  Moments later, when she almost feared for his consciousness, he restored himself to an upright seat – and pulled her into his arms.

  Shocked at the initial feeling of his arms around her, Elizabeth stiffened, eyes wide. He mumbled against her shoulder, breath hot on her neck. She forced herself to make clear what he was saying.

  “We should not have – not have arranged it amongst ourselves. Should not – should not have.” She untangled his words slowly. Tears sprung anew to her eyes.

  Did he regret their arrangement?

  “Darcy,” she called gently before removing herself to arms' length. His hands stayed firmly on her elbows. Her left hand stayed upon his – while her right flew to his face. “Fitzwilliam – did you – you were the ones who chose?”

  Despite Aunt Gardiner's excuses, she had always thought it had been an honest mistake – perhaps a matter of paperwork or signatures. Most pairings were done with little preparation, and it was only Aunt Gardiner's assurances that had made her to hope that this pairing could have –

  Elizabeth breathed in sharply.

  Were their mistaken arrangement and subsequent restoration – intended?

  Did the grooms realize Aunt Gardiner's mistake and insist that their original requests be fulfilled?

  Elizabeth's hands tightened upon Darcy's limb and shoulder. Her voice tumbled out in fierce, hollow tones. “Did you – did you choose – to be restored to your initial requests?”

  “No!” Darcy cried quickly, pulling her closer. “I – yes, it was foolish. Bingley had insisted upon the arrangement, saying whatnot about who ought to marry the elder sister. I was an utter fool to agree. How could I – how could I have chosen when I did not know? When I had not met you and your kindness, vivacity, intelligence, and charm? When my heart had not been touched and altered forever?”

  The tears in her eyes now threatened to overflow. The air felt as thin as if she were atop a looming mountain.

  “Please, Elizabeth – forgive me. Forgive the foolishness that has caused us both pain.” His eyes seared into hers, pleading and longing.

  She paused, a million emotions swirling through her body – and then, gently, nodded. He hugged her immediately, pressing her body close to his. Her hands wound tightly around him of their own accord. She buried her face in his shoulder, trying in vain to will the tears away. His face felt warm against her neck.

  Mere months ago, life in Hertfordshire had been simple and carefree – filled with little worry outside of her nagging mother. Now, today, despite her adventures to new lands and places – life was miserable, a sifting bog that threatened to swallow her whole.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured against her ear.

  She wordlessly drew him closer. Her sniffles, perhaps, told him the rest.

  Clinging so desperately to him, Elizabeth found comfort in the fact that he was gripping her as tightly as she was holding him.

  How else would she explain her actions? What upstanding woman would –

  Her mind emptied when a pang of excitement touched her cheek and flew like lightning to her every extremity. Her every nerve roused, every limb jolted wide awake. The sensation of his lips upon her cheek moved her own mouth towards one, and only one, direction.

  Without a second thought, she brought her hands up to cup his face – and turned his lips directly upon hers.

  The kiss was everything she had ever known, everything she had ever wanted, and everything she had ever thought impossible rolled into one, significant, heartbreaking moment. He kissed her back instantly, his hands on her waist drawing her close. Her lips opened for his, passionate yet tender. Every shift in their movement drew them ever closer in their
lip-locked embrace.

  Then, when his tongue found her lips, dancing by its inner edge, her whole body woke to their true condition.

  They flew apart instantly, eyes and mouths wide open. They did not speak when they both stood up, hands vaguely patting their clothes to remove any dirt. They did not speak when they both swallowed, neither having caught his breath. They did not speak when they backed away – with long, lingering glances – and each fled towards their own home.

  • • •

  In his rare introspective moments, Bingley allowed himself to admit that he did miss Darcy's company. Brandy was better sipped together, and armchairs less lonely when a friend sat in a similar one nearby. Their weekly meetings had been suspended the first fortnight of marriage by mutual agreement. There had been, after all, such insufficient time to observe their brides as it was. Bingley believed that choice had indeed been sound.

  The boundless abyss of silence between them now, however, had not been intended in the least.

  Frowning to himself, Bingley sipped his glass before sliding it back upon his desk. Drinking midday was hardly a commendable act for anyone – much less for a young man tasked with governing his own sprawling estate. He had a long and tiring list of tenants to tend to, decisions to make.

  Lonely, angry, and helpless – Bingley cared little for propriety and duty at the moment.

  The rest of the glass burned down his throat, and he almost launched the empty vessel across the room.

  Bingley scoffed loudly when the glass rolled with a groan on to the wood from his limp and open hand. His brows leaned furiously together.

  What had happened to his blissful life with Jane? Darcy had sworn than no man could fall permanently in love with a lady, even if she were his bride, in the short span of one fortnight. He had forced promises – foolish promises, Bingley now thought – from both of them, making that enchanting period before the first meeting all the more sweet and torturous.

  Jane – in all her heavenly loveliness – had proved Darcy wrong. Her tenderness and grace had formed unbreakable bonds around Bingley's heart, shielding him from the charm of any other woman for the rest of his life. He would never love anyone as he loved Jane.

  Why did the arrangement need to be restored? Did Mrs. Gardiner not realize their request had been youthfully, foolishly made – that their newfound happiness with their brides surpassed any desire to meet previous hastily made demands?

  Bingley sniffed in a manner most unmanly, satisfied that there was no one present to hear.

  When Jane had first arrived at Brigham Park, her fragile, demure demeanor had already captured his heart. Nay, when she had entered his carriage, he had already been irrevocably enchanted.

  Bingley closed his eyes, shaking. Perish the thought that Darcy found her equally enthralling!

  His heart would not stand the knowledge that his dear, angelic Jane had been tarnished by Darcy's –

  A sudden, frantic knock at his study door called him from his turmoil. Bingley stared blankly towards the entrance, mind confused.

  Who would visit him now?

  Another series of frantic knocks reminded him that this unknown visitor was still standing there.

  Puzzled, Bingley called for him to enter – and found himself shocked still at the sight of an agitated woman when the door swung open at last.

  “Elizabeth?” Bingley wondered loudly, eyes blurred from the liquid in his veins.

  “Sir!” She marched over stiffly. A closer view indicated that this was indeed his new, louder, less-graceful bride. She moved her hands constantly – at her waist, then on her skirts, then pressed together. The dizzying effect made Bingley extremely nauseated. “Mr. Bingley, I –”

  She did not seem to know what she wanted to say, though words were clearly upon her mind.

  “Yes?” Bingley frowned.

  “Mr. Bingley, I – I need – I must – “ She fumbled over her words, unusually ineloquent.

  Bingley could not be bothered less. His hand flew dismissively towards her. “Is it Caroline again?”

  She moved as if to speak, or to leave – he could not tell.

  Bingley sighed loudly, bereft of patience for once. “Please, if you have any problems, do talk to her directly. I am unable to –”

  “Charles!” she suddenly cried. He watched her, dazed and careless. Her face seemed almost to jump off her body.

  “Miss Elizabeth, I fail to see –”

  His words were torn from his body by the sudden feeling of her arms around his body. He stiffened instantly, as stiff as her torso felt above his. Despite her instigation of the embrace, it did not feel as if she wished to have done so.

  “M – Miss El – izabeth?”

  “I'm sorry,” she mumbled – before pulling back, sniffing, and marching out the room.

  Bingley watched after her, dumbfounded.

  Why could not all women be as quiet, kind, and comprehensible as Jane?

  • • •

  Darcy's breath refused to return to its regular rhythm, despite the past ten minutes he had panted, forehead against the wall. The outdoor chill did little to ease the stifling furnace that his study proved currently to be. His knuckles burned from their repeated encounters with the table. His lungs stung from anger and despair.

  No sensation he had previously ever experienced had come even close to the thrill of holding Elizabeth in his arms, her lips pressed to his. Propriety, duty, and honor – unassailable rudders in his life thus far – suddenly struck him as vexatious and unnecessary. What good would a blameless life do if it could not earn him the woman he loved?

  Defeated and confused, Darcy stumbled back towards his desk. The answers, as they were earlier, did not prove visible among the possessions scattered across the oaken surface. The state of his desk, it seemed, mirrored the state of his mind rather too well.

  Eyes closed, Darcy dropped himself upon his chair with a sigh. Despite the guilt he invariably felt – he could not compel himself to feel remorse. During that first fateful fortnight they had shared, he had lawfully possessed every right to touch her, body and soul. And yet, in what now sounded to be absurd and selfish reasons, he had chosen to refrain.

  Did the forbidden nature of forbidden fruit paint it to be far sweeter than it was – or was the charged intensity he felt throughout his body upon her kiss a natural response to having finally found his heart's destined one?

  The sigh that escaped his lips came in jagged bursts. The system, age old in its wisdom, had done its fair share. What practice more impartial than the provision of allowing each person to decide his own destiny before even meeting his bride?

  It was sorely unfortunate that there existed no manual on switched marriages – no advice for lonely hearts trapped in undue exchange.

  Darcy, feeling more tired and worn than he had ever felt, buried his face in his hands. He regretted with all his heart that he had to be trapped with such misfortunes, that mistakes so rarely made had to happen upon his person.

  He could not, however, regret kissing Elizabeth – even if that were the only kiss he would carry to his grave.

  Chapter 7

  His drawn-out sigh, a harsh addition to the bustling town, perfectly reflected the turmoil and loneliness in his heart.

  Elizabeth's sudden visit to his study yesterday had resulted in a long and sleepless night for Bingley, and the ceaseless hours of shuffling had eased his guilty conscience little. He had left for town at the crack of dawn, intentionally ignoring any shadows in the halls that could have belonged to his confounding bride. He did not know what he sought or where answers to his unspoken questions could be found.

  He merely knew that they did not exist at Brigham Park.

  If Caroline and Elizabeth chose to quarrel again that morning, he would at least be spared the firsthand account.

  “Mr. Bingley?”

  He looked up at the voice – the only voice that caused his heart to rise today. The vision that was Jane's slender
form, on which her soft pink dress hung, nourished his soul despite its pale colors. He looked around slightly, only realizing belatedly that his hurried steps had led him to the Gardiners' shop without thought.

  “You look – perturbed,” she observed kindly when his eyes returned to her face.

  Bingley wondered to himself if his distress was as clear upon his brow as her paleness appeared. He smiled gently when reaching for her hand.

  “And you look unrested,” he whispered before bestowing a soft kiss on her knuckles.

  She blushed as he released her, and Bingley cursed the town for having people at all. Her sallow cheeks and tired eyes could not lower her in his affection, though they surely heightened her in his concern.

  “I find it difficult to imagine rest so elusive in Pemberley's grand chambers,” Bingley phrased his words as he would a question. His feet longed to draw closer to her.

  A sliver of panic seemed to flit through Jane's eyes before her timid answer. “The halls are – large. They echo.”

  The hint at her loneliness did not escape Bingley, and he quickly proffered his arm. “Perhaps I may interest you in a walk today, madam? Lambton could hardly be mistaken as quiet.”

  She eyed his arm, then his face, for one wordless moment – and then took the former with a smile.

  “Thank you – Charles.”

  Bingley tried not to smile – truly did – but his name upon her lips warmed him as nothing else did. He bowed slightly before leading them on their way. While her uncle's shop may take its residence upon the busiest street in town, he knew easily which paths and turns to take that they may wander in emptier streets with only her handmaid to chaperone.

  The walked quietly for nearly half an hour. He hoped, at least, that she cherished his company as dearly as he cherished hers.

  “How fares Mr. Darcy?” Bingley was first to speak when their stroll neared the edge of town. Unwilling to end their encounter so soon, Bingley turned the bend with anxious trepidation – and found himself rewarded with Jane's smile.