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“Hello, is it a bad time?” Mr. Darcy poked his head around the edge of the door. The room was dimly lit, as usual, making it hard for him to see if Elizabeth was inside. He wondered why Elizabeth always preferred the room so dark. He’d have to remind her that the dim light was bad for her eyes.
As Darcy’s vision adjusted to the darkness, his gaze shot to Elizabeth crying in the corner of the room. “Elizabeth,” he gasped. “What is wrong?”
She sobbed while wiping trails of green booger goo into a wadded up handkerchief. “I’ve just received awful news.”
Darcy’s heart hammered in his chest. He knew he should have double-locked the door when he was masturbating in the privy this afternoon, but his balls had been so swollen they’d felt as if they might explode. Since he wasn’t a sordid scoundrel like Wickham and hadn’t any wenches waiting for him in his bedchamber, he’d had to take matters into his own hands.
Had Elizabeth heard that he’d accidentally sprayed the paint off the walls? His damn gossipy servants! He’d have to fire them all as soon as he figured out where they were all hiding.
“W-what awful news?” he asked, though he was afraid to hear the answer.
Elizabeth’s bottom lip turned down, causing her spiky incisors to protrude ever so slightly. Wow. She had really sharp teeth. Darcy hoped it wasn’t a genetic thing; otherwise, their kids would need expensive dental work.
“My sister Lydia has just run off with Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth cried out before burying her face in her hands. And of course, since she still held the wadded tissue, she inadvertently rubbed booger goo all over her face.
“That scoundrel!” Darcy thrust a fist into the air, pretending to be really pissed off, but in reality, he was just relieved Elizabeth hadn’t found out about his moment of weakness.
“I know,” Elizabeth sniffled, before opening up her handkerchief. “Let me read you what it says.”
That’s when Darcy noticed the handkerchief was actually a letter. The letter made a crunching popping sound when she peeled it apart. Elizabeth shrugged and giggled while turning ten shades of red. “I think I need a new tissue,” she said.
Luckily, Darcy always kept several handkerchiefs on hand for simpering, overly-dramatic females.
“She has no money, no connections,” Elizabeth moaned as she blew her nose into Darcy’s handkerchief. “He cannot mean to marry her.”
Mr. Darcy thrust a fist into the air again, switching arms lest he pull something. “I will find him and make sure he does.”
“No, don’t do that!” Elizabeth screeched and threw the boogery kerchief at him.
Darcy dodged the rag and watched in horror as it stuck to the wall behind him. “Why not?” he asked.
Elizabeth made the oddest hissing sound like a predatory animal. Finally she slumped her shoulders and groaned into her palms. “Never mind.”
Darcy bent down on one knee and grabbed her delicate hand within his own. Surprisingly, her porcelain fingers were ice cold, despite the raging fire in the nearby hearth.
“Tell me, Elizabeth,” he implored while gazing into her watery eyes. Odd how he’d never noticed her irises were tinted an alarming shade of red. Must have been from all that crying. Or maybe her hormones were out of whack and her eyes always turned a demonic bloodshot color during a certain time of the month.
Elizabeth narrowed her gaze while putting her hands in her lap. “Because he can lick his eyebrows, you ignorant ass. Why couldn’t he have run off with me instead?”
Darcy quickly stood. “I’m afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He shook his head and threw his hands in the air. “Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress!”
Elizabeth snarled. “If you want to do something, you can try speaking fucking English.”
Mr. Darcy folded his hands behind his back and paced about the room. This news about Wickham was beginning to sour his stomach. Either that or it was the three-day-old leftover pheasant he had to eat for lunch. Where had all his cooks run off to, anyway?
“I will not torment you with vain wishes,” he said, “which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.”
Elizabeth scratched her head. “Huh?”
Mr. Darcy leveled her with a grim expression. “This unfortunate affair will, I fear prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.”
Elizabeth blew out a huff of air, acting the part of the flustered female. “Just tell her that urgent business calls us home immediately.”
Mr. Darcy nodded and exited the room, not just because he wasn’t certain if he wished to associate himself with the taint of the Bennet family, but because he was fairly certain that rancid pheasant was about to make its exit, post haste.