Excentryke's Musings

Title: Hangover
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandoms: Pride & Prejudice / Twilight Saga
Pairing(s): Bella/Darcy, (past one sided) Elizabeth/Darcy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4.5k
Warnings: time travel, excessive drunkenness, loose morals (Fitzwilliam), rumors, gossip
Summary: Fitzwilliam convinces Darcy to fall into his cups after Elizabeth refuses his offer of marriage in Kent.  Unfortunately, Darcy wakes up somewhere he does not expect…

Hangover

A bustling over to his left began to rouse Darcy.  He felt a dull throb in his head and there was a—woolly—feeling on his tongue.  He had been out with Fitzwilliam the night before—who assured him the best way to forget Elizabeth Bennet was to fall into his cups.  He had unfortunately listened.

That, however, did not explain why he still appeared to be wearing hose or why his bed felt rather lumpy.

The bustling continued and he wondered why Blackbourne was so loud. 

Then there was the pulling of the drapes and light poured over Darcy.  He flinched and raised his hand to cover his eyes and realized, from the feel of his clothes, that he still appeared to be wearing a waistcoat.  In his sleep.

He must have groaned, alerting the intruder to his presence.

A scream met his ears. 

Instantly awake, he sat up on the couch and looked blearily toward the window where a maid—a maid he did not recognize from Darcy House—was standing with the curtains in her hands.

Blinking twice, he lifted his tongue to the top of his mouth to find moisture and found his lips were incredibly dry.

“Sir—” the maid gasped, and Darcy realized he needed to reconsider his position.

This certainly was neither Darcy House nor the barracks.  It appeared to be a closed living room with a certain feminine touch—that was utterly foreign to him.

A door opened from behind him.  He tried to look over his shoulder, but nearly fell off the couch in his attempts.  He groaned again and wished the maid would close the drapes.

“Carrie,” a calm voice ordered from the door, “please fetch Mr. Darcy a strong cup of coffee.  Black, I think.”

The maid turned her attention to the door.  “Should I crack an egg into it?”

“No,” the voice told her, coming around to stand at the end of the couch.  “Perhaps an egg in a glass mixed with the cooking wine.  Not that much.  That will be all, Carrie.”

The maid—Carrie—glanced at Darcy, curtseyed, and rushed out the door, unfortunately leaving the curtains open.

Another rustling met his ears and a young lady walked past him and went to shut the drapes.  A thin figure in black turned toward him and regarded him carefully.

Darcy had never seen the woman before in his life.

She was grimacing at him.  “I don’t have a carriage,” she apologized now, her violet eyes flashing.  “I don’t know how to get you out of here without anyone seeing.”  Grimacing again, she walked over to a seat opposite the sofa where Darcy was half-lying.  “How do you feel this morning?”

He tried to wet his tongue again, but it felt enlarged and dry.  “Forgive me, Madam,” he replied huskily, clearly still half-asleep, “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

Looking at him for a long moment, she then relaxed into the back of the chair.  “Perhaps you blacked out last night, Mr. Darcy.”

He did not know how he arrived at her house.  However, he doubted the slip of a girl could have kidnapped him.  She probably did not have a man, if she did not even keep a carriage.

“May I inquire—”  His voice sounded raspier than he would have liked.

“Swan,” she told him succinctly, that strange gaze lighting on him.  “My name is ‘Swan.’”  She paused.  “Colonel Fitzwilliam brought you to a gambling hall last night and you, for reasons I have yet to determine, followed me home and banged on the door until I let you in.”  Her violet eyes flashed in the gloom, nearly blue for a moment. 

For a moment he was struck dumb.

He entered a gambling hall?  That was quite out of his character.  “Fitzwilliam,” he checked, pushing himself up off of the couch into a sitting position.  His cravat appeared to be loosened if not completely missing.  He wondered where his coat was.  He certainly wasn’t wearing it currently.  “Left me alone—” he paused “—not myself—” he thought “—and I followed you here?”

“All the way to Bloomsbury,” she told him dryly, clearly not pleased with the turn of events.  “I honestly don’t know how you remained standing for most of the way.”

Darcy was going to kill Fitzwilliam when he found him—as soon as he got home, had a proper shave, and a full breakfast.  Groaning at the pain in his head, he reconsidered.  Perhaps he should go back to Darcy House and sleep this off.

“Miss—” he tried again.

“—Swan—” she supplied impatiently.  Of course, she had already informed him her name was ‘Swan.’  The Swan Family were heralded in Wrexham.  This was far from the Welsh borders.  Darcy passingly wondered what a young lady of family was doing in such a cramped sitting room.

“Miss Swan,” he tried again after clearing his throat.  “I can only—”

“Don’t apologize,” she interrupted, not even bothering to look at him.  He felt bereft at the loss of her gaze.  “We’ve all had our hearts broken and our—reactions,” she said carefully, “are often unexpected.”

Darcy scowled despite himself.  She knew about Elizabeth Bennet then.  The entire gambling hall perhaps knew.  He could not remember the place, so he did not know if its clientele were at all respectable.  His secrets could be all over London by lunchtime and might even be reported by Lady Whistledown.  Then his own aunt and sister would know within days.

Groaning again, he felt nausea overtake him. 

He gagged, and Miss Swan quickly rose from her seat and, grabbing a potted plant, placed it in front of his retching frame.  He made short work of the contents of his stomach, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he tried to regain his place on the couch.

“You are in quite a bad way,” she stated, not exactly speaking to him. 

There was a knock on the door and the maid, Carrie, whispered in and placed two cups of coffee on the small center table.  She then quickly left.  He wondered where his egg and cooking wine had gone.

He must have grunted because Miss Swan informed him, “Carrie will be back in a moment.  She just knows how much I appreciate my morning coffee.”

He nodded and tried to sit again.

She did not move to help him, remaining in her chair.  The potted plant had been placed at the end of the sofa where he could reach it if he needed it again.  The plant would certainly die from his treatment of it.

Finally raising himself, he reached for the coffee and, after a pause, drank it in one gulp.

Carrie came back in with a glass with a purple mixture in it.

“Another coffee for Mr. Darcy,” Miss Swan ordered.

Darcy made quick work of the hangover cure.  It tasted disgusting, but he tried not to make a face.  Carrie came in with the coffee pot and poured him a cup. He nodded in thanks and downed it instantly, shaking off the acidic taste.

A small smile quirked Miss Swan’s lips.  She was clearly amused by him despite the unfortunate circumstances.

“If I write a note—” Darcy suggested carefully.

“Carrie could carry it for you and summon your carriage,” Miss Swan agreed.  “Excellent plan.  Perhaps I can get some toast in you in the meantime.”  She indicated a desk in the corner that Darcy hadn’t noticed in the gloom.  The curtains were still drawn.

She stood from her place and left the room quietly, shutting the door behind her.  At least she was giving him some semblance of privacy. 

Darcy spit once or twice into the potted plant to get the horrible taste of sick from his mouth that not even the hangover cure could cover, and slowly made his way to the desk.  There was a neat pile of parchment there with a battered quill and ink in plain view.

He wrote the note, the nib was nearly breaking, and was unable to salt it.  It appeared that Miss Swan could not afford salt.

She reentered the room with a plate of toast in her hands.  “There you go, Mr. Darcy,” she told him kindly, as she took up the folded note.  It was unsealed because Miss Swan didn’t appear to have wax.  There certainly wasn’t a flame to melt it.  “I’ll send Carrie to—” she checked.

“Darcy House, Hanover Square.”

“It might take her over an hour to walk by foot,” she apologized, turning to leave with the note.

Darcy reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a shilling.  It appeared that his coins were still where he had left them.  Miss Swan had not robbed him.  “Send her in a cab,” he instructed.  “That should see her there and back.”

Miss Swan carefully took the coins, counting them in her hand, and then whispered out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Looking down at the toast, Darcy realized it was unappetizing.  He sighed and lowered himself back onto the couch.  He absently wondered where his shoes had gone.  He was in such a state he probably wouldn’t have been able to remove them himself.  Miss Swan must have done it for him.

A grudging fondness for the girl filled his pounding head. 

She was taking having a strange man asleep in her living room with surprising aplomb.  She could have splashed water on his face and demanded he leave.  She probably should have.

He must have fallen into a half-sleep, because the next moment the door was opening again and Blackbourne was entering, his gait betraying how worried he was.

Miss Swan was surprisingly absent as Blackbourne found his coat and shoes, helping him dress, and slipping him out into the carriage with a cloak covering his form from the curious neighbors.

“Do you know this address?” Darcy inquired as the carriage began to move, the rocking back and forth making his stomach heave.

“Yes, sir,” Blackbourne agreed.  “I have made a note of it.”

Darcy would have to make recompense for his abominable behavior.  Knowing where Miss Swan lived was certainly a necessary first step.

Fitzwilliam waltzed into Darcy House just before dinner time, going straight to the sideboard.

“Where have you been?” Darcy asked sternly, barely acknowledging his cousin otherwise.

“I have been with a fine woman who charges hourly for her company,” Fitzwilliam responded casually.  “Did you wake up in Harley Street?”

“What is ‘Harley Street’?” Darcy inquired, knowing full well it was a street that housed the offices of the most respected physicians in London.

“Why,” Fitzwilliam answered, “the gaming hall where I left you when I had better places to be.  You were repeating how fine Miss Bennet’s eyes were and I quite tired of you.”  He paused.  “Then you started mentioning how fine other eyes were.”

Darcy was not amused.  “Who, then, is Miss Swan?”

Fitzwilliam’s brown eyes lighted up.  “Remember Isabella, do you?” he inquired, coming and taking a seat.  He was ignoring the bad mood Darcy was in, taking it all in stride.  “Half of Harley Street wishes to make her their mistress.  Lord Septimus wrote a sonnet to her violet eyes just last week!”  He chuckled to himself.  “Poor Septi.  Isabella completely ignored his attempts at gallantry.”

Taking a deep breath, Darcy looked his cousin in the eye.  “I appear to have followed Miss Swan home all the way on the other end of London and woke up in her sitting room.” 

Fitzwilliam paused.  “You know where she lives?” he asked hopefully.

With an attitude like that, Darcy certainly wasn’t going to illuminate him.  “Fitzwilliam, you are ignoring what I am trying to tell you.”

“And what are you trying to tell me?” Fitzwilliam smirked.  “Did you slip into her bed when you woke up?”

“I damn well did not!” Darcy seethed.  “You do both me and Miss Swan an injustice.”

Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy and then shrugged.  “If you say so.”  He finished off his glass of port.  “I would have slipped into her bed.”

And didn’t Darcy know it.  Fitzwilliam had no scruples when it came to women.  He was a second son and was insistent on enjoying himself before he settled down and married a fortune.  Miss Swan wasn’t just ‘any woman,’ however.  She had proved herself a woman of discretion and honor.  He wondered what she was doing in a gambling hall.  He wondered if the other ‘fine eyes’ he had opined on were hers…

“She plays cards then, I take it,” Darcy asked quietly, wanting to know about the mysterious woman with the violet eyes.

“Isabella?” Fitzwilliam asked, although he damn knew whom Darcy meant.  “Yes, she takes to the tables.”

Gambling was better than becoming a man’s mistress, Darcy thought darkly to himself.  Miss Swan was clearly young and had little to no money, if her accommodations were by anything to judge.  Perhaps Darcy could assist her in affording a more suitable apartment.  That was certainly one way to repay her for her kindness and assumed silence.

“Who else was present?” Darcy asked, his emotions bordering on bleak.

Fitzwilliam took out a cigar from an inner pocket along with a matchbox.  He certainly took his time lighting it and drew in a puff before answering.  “The usual sort.  What of it?”

“I know I mentioned Miss Bennet’s name,” Darcy answered grimly.  “I only wonder how long it will be until Lady Whistledown publishes the information.”

“Lady Whistledown,” Fitzwilliam illuminated unhelpfully, “is not in town.  It is not the Season, after all.”

No, the season started in May.  It was the twenty-eighth of April, however, and most of the families had moved back into their Town Houses for the start of the season in less than a week’s time.  Whistledown very well could have returned.

Darcy had every reason to be worried.

With the first publication of Lady Whistledown came the news that the unconquerable Darcy of Pemberley had given his heart to a lady of unknown rank when he was in Kent visiting his aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourg.  It was unfortunately detailed.  It even mentioned the unknown lady’s “fine eyes” and “pert opinions.”

Darcy groaned into his morning tea.

He was the laughingstock of London.

There was only one way to stem the rumors—and that was to become immediately engaged to another woman.  Julia, Fitzwilliam’s younger sister, would not have him, and he was not at all fond of her flightiness.  Anne De Bourg was too sickly and he had refused to have that match made for him years ago.  There was always Caroline Bingley, but she was not of the first circles.  Bingley had also stupidly almost married Jane Bennet, more fool him.

Darcy’s hypocrisy was not lost on himself. 

He had proposed marriage to Elizabeth Bennet mere months after Hertfordshire.—and been thoroughly rejected.

He cast his mind onto other women he knew in passing, and a pair of violet eyes kept on coming to mind.  She was hardly respectable as a professional gambler, but all Isabella Swan needed was some polish.  Lord Septimus Wimsey was enamored of her, but he hadn’t proposed to Darcy’s knowledge.  None of the men at Harley Street had and Fitzwilliam had let slip that she had been a feature at that particular card game for well over a year. 

No one had breathed a word about her existence in all that time.  She was the best kept secret in London, and she had certainly appeared to have kept Darcy’s secrets.  Whistledown never published where he had spent that night he had followed Miss Swan home.  Miss Swan had kept her council.  She had not even circulated the rumor that he had followed an unspecified lady home—not a word had been breathed on the subject.

The more he thought on the idea, the more it seemed plausible.

He must act and he must act decisively.

Immediately going to the florist, he chose a dozen white roses and paid a premium to have them delivered to Bloomsbury that very afternoon.  White roses symbolized a “clean slate,” along with unity and harmony in a relationship.  He hoped Miss Swan would give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next day he called precisely at quarter to eleven, standing on her steps with a bouquet of pale purple roses—the exact color of Miss Swan’s eyes.

Carrie, the maid, answered the door and startled at the sight of him.

“Is Miss Swan accepting callers?” he inquired as he was shown in, Carrie taking his hat and his walking stick.

“Yes’m,” Carrie answered.  “That is—she is in the sitting room.”

“I already know the way,” Darcy informed her and walked down the small corridor to the door that was undoubtedly the sitting room.  Opening it, he saw that Miss Swan was at her desk with a small pile of correspondence.  The nearly broken quill was lying across the desk at an angle, having just been discarded.  “Do I disturb?” he inquired.

Miss Swan jumped and turned, hand on her heart.  At seeing him, her eyes widened.  “—Mr. Darcy.”

“Miss Swan,” he greeted, closing the door behind himself.  Extending the bouquet he told her carefully, “These are for you.”

Darcy had never been a romantic man.  Even in his proposal to Elizabeth, he had been less than admiring of her person after his initial declaration of love.  Nonetheless, he wanted to show Miss Swan that she was valued.  Pretty women enjoyed pretty flowers.  Perhaps he should have gifted Elizabeth with a nosegay on the evening of his proposal.  Certainly the conversation could not have gone any worse—nosegay or no.

“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Swan breathed.  “You quite surprise me.”

“Did you receive yesterday’s bouquet?” he checked.

“Yes,” she agreed, standing and offering him a seat.  “I have them beside my bed.”

“Do you know floriography?”

Shaking her head, she put her face in the roses and inhaled deeply.  “These are quite lovely.”

“I must confess, they reminded me of your eyes.”

At this, she looked over at him in bemusement.  “I am well aware of the attraction of my eyes,” she told him wryly.  “They have been much remarked upon throughout my life.”

“I understand Lord Septimus Wimsey has written sonnets to them.”

Miss Swan hesitated a moment too long.  “—yes,” she finally agreed.  “He does.”

“Has he proposed?” Darcy asked, wanting to get the lay of the land.

“—No.”  She set the flowers aside and went to go stand at the mantle.  She picked up the small pewter figurine of a wolf, playing with it in her hands.  “If you’re looking for a woman to warm your bed now that Elizabeth is—out of the picture—”  She turned the figurine over in her hand and set it down firmly.  She turned to him, her violet eyes flashing brightly. 

He did not answer her directly.  “Have you seen the latest edition of Whistledown?”

Her eyebrows scrunched up.  “Do you think she has a wide readership in Bloomsbury?” she asked in disbelief.  “No,” she told him as he continued to regard her and she sat back down in the same chair she had occupied the morning he awoke on her sofa.  “I have not read it.”

“My—” here he paused, wanting to be honest because this alliance was only going to work if they held complete honesty with each other “—circumstances with Miss Bennet have been clearly detailed.”

“Someone talked.”  It was not a question.

“You did not,” he noticed.  “There was no reference as to where I went after I left the gaming hall that night.”

“Who would I tell?” Miss Swan asked, almost sighing.  “I value my privacy.”

“You safeguarded mine,” he told her flat out.

She merely looked at him.

“Miss Swan—”

“I will not—” she began to object tiredly, as if she had had this exact conversation before, many times over.

“I am not asking you to be my mistress,” he told her flat out.  “I need to refute the reporting in Whistledown.  The only course of action is to immediately engage myself to a woman of standing—preferably with ‘fine eyes’.”

Blinking, Miss Swan looked at him.

“You are a woman of enviable characteristics,” he continued, “and hold a ladylike grace that cannot be taught.  You are obviously in reduced circumstances—” here he paused, waiting for confirmation, but she did not speak.  “—but you are a lady nonetheless.  If you should accept my proposal—”

“—of marriage?” she checked, clearly bewildered.

“—of marriage,” he agreed, “I would treat you with all the respect due to my wife.  I have a fine estate in Derbyshire—”

“I know all about Pemberley,” she informed him carefully.  “You were quite effusive on the subject of everything you had to offer a woman in marriage—that night.”  Miss Swan shifted, slightly uncomfortable.

“I am not taken to drink—” (she looked at him incredulously) “The night we met was a lapse that was a singularity, not the rule.”  He stood and placed his hands behind his back in nervousness.  “I do not gamble.  I will not beat you.  I will raise you up—”

“Who says I want to be ‘raised up’?” she asked him outright.

He looked around him.  “Miss Swan, these are not enviable lodgings.”

“I prefer not to spend my well-earned money on such frivolities such as a fashionable address,” she informed him carefully, her eyes shining violet in her face.  “I am more prudent than that.”

“Another quality of yours I admire,” he told her.  Darcy paused, waiting for her to respond.

She hesitated.

“Please, tell me your objections so I might refute the claim.”  He came back over to the sofa and sank into its lumpy cushions.  “I am in earnest, Miss Swan.”

“You’re clearly in love with another woman,” she told him outright.

“Whom I will never see again,” he promised her.  “From this moment forward, if you agree to be my wife, I will honor and protect you.”

She sighed and looked down at the roses that lay on the table between them.  She reached out and played with a leaf, clearly in thought.

“Surely you do not wish to gamble the rest of your life and have men importune you—”

Laughing a little to herself, she turned her gaze to the window.  “Importune.  Yes, they do importune me, as you so elegantly put it.”

“Allow me to take you away to Pemberley and away from the dirty streets of London,” he implored her.  “We can be very useful to one another.”

“I was loved once,” she admitted carefully, not meeting Darcy’s eyes.  “He proved—inconstant.”  She sighed.  “I suppose the picture of the future you paint is not without its charm.  Marriage for love is perhaps just a girlish dream.”

“A marriage of mutual respect,” Darcy told her carefully, “could very well be more successful than one based on pure emotion.”

“I do see your point,” she agreed.  Sighing, she stood from her chair, and Darcy immediately stood with her.  “Let me think about it.”

Darcy told himself he must not be disappointed.  “Then I shall give you time,” he promised.  He reached for her hand and she reluctantly gave it.  Kissing the back, he looked up into her astonishing gaze and, with as much equanimity as he could muster, he requested: “Please do not take too long.”

“No,” she agreed, taking back her hand.  “I understand time is of the essence.”

He showed himself out, the maid never having made an appearance with tea, and entered his carriage without a look back.

Darcy just had to wait.  In the meantime, he would continue to send roses.

On the third day, he appeared again on her steps with a bouquet of pink roses.  Miss Swan was probably tired of white and purple, he realized, and the meaning of the pink rose could be ignored.  Miss Swan did not know floriography, after all.

“Mr. Darcy,” Carrie greeted, taking his hat.  He was without a walking stick today.

He showed himself into the sitting room, and found Miss Swan lounging on the couch with a book in her hands.  She looked up and did not seem remotely surprised.  Several bouquets of mixed white and purple roses were scattered about the room. 

“I’ve thought about it,” she told him outright.  “Explain the logistics to me.”

Holding out the roses to her, she took them and walked over to one of the vases, arranging the bouquet to include the pink offering.

“We shall announce it in The Times immediately,” he told her.  “I would send you to the dressmaker, Madam Delacroix.  She is the most fashionable modiste in London.  She knows to expect you.”

She lifted her eyebrow at him.  “Confident, were we?” she teased.  There was no sting in it, unlike Elizabeth’s pert opinions and pointed comments.

“I have already applied for a special license, and we can marry as soon as you have a suitable wedding dress.”

“You notice I am in mourning.”  He had noticed.  Every time he called on Miss Swan, she was wearing black muslin and a black blusher.

“Is the bereavement recent?” he inquired.

“My father,” she informed him, coming to take a seat in her only chair.  “He died on the passage.”

Darcy did not ask her to explain herself further.  He could not imagine what passage she was referring to, but he would guard her privacy.

“I know you have been in London for well over a year—” he probed carefully.

She sighed.  “I suppose I could marry in silvers.  I understand that is still mourning.”

“I shall advise Madam Delacroix of your requirements.  I can escort you this afternoon—”

Miss Swan looked up from where she was inspecting her hands.  They were smooth, showing she had never worked with them and was born to some standing.  “This afternoon,” she half whispered to herself.  She paused, and then nodded firmly.  “Yes, this afternoon.”

“Then you agree?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“—yes.  What you say is true.  I do not wish to continue gambling the rest of my life—and men importune me.”  This she said a bit wryly.

He tried to smile, but found he could not.

Coming up to her, he took her smaller hand in his and lifted it to beneath his lips.  “I pray you will not regret your decision.”

“I pray you don’t either,” she admitted into the hush.

The End.