89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsGbjErt8S0Elliot didn't sleep all night.
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He lay in the darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain drum against the roof. His body burned where Darcy's hands had touched. His lips still held the taste of that kiss whiskey and something dark, almost desperate. His skin remembered the heat of those palms, the strength of that embrace.
His instincts howled, demanding he go back. Find the alpha. Surrender to that overwhelming wave of desire that had engulfed them both in the gazebo.
But his mind screamed louder.
He insulted your family. Destroyed James's happiness. Thinks you're beneath him.
Elliot turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow. His scent filled the room. Bitter chocolate had become so acrid it scratched at his throat. Smoke had transformed almost to char. This was the scent of turmoil, pain, fury mixed with something he refused to name.
Desire.
Because despite everything, despite Darcy's words, despite the insults, part of him still felt that kiss. Still wanted more. And that terrified Elliot most of all.
He lay like that until dawn, until grey light began seeping through the curtains. The rain had stopped, leaving the world outside wet, gleaming, and cleansed.
Elliot felt hollowed out.
As though torn to pieces.
***
At breakfast Sheridan immediately knew something was wrong.
He sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea when Elliot came downstairs. One look at his friend's face pale, with shadows beneath his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line and his own faded scent of dried lavender weakened further with worry.
"Ellie," he said quietly. "What happened?"
Elliot poured himself coffee with trembling hands. Sat across from him. Stared into the cup for a long time, unable to raise his eyes.
"Darcy," he finally forced out. "Yesterday. After I ran from dinner. He... he found me."
Sher waited, not rushing him.
"We started arguing." Elliot took a sip of coffee, burned himself, but didn't notice. "And then Darcy... he proposed to me."
Sher nearly dropped his cup.
"What?"
"Asked me to marry him," Elliot's voice was flat. "Said he couldn't fight his desire anymore. That he wanted me. Despite everything."
"Ellie, that's..." Sher faltered, not knowing what to say. "That's what..."
"Despite my family," Elliot continued, not listening. "Despite my position. Despite how it would damage his reputation. Despite my mother being hysterical and my brothers reckless. He listed all our faults, all the reasons it was a terrible idea, and then said he wanted to marry me anyway."
Sher was silent, his face thoughtful.
"And what did you say?"
"I called him an arrogant bastard and ran off in the rain."
Silence stretched between them. Then Sher slowly sipped his tea.
"Ellie," he began carefully. "Can I ask you something? Did you want him to propose? Really, I mean. Without all those insults?"
Elliot froze, his cup suspended halfway to his lips.
"I..." He lowered the cup. "I don't know. No. Yes. Hell, I don't know!"
He ran his hands over his face, his scent fluctuating between bitterness and something sweeter, almost desperate.
"You know what the worst part is?" Elliot whispered. "I kissed him. Or he kissed me. Doesn't matter. We kissed, and it was... God, Sher, it was..."
He didn't finish, but Sher understood. Sympathy flickered in his eyes.
"Intense?"
"Like nothing in my life," Elliot admitted. "I felt my body responding, my instincts screaming, demanding I submit, open myself, let him..." He clenched his fists. "And then Darcy started talking. And everything shattered."
Sher was quiet for a long time, turning his cup in his hands.
"Ellie, I saw how Mr. Darcy looked at you yesterday at lunch," he finally said. "When you turned away. His eyes... that wasn't the look of someone who despises. That was the look of someone starving. Desperate. As though he was fighting himself not to reach out and pull you close."
"But his words..."
"Maybe he just doesn't know how to talk about feelings?" Sher looked at him. "You know these wealthy alphas. They're taught control. Rationality. Maybe he genuinely thought he had to list all the problems before confessing what he felt?"
Elliot wanted to object, but at that moment the door burst open and William flew into the kitchen. His wilting lilac was so thick with agitation you wanted to hold your nose.
"Disaster!" he announced. "Absolute disaster!"
"What happened?" Sher stood, his face paling.
"Mr. Darcy has left! This morning! Early! Didn't even say goodbye to Lady Catherine!" William waved his arms. "Just packed his things and went to London!"
Something clenched in Elliot's chest.
"Left?" he whispered.
"Lady Catherine is furious! She sent for him, but he didn't return. Just sent word through a servant about urgent business! Urgent business! At such a time!" William looked genuinely outraged. "When he should have been spending time with Annabella! Poor girl is hysterical. Crying in her room. Says it's all because of..." He broke off, looking at Elliot for the first time. "Well, never mind."
"Because of me," Elliot finished. "She thinks it's because of me."
William coughed.
"Well, Lady Catherine did mention that perhaps your presence was... untimely. And that maybe you should consider shortening your visit. Not that you're not a welcome guest! But given the circumstances..."
"I understand," Elliot said coldly, standing. "I'm being asked to leave."
"No, no!" William tried to backtrack. "Just... perhaps a few days of peace would benefit everyone?"
Elliot didn't answer. He left the kitchen, climbed to his room, and closed the door.
When he was alone, the realization crashed over him with renewed force: Darcy had left.
Without words. Without explanations. Just... left.
Elliot sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a strange emptiness in his chest. He should have been glad. Should have felt relief that he wouldn't have to see him anymore, wouldn't have to face him.
But instead he felt only loss.
***
An hour later, when Elliot still sat in his room trying to figure out what to do next, there was a knock at the door.
"Ellie?" Sher's voice. "Can I come in?"
"Yes."
Sher entered, holding something in his hands. An envelope.
"A servant from Rosings Park just brought this," he said, handing the envelope to Elliot. "For you."
Elliot took the envelope. It was substantial, heavy, sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of the Darcy family crest. On it was written simply: *To Mr. Elliot Bennet.*
The handwriting was firm, decisive, but the last letter of his name came out slightly uneven and trembling.
He brought the envelope to his face and inhaled. From the paper came a faint, almost imperceptible aroma of whiskey and honey.
"I'll leave you alone," Sher said quietly and left, closing the door.
Elliot sat for a long time simply holding the envelope. He was afraid to open it. Afraid of what might be written inside.
Finally, taking a deep breath, he broke the seal.
Inside were several sheets of thick paper covered in that same firm handwriting. And other documents that looked like copies of official papers.
Elliot unfolded the letter and began to read.
"To Mr. Elliot Bennet,
Do not be alarmed at receiving this letter. I write not to renew the proposal that was so offensive to you yesterday. I write because you deserve explanations. All the explanations.
Yesterday you accused me of several things: destroying your brother's happiness, treating Mr. Wickham unjustly, and remaining cowardly silent when my aunt insulted your family. I intend to address all accusations. Not to excuse myself. But so that you know the truth.
I'll begin with what caused you the greatest pain. Your brother, James.
I won't deny that I interfered in the relationship between him and Mr. Bingley. It's true. But allow me to explain why.
When I first saw your brother with Charles, I was on guard. Charles is my close friend. Kind, trusting, prone to falling in love quickly and deeply. I'd seen him suffer in the past when his feelings weren't returned. I didn't want that to happen again.
I observed your brother carefully. He was pleasant with Charles, polite and courteous. But I didn't see in him the passion I saw in my friend. Your brother smiled, but his eyes remained calm. He accepted the courtship but didn't reciprocate.
I concluded (mistakenly, as I now understand) that his feelings were merely polite interest. That perhaps he sought an advantageous match, not love.
I must admit something else influenced my conclusion. Your mother's behavior at the Netherfield ball was... tumultuous. She spoke openly of an engagement when there were no commitments between Charles and your brother yet. Your younger brothers filmed everything on video, which then spread online. One such video, where I was captured at an awkward angle, got tens of thousands of views.
I feared that association with your family would harm Charles's reputation. That his business, his position in society would suffer.
So I interfered. I told Charles your brother didn't return his feelings. That he was perhaps seeking only security. I suggested leaving for London, where there were many other more suitable omegas.
Caroline, Charles's sister, enthusiastically embraced the idea. She'd never approved of your brother considered him insufficiently wealthy, insufficiently influential. She began introducing Charles to other omegas from good families.
Charles, weak in his attachments (as I thought), began to forget or seemed to forget.
And then I learned James had come to London.
One of Charles's servants mentioned that a young omega had come to the house, asking for Mr. Bingley. The description matched your brother. The servant said the omega looked devastated, filled with quiet pain.
I dismissed it. Told myself that if James had truly been in love, he wouldn't have left so easily. That if the feelings had been real, he would have insisted on a meeting.
But then yesterday you said your brother was still recovering from a broken heart.
And I understood my mistake.
So much time had passed. If James's feelings hadn't been real, he would have forgotten my friend long ago. Met someone else. Moved on.
But he's still suffering.
Just as Charles is suffering.
A few weeks ago I saw him after Caroline had once again tried to introduce him to some omega. He listened silently, then suddenly stood and left the room. Without explanation.
I found him at the window in his study. He just stood there, staring at nothing.
"I still love him, Darcy," Charles said quietly. "And I don't know if it will ever pass."
I judged by appearances. By how James carried himself at the ball. By his calm smile and reserved manners. I decided that if an omega didn't show passion openly, it didn't exist.
But I was wrong.
James was raised that way. He hid his feelings behind a mask of politeness because that's how he was taught. Because showing emotion was considered improper.
I, who have controlled my feelings my entire life, hiding them behind a cold mask, should have understood this. But I didn't.
And my mistake cost your brother his happiness.
I haven't told Charles the truth immediately. Why?
Because I'm afraid.
Afraid that if Charles learns how I manipulated the situation, how I hid the truth from him, he'll hate me. He's my best friend. The only person I can call that. And the thought that he might turn away from me...
But I can't stay silent any longer.
I'll try to talk to him. Tell him everything. Admit my mistake. What he does with that information is his choice.
If there's something between him and your brother, they should decide that themselves. I won't stand in the way anymore.
This is the only thing I can do to repair some of the harm I've caused.
I don't ask forgiveness. I don't know how one can forgive what I did. But I acknowledge my guilt. Fully and unconditionally.
Now let me tell you about Mr. George Wickham.
This story is longer and more painful. But you must know the truth.
Mr. Wickham is the son of my estate Pemberley's former steward. His father served my father faithfully for many years. My father loved the elder Mr. Wickham as a friend and consequently treated his son almost as his own.
George grew up with me. We played together as children. Attended the same school my father paid for his education. George was charming, charismatic, universally beloved.
When my father died five years ago, his will contained the following provision regarding George Wickham: three thousand pounds and a recommendation for admission to theological seminary. George was saying at the time that he wanted to become a clergyman.
I fulfilled my father's wishes. Paid the money. Provided the recommendation.
George refused the seminary. Said the clergy wasn't his calling. I didn't object it was his choice. He squandered the money quickly. Gambling. Debts. Living beyond his means.
When the money ran out, he returned to me. Said he still wanted to become a clergyman. Asked me to help him enter seminary again.
I refused. Not out of malice. But because I knew he was lying. He didn't want to be a clergyman. He wanted stability, a position that would give him regular income.
Then he proposed a deal: if I paid him three thousand pounds, he would forever renounce all claims to the Darcy family's assistance. He would 'sell' his right to the seminary position.
I agreed and paid. Thought that was the end.
I was wrong.
A year ago my younger sister, Georgiana, was vacationing in Ramsgate with her companion, Mrs. Younge. Georgiana was sixteen. She's a quiet, shy omega who has lived her entire life under my protection.
George Wickham found her there.
I don't know how he learned where she was. Perhaps he bribed a servant, or perhaps he followed her.
He convinced her he'd loved her since childhood. That he'd always dreamed of her. That they should be together. Georgiana, naive and trusting, believed him.
They planned an elopement and secret wedding.
Fortunately, Georgiana wrote to me the day before the elopement. Not directly she was too frightened, too embarrassed. But between the lines of her letter I read the truth.
I came to Ramsgate immediately. Found them on the threshold of the hotel where they planned to spend the night before the 'wedding.'
I exposed Wickham. Showed Georgiana documents proving he'd already received his share of the inheritance and squandered it. Explained that he didn't love her. That he only wanted her fortune thirty thousand pounds she was to inherit at eighteen.
Wickham didn't deny it. When he realized the game was over, he simply left. Didn't even apologize. Didn't look at Georgiana, who was crying.
My sister still hasn't recovered. She blames herself. Fears alphas. Fears going into society. Her therapist says it will be years before she can trust anyone again.
I didn't file an official police complaint. Didn't want to shame Georgiana publicly. But I compiled a report. Just in case.
Copies of all documents are enclosed with this letter:
— Copy of my father's will with provisions for George Wickham
— Receipt for the first payment of three thousand pounds
— Wickham's signed waiver of further claims in exchange for the second payment
— Receipt for the second payment
— Georgiana's letter, which she permitted me to show you
— Police report (not officially filed)
— Contact information for Georgiana's therapist, if you wish to verify
I don't ask you to believe me on my word. Check, or ask anyone in Derbyshire about Mr. Wickham's reputation. Ask at debt collection agencies. Ask at casinos.
But please, be careful with him. He's charming and charismatic. Knows how to find vulnerabilities and exploit them. He finds people who are wounded, lonely, in need of a friend and becomes what they want to see.
I don't know what he told you about me. But I'm certain it was a beautiful, convincing lie. A story about how a cruel, arrogant alpha took away a poor, innocent omega's future.
That's his talent he doesn't lie completely, just takes a grain of truth and wraps it so the lie seems true.
I don't ask you to believe me instead of him. I ask you to look at the facts. At the documents. And draw your own conclusions.
I want to apologize for my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
You're right about her. She's controlling, arrogant, convinced of her superiority.
I should have protected you from her words. Every time she spoke of your family with contempt, I should have stopped her. But I remained silent.
My silence was cowardice. And I'm ashamed.
And finally, about my proposal.
You're right that my phrasing was insulting. I spoke of obstacles when I should have spoken only of feelings.
I've been taught control my entire life. Rationality. Logical thinking. I was told emotions are weakness. That decisions should be made with the head, not the heart.
So when I proposed to you, I tried to explain how much I'd have to overcome. As though by listing all the problems, I'd prove the strength of my feelings. But all I proved was my inability to speak about what truly matters.
So let me say this now. Simply and without excuses.
I love you.
I admire your sharp mind. Your pride. Your dignity. I value how you defend your family. How you don't bow your head before me when all other omegas do so automatically.
I'm captivated by your scent: bitter chocolate and old books. Unusual. Wrong. Perfect.
I love how you look at the worldwith curiosity, compassion, and readiness to fight for what's right.
I've fought these feelings for months. Told myself it was unreasonable. That it would shatter everything I'd built. That we're too different. But the more I fight, the stronger the feelings become.
And then I saw you here, at Rosings Park. Saw how you looked at me with contempt. How you turned away. And I understood I couldn't anymore.
Couldn't live knowing you're out there somewhere, unreachable. Couldn't imagine a future where you're not beside me.
Yesterday in the gazebo I lost control. Kissed you when I shouldn't have. Proposed in the worst possible way.
But the feelings were real. Every word.
My proposal still stands. But now without conditions. Without mentioning obstacles.
Simply because I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Want to wake every morning breathing in your scent. Want to argue with you about books. Want to listen to you defend your brothers. Want to support your dreams. Want to be the one you come to when the world becomes too heavy.
I understand if you can never forgive me for what I did to James. For my insulting words. For months of arrogance and coldness.
I won't forgive myself.
But please, accept this truth. And please, take care of yourself. From Wickham. From my aunt. From a world that isn't always fair to those who are different.
With respect and love I can no longer deny,
Fitzwilliam Darcy'
Elliot finished reading and simply sat, holding the letter in trembling hands.
His world had turned upside down.
Everything he'd believed, everything he'd thought was true, was crumbling.
Darcy wasn't cruel. He'd simply been mistaken.
Darcy didn't despise his family. He'd feared for his friend.
Darcy wasn't arrogant. He just didn't know how to speak about feelings.
And Wickham...
Elliot grabbed the other documents from the envelope. Copy of the will. Receipts. Everything looked authentic, official.
He unfolded Georgiana's letter. The handwriting was uneven, trembling the handwriting of a young girl writing through tears:
"Dear Brother,
I don't know how to thank you. You saved me from a terrible mistake.
When you told me the truth about Mr. Wickham, at first I didn't want to believe it. He was so kind to me. So attentive. He made me feel special.
But then I saw the documents. The receipts. His letters to Mrs. Younge, where he wrote about my 'inheritance' and how 'easy' it would be to convince me.
I'm so ashamed, Fitzwilliam. I was such a fool. I thought he loved me. But he didn't even know what books I liked. Didn't remember when my birthday was. He just... used the right words. When you showed him everything, he didn't even try to deny it. Just left. As though I meant nothing.
Thank you for protecting me. I'll never forget it.
Your loving sister,
Georgiana"
Elliot lowered the etter.
Sixteen years old.
Georgiana had been sixteen when Wickham tried to seduce her, use her, ruin her.
And Elliot had believed that man. Defended him. Accused Darcy of cruelty.
God.
He pulled out the police report. Read the dry, official lines describing the attempted abduction of an underage omega. Witness statements from hotel maids. Confessions from Mrs. Younge, the companion Wickham had bribed.
Everything matched.
Elliot stood, paced the room, trying to master the storm of emotions.
Fury at Wickham for the lies.
Guilt for believing him so easily.
Shame for the words he'd thrown in Darcy's face.
And something else. Something he was afraid to name.
The memory of the kiss. Of the heat of Darcy's lips. Of how his body had responded, demanding more. Of how for one second the entire world had narrowed to that touch.
Elliot ran his hand over his face, trying to banish the images.
He took up the letter again. Reread the final part.
I love you.
I admire your sharp mind. Your pride. Your dignity.
I'm captivated by your scent: bitter chocolate and old books. Unusual. Wrong. Perfect.
Elliot pressed the letter to his chest, feeling something break inside.
Darcy loved him.
Not despite his 'flaws.' But because of them. For what made him himself.
And Elliot had pushed him away. Called him an arrogant bastard. Run off in the rain.
"God," he whispered to the empty room. "What have I done?"
His scent exploded in the space. Bitter chocolate became sweet, almost desperate. Smoke transformed into incense. The scent of an omega who'd understood his mistake. Who'd realized what he'd lost.
He sank to the floor, pressing the letter to his heart, and for the first time in many years allowed himself to cry.
Not from anger. Not from pain.
From regret.
***
When the tears finally dried, Elliot stood. Washed his face with cold water. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Eyes reddened, face haggard, hair sticking up in disorder.
He looked exactly how he felt.
Emptied out.
He went downstairs. Sher sat in the library, pretending to read, but Elliot knew he'd been waiting.
"Ellie?" Sher raised his head, and his face filled with concern when he saw his friend's expression. "What happened?"
Elliot sat beside him, still clutching the letter.
"Letter from Darcy," he said quietly. "He... he explained everything."
"Everything?"
"About James. About Wickham. About... about everything."
Sher waited silently, giving him time to gather his thoughts.
"Darcy really did interfere between James and Bingley," Elliot began. "But not from cruelty. He thought he was protecting his friend. He decided James didn't love Charles, that he was only seeking advantage. Because James was too reserved. Too well-bred to show feelings openly."
"God," Sher whispered.
"Darcy understood his mistake when Charles confessed he still loved James. And then yesterday, when I said my brother was still suffering... he finally realized everything." Elliot ran his hand over his face. "He wrote that he'll try to explain everything to Charles, and won't stand in the way anymore."
"And Wickham?"
Elliot felt fury rising again.
"Wickham is a liar and manipulator. Darcy gave him money. Twice. Everything his father promised, and more. Wickham squandered it all on gambling and debts."
He paused, clenching his fists.
"And then... then he tried to seduce Darcy's sister. Georgiana was sixteen, Sher. Sixteen. Wickham convinced her to elope with him, promised love. But really he only wanted her money thirty thousand pounds of inheritance."
"What?" Sher paled. "God..."
"Darcy stopped them at the last moment. But Georgiana still hasn't recovered. Fears alphas. Blames herself." Elliot looked at his friend. "And I defended that man. Accused Darcy of cruelty when he was just protecting his sister."
Silence hung between them.
"Does he have proof?" Sher asked quietly.
"All the document copies are in the envelope. Receipts. Letters. Police report. Everything's real."
Sher leaned back in his chair, his face grim. They looked at each other, both understanding that something larger than just family drama was unfolding.
Elliot sank back into the armchair, still gripping the letter.
Sher was silent, his gaze pensive.
The silence stretched between them not awkward, but heavy. Filled with questions neither of them had answers to.
Outside the window rain began to drizzle again, tapping against the glass with a quiet, monotonous melody.
Elliot stared at the letter in his hands and didn't know what to do next.
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