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The morning dragged with excruciating slowness.
Elliot tried in vain to read, but the letters danced before his eyes, refusing to form meaning. Sleep fled from him too the moment he closed his eyes, Lady Catherine's voice echoed in the darkness, cold and precise: Fitzwilliam considered it his duty... to guide Mr. Bingley.
He'd spent the entire morning sitting by the window, motionless, staring at the grim bulk of Rosings Park looming over the cottage like a stone verdict.
Yesterday's dinner replayed obsessively in his mind. Every poisoned word from Lady Catherine. Every insult, artfully wrapped in impeccable courtesy and delivered with lethal precision.
And the mention of Darcy.
Lady Catherine's nephew was expected to arrive Sher had warned him. But when? Today? Tomorrow? A week from now? Elliot didn't know. And didn't want to know.
Better not to think about it. Not to imagine the encounter. Not to rehearse the words he wanted to hurl into that cold, arrogant face.
Just get through today. Lunch with Lady Catherine. Polite smiles. Then back here and lock myself in my room.
The plan was simple and achievable.
At half past twelve, Sher knocked on the door.
"Ellie. Time to get ready. Lady Catherine is expecting us for lunch."
Elliot stood, working the stiffness from his shoulders.
"Will she talk about my family again?"
"Possibly," Sher entered, his face weary. "But you'll manage. Just... don't react. Nod and stay silent."
"Easy to say," Elliot pulled on his jacket. "When it's not your family being insulted."
Sher didn't answer. His silence spoke louder than words: *My family gets insulted too. Every day. And I just endure it.*
Elliot squeezed his shoulder in silent apology.
"Let's go. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."
***
Rain poured ceaselessly, turning the path to the main house into a muddy mess. Only William had an umbrella, but he held it mostly over himself, leaving Sher and Elliot only the edges. By the time they reached the entrance, both were soaked.
Elliot barely noticed the cold and damp. His thoughts were occupied with how to survive the next few hours in Lady Catherine's company without losing control.
The entrance hall of Rosings Park was warm and dry. A servant took their wet coats. Elliot tried to smooth his hair, but it stuck up in disorder anyway. His scent of bitter chocolate and smoke was intensified by moisture, becoming more pronounced.
"Mr. Collins, Mr. Lucas-Collins, Mr. Bennet," the servant bowed. "Lady de Bourgh is expecting you in the drawing room."
Elliot nodded, following William and Sher down the now-familiar corridor.
One hour. Just one hour. I can endure it.
The servant opened the drawing room door.
"Mr. William Collins, Mr. Sheridan Lucas-Collins, and Mr. Elliot Bennet."
Elliot entered, already preparing a polite smile for Lady Catherine, and froze on the threshold.
By the fireplace, back to the door, stood a man in a dark suit. Even without seeing his face, even without hearing his voice, Elliot recognized him by the wave of scent that struck him like physical force.
Aged whiskey with notes of smoke and oak barrel. Damp earth after rain. Dark honey.
Darcy turned.
Their gazes met, and Elliot felt the world stop. The alpha's grey eyes were wide with shock mixed with something darker and more intense.
Desire.
Darcy's scent exploded in the space. The damp earth became so dense and fertile it took his breath away. The whiskey turned scorching, almost intoxicating. The honey became dark, rich, desperate. This was the scent of an alpha who'd seen what he wanted. And who could no longer hide it.
Elliot felt his own body respond traitorously. His scent flared against his will. Bitter chocolate became saturated, almost sweet. Old books filled with spice. Smoke transformed into smoldering embers. Omega instincts screamed, demanding he move closer, breathe in that scent fully, immerse himself in it.
But his mind screamed louder.
He destroyed James's life. He stole Wickham's future. He thinks you're beneath him.
"Mr. Bennet," Darcy's voice was hoarse, strained. "What an... unexpected surprise."
"Mr. Darcy," Elliot forced himself to bow, maintaining icy politeness.
Lady Catherine watched them. On her face was a satisfied, almost triumphant expression.
"Fitzwilliam, dear," she smiled. "I forgot to mention that Mr. Bennet is staying with us our dear William's cousin."
"Forgot?" Darcy looked at his aunt, and something like suspicion flickered in his gaze. "How... careless of you, Aunt."
"Old age," she waved her hand. "The memory isn't what it was."
She's lying, Elliot realized. She deliberately didn't tell him. Wanted to watch his reaction.
"Fitzwilliam," Annabella rose from her seat, her blue eyes sliding from Darcy to Elliot. Cold and assessing.
She approached and placed her hand on Darcy's forearm in a proprietary, demonstrative gesture.
"How pleasant that you've finally arrived. And how... unexpected to see Mr. Bennet at our family lunch."
The word our was emphasized.
Darcy carefully but firmly removed her hand.
"Annabella." His voice was formal but cold.
Something dangerous flickered in her eyes. The scent of white rose sharpened, acquiring cold, almost glacial notes. This was pure fury, restrained by iron will.
Annabella knew. She saw how Darcy looked at Elliot.
"I understand," her smile grew sharper. "You're still angry with me about that ball at Netherfield. When you danced with an omega, forgetting your fiancée."
She turned to Elliot, tilting her head with theatrical sympathy.
"Ah, he didn't tell you? We were engaged. Until that evening. Darcy broke the engagement afterward."
"Annabella, enough," Darcy paled.
"Enough of what? Speaking the truth?" Her gaze slid over Elliot with poorly concealed contempt. "Darcy of Pemberley threw me over for an omega without connections or dowry. Everyone's shocked. As am I."
She smiled coldly and cruelly.
"But don't worry, Mr. Bennet. Infatuation and marriage are different things. He may want you. But marry? Someone so far... beneath him?" She laughed. "Never."
Elliot clenched his fists, his scent turning acrid. He opened his mouth to respond, but Lady Catherine raised her hand.
"Enough, Annabella," her voice was calm but commanding. "You've made your point clear."
Annabella lowered her eyes, her lips still curved in a cold smile, but she stepped back and returned to her seat.
Lady Catherine turned to Sher with impeccable courtesy, as though nothing had happened.
"Mr. Lucas-Collins, how are matters progressing with the garden? William mentioned you were planning spring plantings."
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Sher nodded politely.
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"Yes, ma'am. The roses at the entrance have taken well, the herbs have flourished. I'm planning to add lavender by summer."
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"Commendable," she nodded with approval. "An omega should care for the home. It's his primary duty."
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While Lady Catherine continued questioning Sher about household matters, Darcy seized the moment. He took several steps, approaching Elliot, who stood by the window still trembling with rage after Annabella's words.
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"Mr. Bennet," Darcy's voice was quiet, almost cautious.
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Elliot didn't turn.
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"How... how is your family?"
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The question was neutral, but Elliot heard the tension in his voice.
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"Well, thank you."
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"Your brother? James?"
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Elliot felt anger flare in his chest. He slowly turned, meeting Darcy's grey gaze.
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"My brother is recovering. After having his heart broken by your friend."
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In that moment all conversation ceased, and Elliot's words rang out in the sudden silence clearly, almost resoundingly.
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Lady Catherine raised an eyebrow. Annabella looked puzzled. William coughed.
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Darcy's face fell, his lips compressed into a thin line.
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"I..." he began, but was interrupted.
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"Lunch is served," the servant announced at the door.
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"Excellent!" Lady Catherine rose. "Let us proceed. Fitzwilliam, you'll escort Annabella. William, your husband. Mr. Bennet will come with me."
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She took Elliot's arm in an iron grip, leaving him no choice. Her scent of white musk and frost was suffocating.
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They entered the dining room in wrong and forced pairs. Darcy escorted Annabella but didn't even look at her. His gaze was fixed on Elliot, and the intensity of that stare made his skin burn.
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At the table everything became worse.
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Lady Catherine seated Darcy opposite Elliot. So close their scents intertwined in the air, creating something almost tangible. Darcy's and Elliot's aromas mingled: whiskey with bitter chocolate, honey with smoke, damp earth with smoldering embers.
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The mixture was intoxicating. Almost unbearable.
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Annabella sat beside Darcy, trying to catch his eye. Her fingers settled on his sleeve a light, almost weightless touch. Darcy moved his arm away without even turning his head.
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She leaned slightly closer, allowing her shoulder to brush his for a moment warm contact. He shifted away clearly and without hesitation, his attention still riveted on Elliot.
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Annabella tried to start conversation about the weather, about the evening, about something light and safe. He answered tersely, tossing out brief "yes" and "no" responses, while his gaze slid past her as though she were transparent.
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And then she halted.
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Heat flooded her cheeks, burning from within. The scent of white rose, delicate and floral, suddenly became sharp, heavy, and in it clearly emerged the bitter note of almond the scent of shame transforming into fury.
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She leaned back in her chair, her lips compressed into a thin line. Annabella said nothing more. Made no more attempts to attract his attention. Simply sat, straight and motionless as a statue. But her eyes tracked every glance Darcy directed at Elliot.
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And in them something ominous accumulated.
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Darcy barely noticed. His gaze constantly returned to Elliot. He tried to speak to him several times, but Elliot answered monosyllabically and distantly.
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"How do you find the weather in Kent, Mr. Bennet?"
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"Rainy."
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"Do you plan to stay long?"
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"I haven't decided yet."
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"You... you look well."
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Elliot didn't even answer that. Simply looked at him with such contempt that Darcy broke off mid-sentence.
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Lady Catherine observed the proceedings with silent satisfaction. Everything necessary she'd said yesterday. Now she merely contemplated the picture she'd helped create: Darcy futilely attempting to attract Elliot's attention, Annabella clenching her teeth from humiliation, while Elliot himself remained cold and unreachable.
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Lunch dragged on torturously. Dishes succeeded one another, but Elliot could barely swallow. Darcy's scent filled all his consciousness. The damp earth grew richer and richer, speaking of the primal desire of an alpha who wanted to claim.
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Tension mounted with every minute.
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William muttered something about weather and spring services. Sher was silent, his scent almost imperceptible.
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Elliot barely held himself together.
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Darcy's stares burned his skin. His scent made it impossible to concentrate.
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When the servant brought dessert, the spoon in Annabella's hand described a perfect arc in the air years of training had done their work. And yet the metal trembled. Barely perceptible, but it trembled.
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She focused on her plate, no longer granting Darcy either a glance or a word. She ate mechanically, with icy precision. Her posture was impeccable, her face a polite screen. But nothing could hide the scent of her anger. The delicate aroma of white rose suddenly became oppressive, and through it broke sharp, poisonous almond. This was how rage smelled when driven deep within, crushed into a fist.
Lady Catherine observed her daughter with approval.
Elliot's gaze noted everything: how the knuckles whitened on her fingers gripping the spoon handle. How sharp shadow fell along her cheekbones, jaw clenched to the limit. And even without looking directly into her eyes, he caught that dangerous, blade-like gleam cutting through the shadow of lowered lids.
Elliot could bear it no longer. He stood.
"Forgive me. I need air."
And left without looking back.
Behind him came the heavy footsteps of Darcy following.
***
Elliot nearly ran down the corridor, descended the stairs, rushed out into the garden. Rain poured even harder, cold drops immediately soaking through his shirt, his hair. But he didn't care. He had to get away. Far from this cursed house, from Lady Catherine, from...
"Mr. Bennet! Wait!"
Darcy's voice made him stop. Elliot turned.
The alpha stood on the steps, his dark hair already plastered to his forehead from rain. The scent of whiskey and honey was so intense it penetrated even through the downpour.
"Leave me alone!" Elliot shouted.
"No!" Darcy descended, approaching. "We need to talk!"
"We have nothing to talk about!"
"We do!" Darcy was beside him now, so close Elliot felt the warmth of his body in the cold air. "About what my aunt said. About your brother. About..."
"About how you destroyed James's happiness?" Elliot whirled to face him, his eyes blazing. "About how you decided we weren't good enough for your circle?"
"You don't understand..."
"I understand perfectly!"
Thunder crashed, so loud Elliot flinched. The rain intensified, becoming a deluge. Visibility dropped to a few meters.
"The gazebo," Darcy grabbed his hand. "There!"
He dragged Elliot toward a small gazebo at the edge of the garden. They ran, gasping, and ducked inside.
The gazebo was small, elegant, with carved columns and a roof that protected from rain but not from wind. Inside was cold, damp, but at least not pouring from above.
They stood, breathing heavily. Elliot's hair was plastered to his face, his shirt transparently clinging to his body. Darcy looked no better his suit ruined, tie hanging askew.
But worst of all were their scents.
In the tight, enclosed space of the gazebo they mingled, became almost tangible. The aromas intertwined in the air: whiskey mixed with bitter chocolate, honey with the scent of old books, damp earth with smoke that had transformed into incense. The mixture was intoxicating. Almost impossible to resist.
"Listen to me," Darcy's voice was hoarse. "Please. I... I was wrong."
Elliot froze.
"What?"
"About your brother," Darcy ran his hand through wet hair. "I thought... I was certain that..."
He raised his hand, his fingers touching Elliot's cheek, brushing away a wet strand of hair.
"Now all I think about is you, Elliot. All I want... all I can think about..."
His voice broke.
"Is you."
Darcy cupped his face in his palms, thumbs touching his cheekbones, and he leaned in.
Their lips met.
This wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. This was a storm. Passion restrained for months exploded between them, sweeping away the last remnants of control.
Darcy's lips were hot, demanding, desperate. His hands seized Elliot's waist, pulling him close. The scent of whiskey and honey enveloped Elliot completely the damp earth became so fertile and alive his instincts screamed in response.
And Elliot... Elliot answered.
His arms wound around Darcy's neck of their own accord, fingers burying in wet hair. He opened his mouth, letting the alpha in deeper, and felt his own body ignite. His scent exploded bitter chocolate transformed into molten, sweet and dark. Smoke became spiced, intoxicating.
Darcy groaned into his mouth, pressing him against the gazebo wall. His hands were everywhere at his waist, on his back, sliding under the wet shirt, searing his skin.
Elliot had never felt anything like this. Too strong. Too intense. His omega instincts screamed, demanding more, demanding submission, demanding he open himself, let the alpha take what he wanted.
Darcy kissed his neck, found the sensitive spot behind his ear, and Elliot gasped, his knees buckling. Only Darcy's firm grip kept him on his feet.
"Elliot," Darcy whispered against his skin, and the name sounded like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea. "God, Elliot..."
His hands slid lower, gripping his thighs, and Elliot felt the alpha's body pressing against him. The realization of how far they'd gone sobered him instantly.
"Stop," he breathed out. "Stop..."
Darcy froze immediately but didn't release him. His breathing was ragged, eyes darkened almost to black.
"Elliot..."
"What are we doing?" Elliot whispered, his own voice trembling. "What was this?"
Darcy pressed his forehead to Elliot's forehead, his hands still holding Elliot's waist firmly.
"What I've wanted since we first met," he said hoarsely. "What I've been going mad over for months."
Darcy pulled back to look into his eyes. His face was serious, almost grim.
"Marry me."
The words echoed in the silence of the gazebo, weighty and irrevocable.
Elliot went still.
"What?"
"Marry me, Elliot," Darcy cupped his face in his palms. "I can't bear this anymore. I want you. Every second. Every night. Despite everything."
"Despite what?" Elliot's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Despite the fact that it's madness," Darcy spoke faster, as though afraid to stop. "Despite your family and all its shortcomings. Despite the difference in our positions. Your mother is too emotional. Your younger brothers are reckless. Your connections, your standing all of it is against us. My friends will be shocked. My aunt will be furious. My reputation will suffer."
With each word Elliot felt fury growing in his chest, felt his scent becoming sharper, almost poisonous.
"But I can no longer resist," Darcy pulled him closer. "You consume me. Every thought. Every desire. I can't live knowing you're out there somewhere. Can't see how others... like Wickham... touch you..."
He leaned in again, his lips almost touching Elliot's.
"Say yes. Say you'll marry me. And I'll overcome everything else. I'll make it work. Despite the obstacles. Despite the fact that you..."
He faltered, leaving the sentence unfinished.
"That I what?" Elliot's voice was dangerously quiet. "Finish it, Darcy. Say it."
Darcy fell silent, finally realizing something was wrong.
"Elliot..."
"Say it," Elliot pushed him away, his eyes blazing. "Say that I'm not worthy of you. That my family isn't good enough. That you're doing me a great favor by making this proposal!"
"I didn't mean it that way..."
"You meant exactly that!" Elliot stepped away from him, his scent so acrid Darcy winced. "You just proposed to me while simultaneously insulting my family! Saying we're unworthy! That you're doing me a service by overcoming your... your what? Revulsion?"
"It's not revulsion..."
"Then what?!" Elliot shouted. "What is it, Darcy? You want me but you're ashamed of that desire? You're willing to marry me, but only if I'm grateful for this great honor?"
He laughed, and there was nothing mirthful in it.
"You know what the worst part is? Not that you're arrogant. Not that you think you're better than everyone. The worst part is that you made me feel..."
His voice broke. Elliot clenched his fists, forcing himself to continue.
"You made me feel for a split second that maybe I was wrong. That maybe behind your mask there was something real. But no. You're exactly what I thought you were. Arrogant. Cruel. And convinced of your own superiority."
"Elliot, it's not..."
"You destroyed my brother's happiness..." Elliot didn't let him finish. "And Wickham? You stole his future! Ruined his life!"
Darcy paled, his scent turning sharp.
"Wickham lied to you! He's not who he pretends to be! He..."
"Where's the proof!" Elliot shouted. "Just words!"
"I'll give you proof!" Darcy grabbed his shoulders. "I can't tell you now it concerns more than just me but he... he's dangerous, Elliot! He's manipulating you!"
"Convenient!" Elliot wrenched free from his grip. "Accuse someone who can't defend himself! Say 'trust me' without giving a single fact!"
He stepped toward the gazebo exit. Rain still poured, but he didn't care.
"You know what, Fitzwilliam Darcy? Even if you were the last alpha on earth, even if my life depended on it, I would never, ever marry you!"
"Elliot, wait..."
But Elliot was already running. Through the rain, through the garden, away from the gazebo, from Darcy, from that kiss that still burned on his lips.
He ran until he reached the cottage. Burst inside, soaked, gasping. Sher rushed out of the library, his face full of alarm.
"Ellie! God, what happened?!"
But Elliot couldn't answer. He walked past, climbed the stairs, locked himself in his room.
And only then, when the door slammed shut behind him, when he was alone, did he let himself slide down the wall to the floor.
Elliot sat, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking from cold and fury, from that traitorous desire still pulsing in his veins.
The taste of Darcy's kiss still burned on his lips.
And the most terrifying part a piece of him wanted to go back.
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***
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the gazebo beneath the rain, staring in the direction Elliot had fled.
His scent was bleak and hollow. The damp earth had turned arid and barren. The whiskey had shed its warmth. The honey had soured to wormwood.
He collapsed onto the bench, his impeccably tailored suit irreparably ruined.
And for the first time in many years, Fitzwilliam Darcy had no idea what to do.
Because he'd just lost the only thing that truly mattered.
And the cruelest part was that the fault lay en
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