Lizzy and the Lord of Frogs Read online




  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Description

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Other titles

  About the author

  Lizzy and the Lord of Frogs

  By

  Lady Waller

  Copyright © 2017 by Lady Waller

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Lady Waller

  No part of this book may be reproduced by any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying method without written permission of the author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  §

  A fun twist on the Frog Prince and Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice

  Fitzwilliam Darcy is missing! The day after the Netherfield Ball, Darcy rode into the forest for some peace and quiet. Only his steed returned.

  Elizabeth Bennet is warned by her mother not to walk alone in the woods for fear that whatever fate has befallen Mr. Darcy will also happen to her headstrong daughter.

  Stubborn and unwilling to cower in Longbourn, Elizabeth continues her daily walks and drops her father’s pocket watch down a ravine. She is approached by an enchanted frog willing to return it to her—for a price.

  Join Elizabeth and Darcy as they find their path to a happily ever after means overcoming a familiar villain and unpredictable magic.

  §

  Prologue

  George Wickham moved amongst the shadows of the trees outside of Netherfield’s gardens. From this position he could see the animated dancers in the ballroom, twisting and twirling as if their lives were so very grand. They were still lowly country folk. The gentlemen and women dressed in their finest only to impress the pompous societal leeches such as the Bingleys and Darcys.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy. Wickham would be at the ball gaining the devotion he deserved if not for Darcy. The man always stood in his way directly or indirectly. The gossip he spread, Wickham couldn’t dispute fast enough. It didn’t matter who held the title of liar. And whilst he thought many held an instant dislike for the man, it shouldn’t have surprised him to see everyone lining up for his attention. Even Elizabeth Bennet. The maiden with a sparkle in her intelligent, soulful eyes. Not as rich as he’d like, but since his visit to Longbourn, he’d found the grounds suitable enough to become its master if he could marry her before the father passed away. There was a cousin who would inherit, but Wickham would take as much as he could before that day arrived.

  But now Elizabeth danced with Darcy and they conversed as if no one else were in the room. The scene sickened him.

  While he preferred to dispatch Darcy outright, he had to be clever. A murder inquiry of such a wealthy gentleman would have many a constable toiling for a reward.

  Warmth spilled into his gut and burned a path up his throat. When had he become the man who planned the murder of another? When he’d been left with nothing from his own father. Even the elder Mr. Darcy should’ve done better by him. Everyone would do better by him once he got rid of Darcy.

  A man and woman come through the rear entrance into the gardens, disrupting his surveillance. The woman fanned her face profusely and the man doted on every shrill word spoken from her fat lips. Wickham moved deeper into the shadows and behind a tree so they wouldn’t notice him. The dance between Elizabeth and Darcy ended, and they stared at each other for a heartbeat longer than Wickham could stand. He balled his hands into fists and his nails dug into his skin. That should be his dance with her.

  It wasn’t enough to kill Darcy. He wanted the man humiliated on every level. He wanted to see him beg for his life.

  A frog leaped past his boot and Wickham kicked it with enough force to send it flying into the brush.

  Darcy deserved to be treated as nothing better than a common frog.

  It humored him slightly that Elizabeth and her sisters had given him the idea from which to carry out his plan. They’d told him of the witch who lived in the forest. Whilst Elizabeth had declared her nothing more than a harmless old woman, her youngest sister Lydia had told the story of how the woman had been outcast by the people of Meryton for her ability to talk to animals. Only a witch could do so. The more he inquired about the woman, the more the gossip made him believe there was some truth to the tales. A witch was exactly what he needed.

  Wickham turned his back to the ball that he should’ve been able to attend and made his way through the thick trees. He’d find that witch and if she cared to save her own skin, she’d help him in his quest to destroy Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Chapter One

  They’d touched hands but for the briefest of moments during their one dance, but Fitzwilliam Darcy couldn’t wash away the warmth he felt every time he thought of the contact. And through gloves, no less. By God, he’d turned into a doddering fool acting much like his lovesick friend Charles Bingley. The vice around his heart squeezed. Love was indeed for the foolish. Elizabeth Bennet was not the woman for him. She simply couldn’t be. Good sense wouldn’t allow it.

  Again, he leaned over the basin of water the servant had brought to his room at Netherfield. He splashed the cool liquid onto his face, but not in an attempt to wash away the prior night’s festivities. Unlike other men, he’d not imbibed in the bountiful spirits offered. He’d abstained in an attempt to keep his wits about him in front of Miss Elizabeth. She enjoyed verbal sparring and she often caught him off guard with her quick wit. He wanted to provide her with a challenge, but once again, she’d shown him that her intellect was beyond compare.

  He pressed a linen cloth against his forehead. A ride on his steed would help him clear his mind. Elizabeth Bennet was only a country maiden and most certainly not someone he could entertain as becoming his wife. Could he? Of course not. His father would never have approved of her family, and alive or dead, Darcy cared for the man’s opinion more than he liked to admit.

  Darcy donned his blue riding coat and tapped his hat down tightly on his head. The majority of the occupants of Netherfield were still asleep and he doubted they’d notice his absence until after the mid-morning meal. Perhaps even later as the ball had ended in the wee hours of the morning. He’d return after stretching the legs of his horse and viewing the countryside. Then he’d simply tell Charles it was time to close up Netherfield and return to London.

  “A nice day for a ride, sir.” A young lad of no more than fifteen years met him at the entrance to the stable. A piece of hay stuck out from his mouth. It bounced when he talked.

  The boy had a sparkle to his smile that reminded him of Elizabeth.

  “Saddle my horse, Dark Mischief, and be quick about it,” Darcy snapped.

  The boy’s smile dropped quickly, and he ducked back inside the stable. Darcy glanced about the garden and into the row of trees beyond the well-tended hedges. He didn’t want bright sunshine and happy faces. He wanted the rest of the world to mirror his feelings of anxiety and confusion.

  “Your horse, sir.” The boy handed over the reins without making eye contact and stood back while Darcy rubbed the gelding’s neck. Although many of his peers sneered at the purchase of a castrated male horse, Darcy had seen a gentleness reflect from the horse’s gaze upon their first meeting. He hadn’t needed ano
ther breeder; he’d needed a horse he could trust with his life. Dark Mischief leaned against him as the gentle giant’s way of saying hello, and it lifted his spirits a few notches.

  He turned to the stable lad. “What’s your name, boy?”

  This time the boy removed the stick of hay from his mouth. “Dobson, sir.”

  Darcy reached inside his pocket and tossed Dobson a coin. “Mr. Dobson, if anyone comes searching for me, then tell them I’m not to be bothered. I shall return when I see fit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dobson bobbed his head in agreement. The smile returned, but Dobson twisted his head in an attempt to hide it.

  Darcy mounted Dark Mischief and they galloped toward the tree line. Good sense told him to take the beaten path, the safe path. But he tired of good sense. That path would lead him close to Longbourn—Elizabeth’s home. He tugged on the reins to turn Dark Mischief’s head. His horse could stand for some unexpected jumps through the tall grass. A brief whoosh of wind slashed across his face and Darcy pulled up the edges of his collar. He clicked his tongue twice and the horse moved forward into the shadowy depths of the forest, passing through the branches of a few dogwoods whose leaves reflected crimson in the bright sunshine. Horticulture had been a favorite study of his father, and until now, Darcy hadn’t realized how much he’d picked up by listening to the elder man ramble on about birches and elms.

  Once deeper into the forest, he came upon a clearing and in the center stood a large oak. Since the oak was full of acorns, Darcy surmised the tree must have stood tall in this location for forty years or more. Useless information, yet perfect for keeping his thoughts astray of a certain Bennet sister.

  Dark Mischief tugged at the reins, indicating his desire to taste the thick grass. Darcy patted his neck and released the leather lead, giving his trusted horse the freedom to mill around as he chose.

  The sounds around him were typical for the forest this far south. Birds chirped and bush crickets called out for mates. They were indeed the same sounds he’d hear if he were home in the forests of Pemberley, but they lacked a certain something. His missed Pemberley and his precocious sister.

  A screeching flock of birds taking to the sky pulled him from his thoughts. Dark Mischief danced to the side and shook his head. Something in the woods out of sight made the horse uneasy. The horse stomped his left foot twice and shook his head with such a fierceness that the reins completely dropped by his neck. Darcy lunged forward to grab them at the same time that Dark Mischief reared his front legs high into the air.

  Unable to catch his balance, Darcy twisted his body so his shoulder would take the brunt of the fall. He miscalculated and came down hard on his elbow. Pain surged through his arm and he sucked in a deep breath.

  Dark Mischief backed away, kicking his hind legs high behind him twice. He’d never seen his horse act in such a manner. Darcy stood and reached an arm to calm the animal, but the horse turned and galloped into the woods, his pace indicating danger was close.

  Darcy held his elbow and turned in every direction. He tilted his head to the side and listened. All the sounds of the forest from earlier had disappeared. No birds or bush crickets called to one another. What animal in the south could cause such a fright? Foxes? A pack of errant hunting dogs?

  He glanced down at his disheveled appearance. Bingley would have a laugh at the amount of grass and dirt caked on his coat. Positive there was nothing to fear, he began walking in the direction that would lead him back to Netherfield. Although Dark Mischief was not as familiar with this area as the lands of Pemberley, he didn’t doubt the horse would be back at the stables before dark in search of his feed. Perhaps if he returned earlier, the stable lad would send a note to Bingley and they’d come find him.

  A bit of a walk wouldn’t hurt. Miss Elizabeth enjoyed walking and had said as much on many occasions. Whilst his intent had been to erase her from his thoughts, he had to admit that he’d prefer to have her as a walking companion on the foot journey back to Netherfield.

  His lips twisted into a smile. No matter how hard he tried, all of his thoughts eventually led back to the woman who’d captured his interest as no other woman had before.

  A few minutes into his walk, he tested his injured arm by stretching it out. Good fortune had seen that his arm wasn’t broken. The soreness would last a few days. He leaned against a tree and gave it another good stretch. A rustling sound from somewhere to his left drew his head up quickly. He blinked hard at the vision before him. Had he hit his head and not realized it? George Wickham stood less than three horse-lengths away. A frail woman with wild grey hair sticking out from beneath a sleeping cap stood to his side. Her hands were bound together with iron cuffs and a chain.

  “Darcy.” Wickham’s gaze raked over him up and down and once again, making the hair on the back of his neck stand high. “How well you look. Fancy meeting you in the middle of the forest. Are you enjoying your afternoon walk?”

  The man’s tone held more than a measure of dark mirth and Darcy doubted Wickham’s concern for his well-being. The woman kept her gaze cast at the ground. Whatever Wickham had planned for the poor woman, Darcy wouldn’t stand for it.

  Darcy stepped closer and glanced around. There didn’t appear to be any horses. How had they come so far into the woods without assistance? “Wickham. What are you about? Why is that woman in irons?”

  Wickham tugged on the chain between the woman’s irons and laughed. “This is the Shire Witch. I’m to take her to Meryton so the townspeople can try her for her crimes.”

  The woman let out a soft sob and her shoulders rounded forward.

  “There are no such things as witches,” Darcy said. Wickham had truly moved into the realm of insanity. He’d have to report him to the militia once he returned to Meryton. “Unchain this woman at once.”

  A spark of fire flashed in Wickham’s eyes. “She’s a witch and I can prove it. I’m willing to wager she’ll cast a spell in order to secure her freedom.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  Wickham shoved the woman down to her knees. He removed his service pistol from the holster and held it to her shoulder. “Death or a spell, Witch? Prove to my dearest companion that you are indeed what I say you are and I shall set you free.”

  “Your words reek of lunacy,” Darcy said. The man had gone too far. And to what end? “You can’t murder that woman.”

  “Can’t I? Not a person in the Shire would miss this woman. I have gathered proof for days of her witchcraft, and the townspeople will take my word that she is guilty.” He tapped the woman with the barrel of the pistol. “Time is not on your side.”

  “What is it you wish me to do?” The woman’s voice came out in a low crackle like fresh logs burning in the fire.

  Wickham squatted down beside her and whispered in her ear.

  Darcy needed a plan of action. His gut clenched. Disarming Wickham became the highest priority, but he didn’t want to have the gun discharge accidentally. He inched towards them, flexing his wounded arm. The element of surprise needed to be on his side.

  Wickham finished speaking to the woman, and she nodded an agreement. He then trained the pistol on Darcy. “You need to stop worrying about saving her and start worrying about how to save yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed gentleman. You’d hang or face the firing squad.”

  “I don’t want to kill you. I want you to feel like a squished toad on the bottom of my boot.” A peal of laughter followed his words, but Darcy didn’t comprehend the joke.

  The woman stayed on the ground but began swaying side to side. She chanted a litany of phrases. Fluent in several languages, he didn’t understand the words, but he guessed them to be Gaelic in origin.

  The shadows of the forest deepened around them and the sun disappeared as though eclipsed by a large sphere. His heartbeat increased dramatically.

  The malice in Wickham’s eyes brightened.

  Darcy’s stomach clenched tighter and as if a large brute had
bested him in the stomach, he doubled over in agony. He writhed on the ground and every muscle twitched and cramped. How could this be? What had they done to him? His eyes clouded with unshed tears. His bones crunched and he cried out. “Stop! Make it stop!”

  Over the crunching and the pounding of the blood rushing through his ears, he could faintly hear Wickham’s laughter and the woman’s chants. If God had any mercy on him, he’d end his life now and end the excruciating pain.

  He held on to one thought—crawl away.

  His arms felt flimsy and uncoordinated, but he reached out and pulled himself toward the nearest tree. Through the glaze in his eyes he could barely make out the bark of the oak tree. Mushy hands grasped the bark and latched on with fierceness. He pushed with his back legs and to his surprise, launched into the air and clung to the lowest branch. How was that possible? Second by second, the pain eased.

  “What’s he doing?” Wickham yelled.

  “What you wanted. He is a frog now.” The witch—Darcy now knew this to be a truth—grasped at a key ring hanging from his belt. Wickham was too distracted to stop her.

  Darcy clung to the tree branch and pulled himself on top.

  “I need to catch him,” he said. “He’s getting away.”

  The witch unlocked the irons at her wrist. “You asked for a frog in exchange for my life. The frog is now yours to catch.”

  Frog? Were they referring to him? His eyes cleared, but only slightly. Everything around him had a fuzzy edge, as if he were looking through a concave lens. He held out his hand and when he sucked in a sharp breath, he let out an enormous croak.

  Lord in Heaven, had that sound come from his throat.

  Wickham edged towards the tree. “Comprehension must be setting in, my dearest Darcy. My witch has now turned you into a frog. A common frog. No less than what you deserve for the constant interference into my happiness.”