Darkness Falls Upon Pemberley
Prologue
Many things are rarely as they seem. That much he knew. It had taken but one evening spent in her company to understand she was like no woman he’d ever encountered. There was something in her air, in her manner of speaking, in the way she moved, and laughed that prevented him from dismissing her as commonplace. Miss Morton, Miss Redgrave, Miss Bingley—the dozens of others—with their simpering attention, banal conversation, and exhausting single-mindedness were commonplace; not Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Though they’d been acquainted less than a fortnight, Darcy had become thoroughly enamoured with her. For a man used to being his own lord and master, the development of such a strong attachment was unsettling; especially when nothing—not even the inferiority of her situation and connexions—had proven a powerful enough deterrent against the spell she’d woven.
Her intelligence was formidable, and had fanned the flames of his admiration with as much ease as the teasing curve of her lips had coaxed his smile. Her wit and vivacity garnered equal veneration, as did the subtle sway of her hips whenever she entered a room, or danced a reel, or strode confidently through the countryside as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
Her complexion was flawless. Her skin pale and pure, and her dark, glossy locks—whether seen by the glow of a wax taper or the natural light of day—were, to Darcy’s eyes, more luxurious than the finest silk.
His fingers itched to caress her cheek, her bare shoulder, the supple swell of her breast. The hours he’d spent thinking of her, fantasizing about her, wondering whether her body might be as responsive to his touch as he’d imagined had become too numerous to count. Darcy wanted to lose himself in her eyes, to immerse himself in her scent, to brush his lips against the shell of her ear and whisper his deepest desires.
He longed to make her breath quicken.
He longed to make her blush.
The thought of her blush alone was enough to make his pulse race. The idea of seeing Elizabeth with a flushed countenance, of hearing the quickening of her heartbeat—and at his hands—did sinful things to him; dangerous things; things that, as a gentleman, he could ill-afford to act upon with any lady, never mind one so utterly lovely and trusting as Elizabeth Bennet.
With an exhalation, he closed his eyes and attempted to put a rein on his heightened emotions. The last thing in the world that ought to be on Darcy’s mind was engaging in a flirtation, however deeply felt on his part; especially when his beloved sister was almost completely alone in the world, in isolation at Pemberley.
He scowled, frustrated and bitter about the cruel situation in which they now found themselves. A few months ago Georgiana was innocent and whole; completely unspoilt by the world and any evil that dwelled in its shadows; and Darcy, though he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was happy, neither had he been miserable.
But at Ramsgate everything changed.
Yes, he had arrived in time to save Georgiana, but not soon enough to prevent her current state, or eliminate her suffering. And though he and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had acted swiftly to exact retribution on the one responsible, in the end their actions were too little, too late. Georgiana was ever altered. Never again would she be the same girl they’d known and loved; and yet, neither would she ever be anything else.
Darcy doubted that any man—even his good-natured friend Charles Bingley—was capable of enough compassion to marry her. The fact that she could claim a dowry of £30,000 and ties to an ancient, though untitled family would carry no weight should Georgiana choose to confide her story to an unsuspecting suitor. In fact, the repercussions could be catastrophic.
Should Darcy decide to take a wife the outcome could be equally disastrous. Deception of any sort had always been abhorrent to him; therefore, he could never in good conscience enter into an engagement without absolute honesty. But what if, after revealing all, his intended refused to accept his beloved sister? Darcy would never disown Georgiana, but what if the woman he chose to spend his life with demanded it of him? What if she told the world his sister’s darkest secret?
Perhaps he would do better to remain a bachelor than take such a risk.
His conscience, however, whispered that Elizabeth Bennet would never make such a demand of him; that her heart was too kind and her spirit too generous to behave so cruelly, either toward Georgiana or himself.
For half an hour his mind entertained impossible scenarios. Should Elizabeth consent to visit Pemberley, then Darcy could introduce her to his sister. Georgiana, he knew, would take one look at Elizabeth and adore her with all her heart; and Elizabeth, after seeing the sweetness in his sister, would undoubtedly feel the same.
But would such tender sentiments survive once Elizabeth understood what his sister had so recently become? What Georgiana would always remain in the eyes of Society?
Darcy swallowed thickly. Would Elizabeth shun them? Or would her inherent compassion prevail, even in so hopeless a case as theirs? His practical side knew no connexion between them—either with his sister or himself—should even be considered, never mind attempted. But there was a part of him that was undeniably selfish, especially after the sacrifices he’d made for his sister’s sake. Was it so awful of him to wish to know such happiness as Elizabeth could bring? Would it be so terrible of him to attempt it?
He exhaled roughly and ran slightly shaking hands through his hair. It was October, he was settled comfortably at Netherfield, and, by Georgiana’s insistence, at leisure until Christmas. There is no need for rashness, he told himself. At least not at present.
His late father had been a firm believer that impetuosity was a mark of weakness in a man; weakness of mind and weakness of character. Until a few months ago Darcy had staunchly believed it, too; but no more. It was his impatience to see her that had ultimately enabled him to rescue Georgiana. Perhaps a bit of impetuosity could rescue Darcy as well.
Though they’d been acquainted less than a fortnight, Darcy had become thoroughly enamoured with her. For a man used to being his own lord and master, the development of such a strong attachment was unsettling; especially when nothing—not even the inferiority of her situation and connexions—had proven a powerful enough deterrent against the spell she’d woven.
Her intelligence was formidable, and had fanned the flames of his admiration with as much ease as the teasing curve of her lips had coaxed his smile. Her wit and vivacity garnered equal veneration, as did the subtle sway of her hips whenever she entered a room, or danced a reel, or strode confidently through the countryside as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
Her complexion was flawless. Her skin pale and pure, and her dark, glossy locks—whether seen by the glow of a wax taper or the natural light of day—were, to Darcy’s eyes, more luxurious than the finest silk.
His fingers itched to caress her cheek, her bare shoulder, the supple swell of her breast. The hours he’d spent thinking of her, fantasizing about her, wondering whether her body might be as responsive to his touch as he’d imagined had become too numerous to count. Darcy wanted to lose himself in her eyes, to immerse himself in her scent, to brush his lips against the shell of her ear and whisper his deepest desires.
He longed to make her breath quicken.
He longed to make her blush.
The thought of her blush alone was enough to make his pulse race. The idea of seeing Elizabeth with a flushed countenance, of hearing the quickening of her heartbeat—and at his hands—did sinful things to him; dangerous things; things that, as a gentleman, he could ill-afford to act upon with any lady, never mind one so utterly lovely and trusting as Elizabeth Bennet.
With an exhalation, he closed his eyes and attempted to put a rein on his heightened emotions. The last thing in the world that ought to be on Darcy’s mind was engaging in a flirtation, however deeply felt on his part; especially when his beloved sister was almost completely alone in the world, in isolation at Pemberley.
He scowled, frustrated and bitter about the cruel situation in which they now found themselves. A few months ago Georgiana was innocent and whole; completely unspoilt by the world and any evil that dwelled in its shadows; and Darcy, though he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was happy, neither had he been miserable.
But at Ramsgate everything changed.
Yes, he had arrived in time to save Georgiana, but not soon enough to prevent her current state, or eliminate her suffering. And though he and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had acted swiftly to exact retribution on the one responsible, in the end their actions were too little, too late. Georgiana was ever altered. Never again would she be the same girl they’d known and loved; and yet, neither would she ever be anything else.
Darcy doubted that any man—even his good-natured friend Charles Bingley—was capable of enough compassion to marry her. The fact that she could claim a dowry of £30,000 and ties to an ancient, though untitled family would carry no weight should Georgiana choose to confide her story to an unsuspecting suitor. In fact, the repercussions could be catastrophic.
Should Darcy decide to take a wife the outcome could be equally disastrous. Deception of any sort had always been abhorrent to him; therefore, he could never in good conscience enter into an engagement without absolute honesty. But what if, after revealing all, his intended refused to accept his beloved sister? Darcy would never disown Georgiana, but what if the woman he chose to spend his life with demanded it of him? What if she told the world his sister’s darkest secret?
Perhaps he would do better to remain a bachelor than take such a risk.
His conscience, however, whispered that Elizabeth Bennet would never make such a demand of him; that her heart was too kind and her spirit too generous to behave so cruelly, either toward Georgiana or himself.
For half an hour his mind entertained impossible scenarios. Should Elizabeth consent to visit Pemberley, then Darcy could introduce her to his sister. Georgiana, he knew, would take one look at Elizabeth and adore her with all her heart; and Elizabeth, after seeing the sweetness in his sister, would undoubtedly feel the same.
But would such tender sentiments survive once Elizabeth understood what his sister had so recently become? What Georgiana would always remain in the eyes of Society?
Darcy swallowed thickly. Would Elizabeth shun them? Or would her inherent compassion prevail, even in so hopeless a case as theirs? His practical side knew no connexion between them—either with his sister or himself—should even be considered, never mind attempted. But there was a part of him that was undeniably selfish, especially after the sacrifices he’d made for his sister’s sake. Was it so awful of him to wish to know such happiness as Elizabeth could bring? Would it be so terrible of him to attempt it?
He exhaled roughly and ran slightly shaking hands through his hair. It was October, he was settled comfortably at Netherfield, and, by Georgiana’s insistence, at leisure until Christmas. There is no need for rashness, he told himself. At least not at present.
His late father had been a firm believer that impetuosity was a mark of weakness in a man; weakness of mind and weakness of character. Until a few months ago Darcy had staunchly believed it, too; but no more. It was his impatience to see her that had ultimately enabled him to rescue Georgiana. Perhaps a bit of impetuosity could rescue Darcy as well.
Part One
The autumn wind blew in fitful gusts, rattling branches and sweeping fallen leaves into chaotic frenzy as nighttime settled over Hertfordshire. Inside Lucas Lodge several roaring fires blazed brightly in the drawing room hearths, welcome beacons for those who’d braved the sharp chill in order to make merry with their neighbours.
“I trust you are enjoying your stay in Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy.”
Though many of Sir William’s guests were vying for her attention, she was speaking to him, and Darcy was delighted. “I thank you, yes. Though I’ve been here but a few weeks, Miss Bennet, I’ve found much to admire in Hertfordshire.”
“I’m gratified to hear it, sir, for I’ve often observed that those used to the bustling excitement and endless attractions of Town have a tendency to declare our humble society confined and unvarying. Your lack of expeditiousness is refreshing.”
Elizabeth’s impertinence was far more welcome to Darcy than the insipid words usually uttered by the women of the ton. As always, she looked completely and unwittingly lovely. The rich chocolate colour of her gown, but a few shades lighter than her hair, presented a stunning contrast to her snow-white skin. Darcy’s eyes lingered appreciatively on each exquisite inch exposed to him. The elegant column of her neck, unadorned except for a delicate garnet cross, he found especially enticing. It would have pleased him infinitely more, however, to see her without any decoration. Her natural beauty was enough. She needed no further embellishment.
The sound of a mournful air inexpertly coerced from a pianoforte jolted Darcy from his admiration. Chagrinned, he forced his eyes upward until they met Elizabeth’s and cleared his throat.
“While that is undoubtedly the case with some,” he replied, “you seem to have forgotten, madam, my estate is settled far to the north, and thereby surrounded by a similar ease and solitude. Though I confess to missing the theatre and museums to some degree whenever I'm absent from Town, I'm afraid I cannot repine much beyond that. In fact, it has long been my observation that variety and freshness are as abundant in rural neighbourhoods as they are in London, if one takes the trouble to notice.”
She appeared amused by his response, and arched her brow in challenge. “Shall I take that to mean you are not eager to be gone, Mr. Darcy? Our humble shire and its eccentric occupants have yet to frighten you off? I find that interesting, indeed,” she said, raising her wine glass to her lips and taking a slow sip.
“I daresay we are all of us eccentric in our own way, Miss Bennet. I am, however, exceedingly flattered to hear that you find me interesting.”
“Oh,” she replied, “but I have not declared you interesting, sir, only your stubbornness.”
“You believe I am stubborn?” he cried, though his grin belied his affronted tone. “I suppose on certain subjects I am, but that I ought to be scared away by your neighbours, you must own, is a ridiculous notion. I've rarely met with pleasanter people.”
“Perhaps, I've misspoken,” she said archly. “Perhaps it is not the neighbours of whom you ought to be wary, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s smile slipped as he realised the irony of her implication, and felt a pang of guilt. Though this woman had most definitely taken him by surprise, and his instant, powerful attraction to her had caused him some degree of alarm initially, he'd never felt afraid of her. Discomposed by her, entranced by her, enamoured and aroused by her, yes; but certainly never afraid.
If Darcy feared anything, it was losing Elizabeth’s friendship because of Georgiana’s unfathomable situation, but he told himself that was presently neither here nor there. For Elizabeth to learn of their troubles Darcy would have to inform her himself and, though he knew enough of her character to know he could rely on Elizabeth’s discretion on many matters, he had no desire to speak so openly of something so painful to him; at least not when their acquaintance was still relatively new.
He could, however, speak honestly of other things, and said sincerely, “Miss Bennet, I have found your society, by far, the most satisfying of all your Hertfordshire neighbours, and I'm extraordinarily grateful for your kindness in bestowing it. Surely, you cannot mean to imply that I ought to be fearful of you?”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You do not find me fearsome, sir?”
A small smile lifted the corners of Darcy’s mouth as he shook his head. “I would not call you particularly fearsome, no.”
“Frightening, then?”
Darcy laughed.
Elizabeth pursed her lips in mock indignation, but her eyes, dancing with mirth, belied her pleasure. “Tell me. Is there nothing you find even remotely intimidating about me, sir? Nothing at all?”
He dipped his chin and shook his head with a rueful chuckle, slowly swirling the contents of his wine glass. Intimidating, indeed, he thought as he brought the glass to his lips.
As satisfying as he found her playful banter, in his heart Darcy longed to have a more serious conversation with Elizabeth, one where he could look into her eyes and confess his ever-increasing attachment to her, and perhaps, if he felt particularly bold, the ardent nature of his admiration. Now that, he owned, was a terrifying prospect!
While Elizabeth’s eagerness to seek him out and tease him on multiple occasions had managed to convince him his suit would most likely be welcome, he reminded himself that this was Elizabeth Bennet before him and not some calculable lady of the ton. She was nothing if not unpredictable.
He’d learned very early on in their acquaintance that neither his reputed fortune, his house in Town, nor Miss Bingley’s exultant praise of Pemberley had managed to impress her, which left Darcy in unfamiliar territory. The realization that he had nothing more to recommend him but his charm was hardly a welcome one. Not only had the reticent master of Pemberley felt uncomfortable exerting himself in order to attract the interest of the opposite sex, but his reputation had never required it of him. That is, not until he’d met a certain Hertfordshire beauty.
Drawing a fortifying breath, Darcy cleared his throat and, with what he hoped was an engaging smile, gestured toward a window seat in the far corner of the room that was, for the moment, blessedly unoccupied. There, they would have more privacy. “Would you do me the honour of indulging me for a moment, Miss Bennet?”
Before she could give him her answer they were suddenly joined by her father, whose grim countenance caused an almost identical expression to appear on his daughter’s. Despite his disappointment and annoyance at being interrupted, Darcy forced a civil smile to his face and said, “Good evening to you, Mr. Bennet.”
“I trust you are enjoying your stay in Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy.”
Though many of Sir William’s guests were vying for her attention, she was speaking to him, and Darcy was delighted. “I thank you, yes. Though I’ve been here but a few weeks, Miss Bennet, I’ve found much to admire in Hertfordshire.”
“I’m gratified to hear it, sir, for I’ve often observed that those used to the bustling excitement and endless attractions of Town have a tendency to declare our humble society confined and unvarying. Your lack of expeditiousness is refreshing.”
Elizabeth’s impertinence was far more welcome to Darcy than the insipid words usually uttered by the women of the ton. As always, she looked completely and unwittingly lovely. The rich chocolate colour of her gown, but a few shades lighter than her hair, presented a stunning contrast to her snow-white skin. Darcy’s eyes lingered appreciatively on each exquisite inch exposed to him. The elegant column of her neck, unadorned except for a delicate garnet cross, he found especially enticing. It would have pleased him infinitely more, however, to see her without any decoration. Her natural beauty was enough. She needed no further embellishment.
The sound of a mournful air inexpertly coerced from a pianoforte jolted Darcy from his admiration. Chagrinned, he forced his eyes upward until they met Elizabeth’s and cleared his throat.
“While that is undoubtedly the case with some,” he replied, “you seem to have forgotten, madam, my estate is settled far to the north, and thereby surrounded by a similar ease and solitude. Though I confess to missing the theatre and museums to some degree whenever I'm absent from Town, I'm afraid I cannot repine much beyond that. In fact, it has long been my observation that variety and freshness are as abundant in rural neighbourhoods as they are in London, if one takes the trouble to notice.”
She appeared amused by his response, and arched her brow in challenge. “Shall I take that to mean you are not eager to be gone, Mr. Darcy? Our humble shire and its eccentric occupants have yet to frighten you off? I find that interesting, indeed,” she said, raising her wine glass to her lips and taking a slow sip.
“I daresay we are all of us eccentric in our own way, Miss Bennet. I am, however, exceedingly flattered to hear that you find me interesting.”
“Oh,” she replied, “but I have not declared you interesting, sir, only your stubbornness.”
“You believe I am stubborn?” he cried, though his grin belied his affronted tone. “I suppose on certain subjects I am, but that I ought to be scared away by your neighbours, you must own, is a ridiculous notion. I've rarely met with pleasanter people.”
“Perhaps, I've misspoken,” she said archly. “Perhaps it is not the neighbours of whom you ought to be wary, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s smile slipped as he realised the irony of her implication, and felt a pang of guilt. Though this woman had most definitely taken him by surprise, and his instant, powerful attraction to her had caused him some degree of alarm initially, he'd never felt afraid of her. Discomposed by her, entranced by her, enamoured and aroused by her, yes; but certainly never afraid.
If Darcy feared anything, it was losing Elizabeth’s friendship because of Georgiana’s unfathomable situation, but he told himself that was presently neither here nor there. For Elizabeth to learn of their troubles Darcy would have to inform her himself and, though he knew enough of her character to know he could rely on Elizabeth’s discretion on many matters, he had no desire to speak so openly of something so painful to him; at least not when their acquaintance was still relatively new.
He could, however, speak honestly of other things, and said sincerely, “Miss Bennet, I have found your society, by far, the most satisfying of all your Hertfordshire neighbours, and I'm extraordinarily grateful for your kindness in bestowing it. Surely, you cannot mean to imply that I ought to be fearful of you?”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You do not find me fearsome, sir?”
A small smile lifted the corners of Darcy’s mouth as he shook his head. “I would not call you particularly fearsome, no.”
“Frightening, then?”
Darcy laughed.
Elizabeth pursed her lips in mock indignation, but her eyes, dancing with mirth, belied her pleasure. “Tell me. Is there nothing you find even remotely intimidating about me, sir? Nothing at all?”
He dipped his chin and shook his head with a rueful chuckle, slowly swirling the contents of his wine glass. Intimidating, indeed, he thought as he brought the glass to his lips.
As satisfying as he found her playful banter, in his heart Darcy longed to have a more serious conversation with Elizabeth, one where he could look into her eyes and confess his ever-increasing attachment to her, and perhaps, if he felt particularly bold, the ardent nature of his admiration. Now that, he owned, was a terrifying prospect!
While Elizabeth’s eagerness to seek him out and tease him on multiple occasions had managed to convince him his suit would most likely be welcome, he reminded himself that this was Elizabeth Bennet before him and not some calculable lady of the ton. She was nothing if not unpredictable.
He’d learned very early on in their acquaintance that neither his reputed fortune, his house in Town, nor Miss Bingley’s exultant praise of Pemberley had managed to impress her, which left Darcy in unfamiliar territory. The realization that he had nothing more to recommend him but his charm was hardly a welcome one. Not only had the reticent master of Pemberley felt uncomfortable exerting himself in order to attract the interest of the opposite sex, but his reputation had never required it of him. That is, not until he’d met a certain Hertfordshire beauty.
Drawing a fortifying breath, Darcy cleared his throat and, with what he hoped was an engaging smile, gestured toward a window seat in the far corner of the room that was, for the moment, blessedly unoccupied. There, they would have more privacy. “Would you do me the honour of indulging me for a moment, Miss Bennet?”
Before she could give him her answer they were suddenly joined by her father, whose grim countenance caused an almost identical expression to appear on his daughter’s. Despite his disappointment and annoyance at being interrupted, Darcy forced a civil smile to his face and said, “Good evening to you, Mr. Bennet.”
Part Two
Mr. Bennet observed no pleasantries beyond a curt inclination of his head in Darcy’s general direction before addressing Elizabeth. “I daresay you've entertained Mr. Darcy long enough, my dear. It's time to let Sir William’s other guests have an opportunity to enjoy his company.”
Though Mr. Bennet’s volume was discreet enough that his neighbours were unlikely to overhear him, Darcy had no such difficulty, and couldn’t decide whether he was more appalled by Elizabeth’s father’s assumption that he’d desire a reprieve from her society, or by the man’s complete disregard for her sensibilities by actually giving voice to such an insinuation.
Darcy assured Mr. Bennet that nothing could be further from the truth. “As a matter of fact,” he said, directing his attention to Elizabeth, “I’m unable to recall ever passing an evening so agreeably. Will you not take mercy upon me, Miss Bennet, and indulge me a while longer? I find I am loath to part with you so soon.”
“You see, Papa,” she said reassuringly, “all is well. There is nothing to fear.”
But their words did little to assuage him. “Be that as it may,” he replied, looking pointedly at his daughter, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that Mr. Darcy rejoins his friends now. He has neglected them this evening, and I have little doubt they’re regretting the loss of his society. I have it on good authority that Miss Bingley, in particular, wishes to see him safely returned to his party. According to Jane, she is an intimate friend of Mr. Darcy’s sister, who I understand is but sixteen years old.”
Elizabeth turned aside her head. Darcy’s keen eyes did not miss the heavy rise and fall of her breast, the hard set of her jaw, or the way her fingers curled into fists as she perceived the rest of her family on the opposite side of the drawing room, seemingly oblivious to the exchange taking place between father and daughter.
Her middle sister Mary was at the pianoforte, fumbling her way through another dirge while the two youngest conversed energetically with several officers. Their mother, who was forever encouraging their forwardness, attended them with an indulgent smile. Bingley was with them, and Jane, predictably, stood at his side. To Darcy’s surprise, however, Jane’s eyes were not demurely downcast as Bingley prattled on about whatever topic struck his calf-eyed fancy at the moment, but fixed intently upon Elizabeth with an expression of utmost distress.
Slowly, Elizabeth unfurled her fingers and raised one hand to her neck, where she tapped the tip of her index finger impatiently upon the garnet cross nestled at the hollow of her throat. Jane’s brows furrowed, as did Darcy’s, and Elizabeth swallowed thickly before grasping the necklace tightly in her fist. The expression she wore as she turned and addressed her father was defiant.
“While I will always understand your concern and Jane’s, and can even appreciate your interference, I assure you, sir, both have been entirely unnecessary this evening. There is no danger to be found here. Mr. Darcy is perfectly safe.”
Before either man could so much as blink, she had turned; a whirling dervish of dark silk, pale skin, and raven locks as she strode across the room and out of the door.
In that moment, Darcy wanted nothing more than to turn on his heels and follow her; to soothe and console her, and to contradict her preposterous presumption, for he knew perfectly well that, so long as he remained in her vicinity, she was far from safe with him.
But she was not the only one in harm’s way, for Darcy had known for some time that he was in very great danger himself: danger of falling completely and irrevocably in love with her; but propriety—and a drawing room full of people, including Elizabeth’s father—stayed him.
Propriety. Damn propriety! he wanted to scream. So far it had afforded him nothing but vexation, discontent, and misfortune. His acute frustration and anger—at Mr. Bennet; at his own intolerable situation and his utter uselessness to Elizabeth—peaked. If anyone deserved to be reprimanded for impropriety, it was certainly not Elizabeth.
She’d conducted herself with decorum during every encounter they’d ever shared, and Darcy respected and esteemed her highly; but the thoughts and desires Elizabeth unwittingly inspired in him were another matter entirely. Although he’d never voiced or acted upon them—nor would he ever, he knew, unless she willingly gave her consent—he could not deny that his powerful inclinations toward her were…ungentlemanly, to say the least.
Throughout the course of his lifetime Darcy had felt passionately about many things, but that passion was always tempered by an equally strong desire to remain in staunch control of his emotions; to think, and speak, and act in a rational manner at all times and in every circumstance. As a child, self-control was something he’d taken great pains to master; something repeatedly insisted upon and ingrained in him by his parents. Self-control was something the master of Pemberley had prided himself on and possessed in abundance—prior to setting foot in Hertfordshire, that is.
Seemingly without ceremony, Elizabeth Bennet had captured his notice, claimed his heart, and caused his inherently passionate nature to flare hotter than a bonfire. With each passing day, whether Darcy had the pleasure of her company or not, she’d managed to make his careful self-control wane to a disturbing degree. Some might even call it perilously close to non-existent. At times it was all he could do to keep his head on his shoulders and his ardency for her in check.
The unwelcome sound of Mr. Bennet clearing his throat returned him to the present. While Darcy could hardly fault any father for being vigilant with his children, he felt Mr. Bennet’s circumspection was, in this instance, severely misplaced. He had mortified, demeaned, and injured one of his few truly respectable daughters when his efforts would have been far better employed endeavouring to prevent his youngest two—and occasionally his wife—from flirting so shamelessly with the officers.
With a dark countenance he turned toward Mr. Bennet. Though determined to remain respectful for Elizabeth’s sake, as well as his own, Darcy found it difficult to speak without the authoritative tone he often used as Pemberley’s master.
“Mr. Bennet, with all due respect,” he began, but was instantly silenced by the menacing look on the elder man’s face.
“You, Mr. Darcy, have been playing a very dangerous game,” he hissed, “one that you are shockingly ill-equipped to win. I strongly urge you to keep to your own kind, sir, and give my second daughter a wide berth. She is my favorite and, though it pains me exceedingly to deny her anything that affords her even the slightest measure of happiness, I will endeavour to protect her at all costs and in any manner I see fit. However honourable your intentions toward her are, take heed when I assure you that any romantic designs you have on Elizabeth will bring retribution of the acutest kind.”
Though Mr. Bennet’s volume was discreet enough that his neighbours were unlikely to overhear him, Darcy had no such difficulty, and couldn’t decide whether he was more appalled by Elizabeth’s father’s assumption that he’d desire a reprieve from her society, or by the man’s complete disregard for her sensibilities by actually giving voice to such an insinuation.
Darcy assured Mr. Bennet that nothing could be further from the truth. “As a matter of fact,” he said, directing his attention to Elizabeth, “I’m unable to recall ever passing an evening so agreeably. Will you not take mercy upon me, Miss Bennet, and indulge me a while longer? I find I am loath to part with you so soon.”
“You see, Papa,” she said reassuringly, “all is well. There is nothing to fear.”
But their words did little to assuage him. “Be that as it may,” he replied, looking pointedly at his daughter, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that Mr. Darcy rejoins his friends now. He has neglected them this evening, and I have little doubt they’re regretting the loss of his society. I have it on good authority that Miss Bingley, in particular, wishes to see him safely returned to his party. According to Jane, she is an intimate friend of Mr. Darcy’s sister, who I understand is but sixteen years old.”
Elizabeth turned aside her head. Darcy’s keen eyes did not miss the heavy rise and fall of her breast, the hard set of her jaw, or the way her fingers curled into fists as she perceived the rest of her family on the opposite side of the drawing room, seemingly oblivious to the exchange taking place between father and daughter.
Her middle sister Mary was at the pianoforte, fumbling her way through another dirge while the two youngest conversed energetically with several officers. Their mother, who was forever encouraging their forwardness, attended them with an indulgent smile. Bingley was with them, and Jane, predictably, stood at his side. To Darcy’s surprise, however, Jane’s eyes were not demurely downcast as Bingley prattled on about whatever topic struck his calf-eyed fancy at the moment, but fixed intently upon Elizabeth with an expression of utmost distress.
Slowly, Elizabeth unfurled her fingers and raised one hand to her neck, where she tapped the tip of her index finger impatiently upon the garnet cross nestled at the hollow of her throat. Jane’s brows furrowed, as did Darcy’s, and Elizabeth swallowed thickly before grasping the necklace tightly in her fist. The expression she wore as she turned and addressed her father was defiant.
“While I will always understand your concern and Jane’s, and can even appreciate your interference, I assure you, sir, both have been entirely unnecessary this evening. There is no danger to be found here. Mr. Darcy is perfectly safe.”
Before either man could so much as blink, she had turned; a whirling dervish of dark silk, pale skin, and raven locks as she strode across the room and out of the door.
In that moment, Darcy wanted nothing more than to turn on his heels and follow her; to soothe and console her, and to contradict her preposterous presumption, for he knew perfectly well that, so long as he remained in her vicinity, she was far from safe with him.
But she was not the only one in harm’s way, for Darcy had known for some time that he was in very great danger himself: danger of falling completely and irrevocably in love with her; but propriety—and a drawing room full of people, including Elizabeth’s father—stayed him.
Propriety. Damn propriety! he wanted to scream. So far it had afforded him nothing but vexation, discontent, and misfortune. His acute frustration and anger—at Mr. Bennet; at his own intolerable situation and his utter uselessness to Elizabeth—peaked. If anyone deserved to be reprimanded for impropriety, it was certainly not Elizabeth.
She’d conducted herself with decorum during every encounter they’d ever shared, and Darcy respected and esteemed her highly; but the thoughts and desires Elizabeth unwittingly inspired in him were another matter entirely. Although he’d never voiced or acted upon them—nor would he ever, he knew, unless she willingly gave her consent—he could not deny that his powerful inclinations toward her were…ungentlemanly, to say the least.
Throughout the course of his lifetime Darcy had felt passionately about many things, but that passion was always tempered by an equally strong desire to remain in staunch control of his emotions; to think, and speak, and act in a rational manner at all times and in every circumstance. As a child, self-control was something he’d taken great pains to master; something repeatedly insisted upon and ingrained in him by his parents. Self-control was something the master of Pemberley had prided himself on and possessed in abundance—prior to setting foot in Hertfordshire, that is.
Seemingly without ceremony, Elizabeth Bennet had captured his notice, claimed his heart, and caused his inherently passionate nature to flare hotter than a bonfire. With each passing day, whether Darcy had the pleasure of her company or not, she’d managed to make his careful self-control wane to a disturbing degree. Some might even call it perilously close to non-existent. At times it was all he could do to keep his head on his shoulders and his ardency for her in check.
The unwelcome sound of Mr. Bennet clearing his throat returned him to the present. While Darcy could hardly fault any father for being vigilant with his children, he felt Mr. Bennet’s circumspection was, in this instance, severely misplaced. He had mortified, demeaned, and injured one of his few truly respectable daughters when his efforts would have been far better employed endeavouring to prevent his youngest two—and occasionally his wife—from flirting so shamelessly with the officers.
With a dark countenance he turned toward Mr. Bennet. Though determined to remain respectful for Elizabeth’s sake, as well as his own, Darcy found it difficult to speak without the authoritative tone he often used as Pemberley’s master.
“Mr. Bennet, with all due respect,” he began, but was instantly silenced by the menacing look on the elder man’s face.
“You, Mr. Darcy, have been playing a very dangerous game,” he hissed, “one that you are shockingly ill-equipped to win. I strongly urge you to keep to your own kind, sir, and give my second daughter a wide berth. She is my favorite and, though it pains me exceedingly to deny her anything that affords her even the slightest measure of happiness, I will endeavour to protect her at all costs and in any manner I see fit. However honourable your intentions toward her are, take heed when I assure you that any romantic designs you have on Elizabeth will bring retribution of the acutest kind.”
Part Three
A fortnight had passed since he’d seen her. Though Darcy told himself repeatedly that her absence from society was no cause for concern, a pang of desperation still took root in his breast. She was forever in his thoughts, no matter the hour—even while he slept—and, try as he might, he could find no cure. Nothing eased his hunger for her presence, or quenched his thirst to hear her voice. Nothing purged her image from his mind, or dulled his intense desire to know her more intimately.
What was this hold she had over him? What sort of spell had she cast, with her artless beauty and engaging conversation; her fine eyes and clever wit? How many mornings had he awakened from dreams so vivid he’d confused them with reality?
Had she truly come to him in his bedchamber, he wondered, her expression as tender as her touch? Each time Darcy stumbled to his door and found it locked, the absurdity of such a scenario seemed obvious; but why, then, did his heart pound as though it might burst from his chest? Why did his lungs burn as though he hadn’t been able to draw breath? Why were his sheets a tangled mess upon the floor, and his nightshirt sweat-soaked and twisted upon his body?
Darcy ran shaking hands through his hair. He was a disaster. If he didn’t speak to Elizabeth soon he was afraid he’d go mad. But where on earth was she, for when he’d brazenly called upon her at Longbourn during Mr. Bennet’s absence she was nowhere to be found. Neither had she attended Church, or visited the village, or called upon her neighbours and friends.
Clearly, her family was keeping her under lock and key, and Darcy feared it was somehow his fault. After passing so many agreeable moments together, he flatly refused to believe that Elizabeth’s sentiments weren’t equal to his for her. The idea was simply too painful for him to contemplate. It must be Mr. Bennet who was responsible for their separation, but for the life of him Darcy could not fathom why.
Had his private thoughts and desires concerning Elizabeth been known, there was no doubt in Darcy's mind that her father would have deemed them inappropriate; but Mr. Bennet was no mind reader, and Darcy’s conduct toward his daughter had always been that befitting of a gentleman. He could think of nothing he’d either said or done that might have angered Mr. Bennet to such a degree as to deny his approval; nothing, that is, except the keeping of Georgiana’s secret.
That Mr. Bennet would even suspect what had transpired in Ramsgate was impossible, for no one but Darcy, Georgiana, and Fitzwilliam knew of it. Of course, one of their servants could have betrayed them, but Darcy sincerely doubted that was the case, as the servants who lived at Pemberley had proved trustworthy and loyal to his family for generations. But perhaps his sister’s current proclivities no longer transcended that loyalty. It was a prospect that terrified him, and he suddenly felt a chill in his bones that had nothing at all to do with the weather.
What was this hold she had over him? What sort of spell had she cast, with her artless beauty and engaging conversation; her fine eyes and clever wit? How many mornings had he awakened from dreams so vivid he’d confused them with reality?
Had she truly come to him in his bedchamber, he wondered, her expression as tender as her touch? Each time Darcy stumbled to his door and found it locked, the absurdity of such a scenario seemed obvious; but why, then, did his heart pound as though it might burst from his chest? Why did his lungs burn as though he hadn’t been able to draw breath? Why were his sheets a tangled mess upon the floor, and his nightshirt sweat-soaked and twisted upon his body?
Darcy ran shaking hands through his hair. He was a disaster. If he didn’t speak to Elizabeth soon he was afraid he’d go mad. But where on earth was she, for when he’d brazenly called upon her at Longbourn during Mr. Bennet’s absence she was nowhere to be found. Neither had she attended Church, or visited the village, or called upon her neighbours and friends.
Clearly, her family was keeping her under lock and key, and Darcy feared it was somehow his fault. After passing so many agreeable moments together, he flatly refused to believe that Elizabeth’s sentiments weren’t equal to his for her. The idea was simply too painful for him to contemplate. It must be Mr. Bennet who was responsible for their separation, but for the life of him Darcy could not fathom why.
Had his private thoughts and desires concerning Elizabeth been known, there was no doubt in Darcy's mind that her father would have deemed them inappropriate; but Mr. Bennet was no mind reader, and Darcy’s conduct toward his daughter had always been that befitting of a gentleman. He could think of nothing he’d either said or done that might have angered Mr. Bennet to such a degree as to deny his approval; nothing, that is, except the keeping of Georgiana’s secret.
That Mr. Bennet would even suspect what had transpired in Ramsgate was impossible, for no one but Darcy, Georgiana, and Fitzwilliam knew of it. Of course, one of their servants could have betrayed them, but Darcy sincerely doubted that was the case, as the servants who lived at Pemberley had proved trustworthy and loyal to his family for generations. But perhaps his sister’s current proclivities no longer transcended that loyalty. It was a prospect that terrified him, and he suddenly felt a chill in his bones that had nothing at all to do with the weather.
* * *
The view from the drawing room window was wretched, the surrounding land and everything upon it mired by drizzle and fog. It had been this way for days and by mid-morning Darcy was at his wits end. He’d no patience left to extend to Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who sought to engage him in insipid conversation, inquiring in cloying tones after Georgiana; nor did he desire to remain any longer where he'd no chance of meeting with Elizabeth.
No doubt sensing his restlessness, Bingley challenged him to a game of billiards, but Darcy declined and called for his greatcoat and hat instead, intent on riding out.
“Are you completely mad?” Bingley cried. “The fog is thicker than Cook’s pea soup. Surely, you’ll lose your way and take a chill. Besides, we are to dine with the officers this afternoon, or have you forgotten? What shall Hurst and I tell Colonel Forster when you fail to attend?”
“You may tell the colonel that if I’d remained any longer in this house without the benefit of fresh air and exercise I could not have been held accountable for my actions.”
Bingley frowned. “Darcy,” he said, “it’s dreadful out there. Do be sensible.”
Darcy clasped his friend’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Bingley, but my mood is beastly. Trust me when I say that you and Colonel Forster would do well to be rid of me today.”
“However appalling your mood may be, I wish you’d reconsider and stay at home. At the risk of sounding like a woman, I will not be easy until you return.”
Even as Darcy’s lips twitched his resolve held firm. “I will be careful, I promise. You need not worry yourself over me.”
By the time his horse was saddled and ready, the rain had grown heavier. Darcy mounted without a second thought and set off at a canter until he reached the crest of a nearby hill, where he took several deep, cleansing breaths. The air there was crisp and cold, and helped clear some of the fog in his head, just as his journey to higher ground had led him above the fog below. With renewed focus he urged his horse onward at a punishing pace.
He knew not how long he rode, nor how far when his mount became spooked by some unseen apparition and reared. Darcy held fast to the reins, intent on keeping his seat, and managed to get him under control.
Muttering an exhalation, he dismounted, speaking quiet words of assuagement as he stroked the animal’s thick neck. This did little to soothe either man or beast, however, and Darcy squinted into the pouring rain, wondering whether there was real danger afoot. For the most part, he was on open road, but the road was flanked by several meters of hay, with thick woods bordering either side. The trees within appeared dense and overgrown, littered with briars and dead brush; a veritable fortress that Darcy speculated could not be easily penetrated by humans unless they wielded pitchforks and sickles.
A loud crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky, chased by a blinding flash of lightening. Darcy’s horse tossed his head with a squeal, nostrils flaring and eyes wide as the freezing rain assaulted them with renewed determination.
For one wild moment, out of the corner of his eye Darcy imagined he saw an all-too-familiar face watching him intently from between the trees, her eyes as dark as ever—as dark as the surrounding woods; but rather than lips the colour of pale rose petals, these were dyed a deep crimson—bright, and slick, and wet.
A shock of fear shot through his breast before he realized the absurdity of such a thing and shook his head, irritated and angry with himself. At last, he thought darkly, the madness has set in. Grabbing hold of his horse’s mane, Darcy jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted, more than willing to return to the warmth of Netherfield and the devil he knew.
No doubt sensing his restlessness, Bingley challenged him to a game of billiards, but Darcy declined and called for his greatcoat and hat instead, intent on riding out.
“Are you completely mad?” Bingley cried. “The fog is thicker than Cook’s pea soup. Surely, you’ll lose your way and take a chill. Besides, we are to dine with the officers this afternoon, or have you forgotten? What shall Hurst and I tell Colonel Forster when you fail to attend?”
“You may tell the colonel that if I’d remained any longer in this house without the benefit of fresh air and exercise I could not have been held accountable for my actions.”
Bingley frowned. “Darcy,” he said, “it’s dreadful out there. Do be sensible.”
Darcy clasped his friend’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Bingley, but my mood is beastly. Trust me when I say that you and Colonel Forster would do well to be rid of me today.”
“However appalling your mood may be, I wish you’d reconsider and stay at home. At the risk of sounding like a woman, I will not be easy until you return.”
Even as Darcy’s lips twitched his resolve held firm. “I will be careful, I promise. You need not worry yourself over me.”
By the time his horse was saddled and ready, the rain had grown heavier. Darcy mounted without a second thought and set off at a canter until he reached the crest of a nearby hill, where he took several deep, cleansing breaths. The air there was crisp and cold, and helped clear some of the fog in his head, just as his journey to higher ground had led him above the fog below. With renewed focus he urged his horse onward at a punishing pace.
He knew not how long he rode, nor how far when his mount became spooked by some unseen apparition and reared. Darcy held fast to the reins, intent on keeping his seat, and managed to get him under control.
Muttering an exhalation, he dismounted, speaking quiet words of assuagement as he stroked the animal’s thick neck. This did little to soothe either man or beast, however, and Darcy squinted into the pouring rain, wondering whether there was real danger afoot. For the most part, he was on open road, but the road was flanked by several meters of hay, with thick woods bordering either side. The trees within appeared dense and overgrown, littered with briars and dead brush; a veritable fortress that Darcy speculated could not be easily penetrated by humans unless they wielded pitchforks and sickles.
A loud crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky, chased by a blinding flash of lightening. Darcy’s horse tossed his head with a squeal, nostrils flaring and eyes wide as the freezing rain assaulted them with renewed determination.
For one wild moment, out of the corner of his eye Darcy imagined he saw an all-too-familiar face watching him intently from between the trees, her eyes as dark as ever—as dark as the surrounding woods; but rather than lips the colour of pale rose petals, these were dyed a deep crimson—bright, and slick, and wet.
A shock of fear shot through his breast before he realized the absurdity of such a thing and shook his head, irritated and angry with himself. At last, he thought darkly, the madness has set in. Grabbing hold of his horse’s mane, Darcy jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted, more than willing to return to the warmth of Netherfield and the devil he knew.
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