Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

November 14, 1811

Two Weeks Before the Wedding that Was Not

F rom the moment the note arrived from her sister Jane, notifying Elizabeth of the fever which kept her confined to Netherfield Park, Elizabeth ought to have known her own life would change forever. Her failure to recognise this was not entirely her fault; she had lived the previous twenty years in rote sameness, the facts of her life completely fixed: the second eldest of five daughters, her family the chief inhabitants of the village of Longbourn, their estate entailed away to a distant cousin, her portion as minuscule as her prospects. It was a good life, with a good family, but hardly one of expectation .

The change had begun unobtrusively with a lease to a neighbouring property—the aforementioned Netherfield Park—by the gregarious Mr Bingley. It had subtly continued when Jane had fallen in love with him. Fate, albeit still in disguise, had roared to life when Mr Bingley brought his friend to visit, the handsome and wealthy Mr Darcy.

Her first impressions of Mr Darcy had not been encouraging ones. ‘Tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me,’ had been his stupidly announced opinion of her from the assembly at which they met. Neither had she any desire to ‘tempt’ him or his consequence; she knew his type. All Elizabeth had hoped of him was a partner in the reel, and his offensive dismissal had convinced her that he was naught but a pompous aristocrat.

Nothing much had happened to change that opinion, until she had come to Netherfield to watch over Jane.

It had not been a terrible stay, once her worst fears over Jane’s illness had passed. Although Mr Bingley’s sisters, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, were—in Elizabeth’s opinion—as haughty as Mr Darcy, their accommodations were comfortable, Netherfield’s cook was superior, and the garden paths were pretty. Mrs Bennet had sent a note urging her and Jane to stay, as she and the two youngest Bennets had contracted fevers similar to Jane’s and were confined to their beds. She said she feared contagion, although it was likeliest that she feared they would depart Netherfield before Jane received a proposal of marriage from the kindly Mr Bingley.

Since Jane’s fever had proved minor, Elizabeth had no doubt that her family’s recovery would be swift as well. She was anxious to go home, but wavered— should Jane be exposed to additional illness?

While contemplating whether to beg for a carriage to Longbourn or to settle in for a few more days, Elizabeth ran downstairs to the library, anxious to see if anything in the admittedly small book collection might provide amusement for her ailing sister. Disdaining the slim selection at eye level, she had just knelt to read the titles on the lowest shelf, when she heard the creaky door open, then firmly shut. A voice—Mrs Hurst’s—demanded, “Caroline, you must gain control of yourself! Stop this, now!”

The sound of sobs echoed throughout the room.

Startled, Elizabeth froze; she did not wish to embarrass her hostesses by revealing herself, but neither did she wish to eavesdrop. Miss Bingley was hysterical, and all of Mrs Hurst’s hushing did not appear to be helping. Still, she started to stand, to make them aware of her presence when Miss Bingley blurted, “That awful Elizabeth Bennet! Why , Louisa? Why is he in love with her ?”

Elizabeth plopped back down onto the plush carpet. In love? Who does she believe in love with me? Is Miss Bingley mad?

Yet, as she thought it, the image of the tall, handsome Mr Darcy flashed within her mind. There is only one man who might excite Miss Bingley’s jealousy to such an extent, except…he despises me!

“Listen to me!” Mrs Hurst ordered in a firm, lecturing tone. “You must not tease Mr Darcy about Miss Elizabeth. Why would you so boldly plan aloud his marriage to her? Her eyes are her finest feature, so why do you frequently draw his attention to them? Do you wait for him to refute it?”

“What does it matter?” Miss Bingley sniffed. “He does nothing except follow her with his eyes, everywhere she goes! He says she is the handsomest woman of his acquaintance— never hesitating to bestow praise upon her for the slightest goodness while she is practically rude to him in return! Anyone can see her indifference, whilst he slavers after her! ’Tis so unfair! She is a nobody with nothing!”

“Exactly,” Mrs Hurst chided. “She is a good-looking nobody. He cannot marry her—she brings nothing to the match. So what if she has sparked his interest? He will resist. But whether he does or does not, Caroline, you have always known he looks upon you almost as a sister and nothing else. The more you tease him, the more insistently he attempts to show you that your wishes are futile. I do not believe he means to be unkind. He wants you to stop hoping.”

“Do not you think I know that?” Miss Bingley cried. “But to watch him fall in love, right before my very eyes, with an impoverished woman who thinks herself better than him, is excruciating! She has no right to-to belittle him before everyone. He does not see it!”

“Would it be any better if she returned his affections? Be thankful she does not care for him if it is so upsetting, but dear, you must prepare yourself for his eventual marriage!”

Miss Bingley sniffed. “You know Charles needs him still—Papa died too soon, and our brother would be utterly lost in taking the reins of estate management, or really, anything of import without him.”

“Of course he does—but that is no reason to keep hoping. He will never change his mind, not if Charles relies upon him in every decision for the next decade,” Mrs Hurst argued relentlessly. “You are beautiful, with wealth and untold opportunity before you. Take advantage of your connexion to Mr Darcy, but do not let it destroy you. Above all, you must set your heart upon someone else.”

“As you did?” Miss Bingley said—not snidely, but rather as if it were a hopeless task.

There was a long pause.

“I chose Montrose Hurst because the match allows me to do exactly as I please. I did not want love then and still do not. Monty does as he wishes, and so do I, and both of us are content. You are responsible for your own happiness, dear. Believe me when I say, it will not be with Fitzwilliam Darcy. Find another man.”

The silence lasted a few more moments. “I hate the country and, most especially, I hate this place,” Miss Bingley said, her voice less tearful. “The sooner we can extract Charles from Miss Bennet’s clutches and return to town, the better.”

“That would be wisest,” Mrs Hurst agreed briskly. “Now, take yourself to your chambers, rest and restore yourself. No more of these tantrums, Sister-mine.”

Shortly thereafter, the creaking door opened, then softly shut. When Elizabeth was certain she was finally alone, she collapsed onto the library floor, staring up at the ceiling. What, oh what had just happened?

How could Mr Darcy possibly be in love…with me?

It was not until they shared a house together that Darcy realised the extent of his danger. This, even though his interest in Elizabeth Bennet—unsought, unwanted—had begun simmering shortly after the assembly where they had been introduced.

Or, to be explicit, where at least twenty young ladies had been introduced, the gleam of avarice shining in parental eyes as they chucked their daughters at him. All Darcy had wanted was to set up Bingley with his new neighbours so he could return to town and begin trying to cheer his grieving sister. He had seen no reason to give any of those na?ve country lasses hope. Although he did need to marry, and had no idea of their fortunes or standing, he had been able to tell at a glance that none would meet his own discerning standards, much less those of his aunt, the fastidious Lady Matlock, nor his uncle, the renowned earl of Matlock—both of whose good opinion he deemed necessary for Georgiana’s sake. A settlement of at least thirty thousand, stylish in dress and etiquette, sober in behaviour and breeding, a ton leader who would both guide his sister and be a credit to Pemberley—these were Darcy’s minimum requirements. Instead, he had been surrounded by loud laughter, light minds, and last year’s fashions.

Thus, when Bingley had first urged him to dance with Miss Elizabeth, he had seen nothing but the thinnest veneer of her—young but not too young, tall but not too tall, a dark-haired, dark-eyed…lump. He had delivered an insult rather than an offer, with a precision slice meant to cut away any expectations and leave him in peace.

That the insult might have been spoken loudly enough to hurt the feelings of said lump, he had not considered; he had meant, only, that she— it —ought never to look at him again.

He had not, however, expected eyes sparkling with laughter as she murmured something to her friend. He had not caught much of what she said except the word ‘relic’ and the phrase ‘decaying dullard’. Relic? Me? Decaying dullard? he had thought. She was odd and absurd and tasteless, and he had been left with the feeling she had meant him to hear.

Yet, she had made an impression, if not a good one. Over the next two months, he had not been able to help picking her out of every crowd, and she seemed to be everywhere . People were more likely to smile when she was near; they flocked to her like Lot’s wife to Gomorrah, asking her opinions, wanting her conversation, her smiles, her attention.

Of course, the more he observed her, the more he became aware of her familial flaws. While she—and her elder sister, it must be admitted—behaved with perfect propriety, her mother was loud, gossipy, and scatter-brained, her younger sisters silly and shameless. The father was a gentleman, but he certainly curbed none of the behaviour in his womenfolk he ought to have checked.

So why was it a struggle to ignore them all, and most especially Miss Elizabeth? It was damnably annoying. Still, he might have resisted— would have resisted—had not Miss Jane Bennet fallen ill at Netherfield.

From the moment Miss Elizabeth had first appeared in Netherfield’s breakfast parlour—her glorious hair escaping its restraints, her cheeks pink, her eyes brightened by the exercise of walking three miles to reach her sister—his entire body had become an arrow pointing to its own true north. Miss Bingley had rattled on with stinging criticism—would he want Georgiana to tramp for miles through mud, to appear amongst relative strangers, to bring those strangers to their feet with various expressions of astonishment at her appearance? No, of course not!

There was absolutely nothing in his feelings for Elizabeth Bennet that he wished any man to feel for his young sister.

It was not until that moment that he had realised he wanted her—wanted her not simply in his bed, but in his life; he wanted her attention, her regard, her feelings, her commitment to him and only him.

Miss Elizabeth’s sole aim was to care for a most beloved sister, Darcy could easily see. Had she heard the critique on her muddy hems or wild hair, she would have cared nothing.

Her family was still shockingly inappropriate; her portion, Miss Bingley had hastened to inform him, was non-existent. Miss Elizabeth was not for him.

But he wanted her, and the wanting was a fever far worse than anything that Mr Jones, the local apothecary, could ever treat.