Chapter 1

November 1811, Netherfield Park

Darcy finished his letter. It had been all but finished even before Miss Elizabeth Bennet told him he had much better do so than continue their debate, but he had gone on to fill another side of paper afterwards to avoid looking petulant. Whether anything he had written would be of interest to Georgiana was irrelevant, for he would not send it now. The captivatingly contrary disposition of a provincial squire’s daughter was not a topic he wished to discuss with his younger sister. He ought not to have committed his thoughts to paper at all, but he had been provoked when he turned back to the desk and his indignation had spilled onto the page without volition.

Bingley had called the exchange a dispute. Darcy supposed that was true and felt some dissatisfaction at having been goaded into it. He wanted to disapprove of Miss Elizabeth’s continuous challenges to his every utterance, but though he tried, he could not be offended. Largely because there was such an intoxicating mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner as made it difficult to believe that giving offence was her design. Every line of her repartee that he had written in his letter with the intention of illustrating her insolence had instead made him smile at the memory of her manner of saying it.

He shook his head as he blotted the page. Were it not for the inferiority of Miss Elizabeth’s connexions, he really believed he should be in some danger. Since arriving the day before, she had spent most of her time tending to her sister who was abed, ill, but he increasingly found himself anticipating those times when she did come downstairs. Conversations were always livelier when she was there, and he had formed an even greater appreciation for her expressive eyes, which invariably gave away when she was professing an opinion that was not her own. Making her smile had become something of a challenge to him whenever they were together.

Tucking the letter into his inside breast pocket, he turned his chair to face the room. Bingley was poking at the fire, and Miss Bingley was watching him do it. Hurst and his wife were muttering quietly to each other. Miss Elizabeth was reading a book—although, on second glance, Darcy questioned whether she was actually reading it. She stared at the same spot, and though he looked frequently for the next several minutes, he did not see her turn a single page. It seemed as though she would when she lifted a hand, but instead, she brought it higher, surreptitiously pressing two fingertips to her temple and closing her eyes.

Darcy frowned—was it the book she disliked or the activity? He could not see the title, but she was assuredly dissatisfied with something. She was used to less refined entertainment, he supposed—but still, he preferred it when she was lively.

“Might one of you ladies indulge us in some music?” he enquired.

Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the pianoforte. “It would be my pleasure. Unless, of course, you would like to lead the way, Miss Eliza?”

Miss Elizabeth, who had followed less enthusiastically, demurred with a gesture, and stopped instead at the near end of the instrument to rifle through the music books spread atop it.

Miss Bingley appealed to her sister to sing with her, and they played an elegant Italian song. Darcy wondered whether this entertainment pleased Miss Elizabeth any better, but her expression was inscrutable—and all the more beguiling for it. Miss Bingley glanced at him often, and even Mrs Hurst occasionally directed her song towards him with the air of one who expected to be admired, yet Miss Elizabeth did not raise her eyes to him once in the course of two full arias. He burnt to know what she was thinking.

Miss Bingley chose next to play a lively Scotch air and Darcy watched closely to see its effect on Miss Elizabeth. She scarcely seemed to notice the variation and continued to lean with her forearms on the lid of the pianoforte. It was an intriguing attitude, which gave the most alluring curve to her silhouette… Darcy pulled his gaze back to her face. She had closed her eyes, and as he watched, she returned her fingers to her temples and took a deep breath.

He chafed at the notion that she was finding proceedings dull. It might have been a quiet evening, but it was a good deal more enlightened than the raucous affair he had witnessed at Lucas Lodge the week before, when half the company had swung drunkenly into an impromptu country jig. Was that the sort of entertainment she preferred?

“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” he enquired.

She looked at him and smiled but made no answer. He repeated the question, surprised by her silence, and vexed that it made his still being seated more obvious. Her smile wavered, her usual good humour fleetingly replaced with a somewhat pained expression, though she recovered quickly.

“Oh, I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You want me, I know, to say ‘Yes’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste—but I always delight in overthrowing such kind of schemes and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt.”

She placed the book down and pressed her palms flat atop it, giving the distinct impression that she was propping herself up. When she tilted her chin to meet his gaze, the candlelight revealed a glassy quality to her eyes and the faintest sheen of perspiration on her top lip. “I therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”

The realisation that she was unwell ought not to have unsettled Darcy as much as it did. It was no great surprise, given the amount of time she had spent nursing her sister. Nevertheless, he felt uncommonly troubled by it.

“Indeed, I do not dare,” he said quietly.

She looked momentarily surprised, then suddenly exceedingly ill. “I ought to check on my sister. I beg you would all excuse me.”

“Premeditated contempt indeed!” Miss Bingley exclaimed the instant the door closed behind Miss Elizabeth. “Did you ever meet such an insolent creature?”

“Never!” Mrs Hurst replied with equal indignation.

Darcy wondered whether he ought to mention that Miss Elizabeth had seemed ill.

“And poor Mr Darcy, to be accused of scheming! I can imagine your thoughts, sir. You are thinking how ungracious Miss Eliza was to refuse your generous offer.”

He adjusted his position in his chair, though he knew full well that was not the source of his discomfort. A generous offer it had not been. “Not at all. I am familiar with the disinclination to dance and only wish I was more often at liberty to refuse.”

“Bah!” Bingley exclaimed. “If you refused any more often, you would never dance at all. Lord knows what you were about asking Miss Elizabeth for a reel. It would have served you right if she had accepted.”

Darcy did not reply.

Miss Bingley stood up from the pianoforte and hastened across the room to his defence. “Mr Darcy has had enough music for one evening, I am sure. I propose a different amusement.”

“How about that diverting little game we played at Mrs Hennessey’s soiree?” suggested Mrs Hurst.

“I beg you would excuse me,” Darcy interjected. He was in no humour to play parlour games. “I must speak to my man.” Without waiting for a response, he stood up and exited the room.

He strode towards the stairs, intent on tasking Milton with enquiring after Miss Elizabeth amongst the maids. That turned out to be unnecessary, for as he entered the hall, he saw her at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the bannister and her head bowed. He approached her, troubled to see the tightness of her grip on the handrail as he drew near.

“Miss Elizabeth? Is something the matter?”

She started and turned to face him. “No, nothing. Thank you.”

It was an obvious lie. It would have been difficult for her to look any more ill, and despite her avowal, she did not move.

“Can I summon someone to help you? Your maid? Miss Bi?—”

“No!” she said emphatically, then looked a little embarrassed by her own rudeness. More temperately, she added, “Thank you, I do not need any help. Pray do not let me keep you from whatever you were on your way to do.”

“I cannot leave you like this. You are clearly unwell.”

“I am not unwell, sir. There is no need for you to stay.”

Darcy hesitated. He could not fathom why she was intent on refusing assistance.

She sighed abruptly and declared, “If you will not go, then I shall.” She turned to walk away but had taken only one step before she let out a small whimper and slumped against the newel post.

Darcy hastened forwards, concerned she might continue to fall, and was mildly surprised when, instead of continuing to rebuff his help, she accepted his proffered arm and leant on it while she regained her balance. Only when he opened his mouth to call for someone did she pull away.

“Please do not! I concede, because I clearly must, that I have felt better, but it is just a cold, and this light-headedness will pass in a moment.”

“With respect, madam, I can feel your fever from here. At least allow me to help you to your room.”

“There is no need, and I beg you would not call anyone.”

“I cannot comprehend why you are determined to remain downstairs when you could go to your room and have your maid help you.”

“Because I would rather nobody knew I am ill,” she replied, almost desperately. “My sister is almost well again, and I hope we will be able to go home tomorrow or the next day. If I have a cold, I shall be trussed up in a bed just as she has been.”

“Would that be so very terrible?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Because then she would be required to endure the same contempt and pettiness that I have—and she will not do well with it. It is not in her nature to expect meanness, and she is ill-equipped to deflect ridicule. Therefore, I will not be ill, and we will go home tomorrow. Now please, Mr Darcy, leave me alone.”

Darcy stared at her, unsure whether to be offended or appalled. He did not like that she was distressed, but her charges were wholly unfounded, not to mention ungracious. How could she speak of contempt and meanness when she, and her sister in particular, had been given the greatest of attention by Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst?—

The recollection of those ladies’ derision moments earlier put paid to that line of thought. But he could hardly be included in the reproach. He was a gentleman—and gentlemen did not ridicule young ladies.

Except when they invite them to dance reels with the purpose of despising their taste.

He cleared his throat. “It is regrettable that you have been given cause to believe your sister would be treated with anything other than the utmost respect. Bingley, I know, would not like to think that either of you has been made to feel unwelcome.”

She gave a feeble huff of laughter. “My sister and I are the most unwelcome guests ever to have crossed a threshold, sir. None of you want us here, except perhaps Mr Bingley, and we have already established that he might change his mind about that in the next five minutes.” She stopped talking and brought both her hands to her face, pressing all ten fingertips hard into her forehead. “Forgive me. An aching head is no excuse for incivility. But you must agree that the sooner Jane and I leave, the better. Please will you leave me in peace to collect myself before I go to her?”

Her voice was strangled with weakness and even in the dim light of the hall, Darcy could see that her complexion was heightened. He thought it exceedingly ill advised that she should be out of bed, let alone unattended, but he could hardly throw her over his shoulder and carry her to her room against her will. That said, he had no intention of substantiating her accusation of ungentlemanlike behaviour, either by leaving her alone in such a state or by opposing her wish to remain undiscovered.

He pointed to the nearest door. “Why not go into the library? No one will disturb you in there.”

Only when he gave his word that he would tell nobody of her whereabouts did she consent to be led thither.