Chapter 1

One

Friday, April 10, 1812

Outside Rosings Park's stable at daybreak, Fitzwilliam Darcy stood holding Cadogan's reins, knowing he had but a moment to decide whether it was nobler to suffer in silence or to confess a staggering failure.

Could his favourite cousin's pity or the slings and arrows of his teasing be endured? No, Darcy was of a disposition to tolerate neither commiseration nor ridicule.

Nobly suffering in silence it will be then. No one else must ever know of my vain attempt. Except her, of course. Still, he thought it would have been gratifying to have had the colonel's assurance that he in no way resembled the uncomplimentary portrait of him painted the previous evening.

"So, after only three weeks, you are deserting us, leaving me to deal with"—Darcy's head twitched towards the manor—"them."

"Sorry, old chap." Colonel Fitzwilliam was in the process of adjusting his horse's girth, so it was debatable whether his apology was meant for Cadogan or Darcy. "Speaking of deserting, where the devil did you go last evening? I thought you might have been at the parsonage entertaining a certain pert young lady who dared decline our aunt's invitation to drink tea."

Yes, I went there, only to be scathingly spurned by that pert young lady—the woman I ardently admire and love. Darcy's indignant huff formed a cloud in the frosty air. Admired and loved. Past tense.

He knew he was fooling no one, least of all himself. He loved her still, in spite of the heartache she had caused, but her rejection was akin to bereavement, a loss as keenly felt as the untimely deaths of his parents. From those experiences, he knew grief would become less painful over time. That morning though it hurt deeply, to his very soul. Furthermore, his pride had taken an awful beating at her hands.

In response to his cousin's enquiry, Darcy scoffed. "Engaging Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I should think not." Forcing his eyes from the direction of the parsonage where she remained a guest, he rubbed Cadogan's neck with strong, rhythmic strokes. "If you must know, I went for a ride." A wild, reckless gallop that did naught to soothe this hellish anguish .

Although a groom already had done so, the colonel bent to inspect his horse's hooves. "I hope you enjoyed your freedom, Darcy, because let me tell you, once the Hunsford party left, there was neither pleasure nor escape to be had. Lady Catherine subjected me to her wrath. How was I even remotely responsible for your dereliction of duty?"

Surmising the colonel was accountable for information of which Darcy would have preferred Elizabeth remained unaware, he felt not a whit of sympathy for him.

Serves you right, you meddling rat.

"She even criticised my superiors for summoning me away from Anne's forthcoming celebration. I only managed to beat a hasty retreat when she ceased haranguing me long enough to take an overdue breath."

Tilting his head skywards, Darcy released another huff and watched the exhalation dissipate into nothingness, just as his hopes had done. You had it easy, my friend. Last evening I endured bitter criticism from not one but two women. To be rejected! And with so little endeavour at civility.

After his punishing ride, as soon as the manor's front door had closed behind him, Darcy had been accosted by Lady Catherine.

"Nephew! I insist you put aside your bachelor ways, do your duty, and marry my daughter."

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Her breath had been entirely wasted on him. Confronted with that same old claptrap, he had responded in a disrespectful tone and was summarily dismissed. Retreating to his bedchamber, he had poured himself a large rummer of brandy—then another. Not a drop of solace was found in the bottom of the glass, only a swimming head and waves of umbrage and broken-heartedness.

Recollecting himself, Darcy handed the reins to his cousin. "Since events at Ramsgate, I have hardly known the blessing of a single tranquil hour." But upon encountering Elizabeth in Kent, he had hoped his life was about to take a turn for the better. Why could he not have that which he most desired?

"Well, Cousin, as Claudius said in Hamlet , ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions'." The colonel heaved himself upon the saddle. "You know I would stay longer and help you investigate the bizarre goings-on hereabouts, if at all possible, but unfortunately for both of us, duty calls. Just remember, if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next." He tipped his hat and trotted off towards London and his own regiment of battalions.

Longing to be away himself, Darcy kept watch until his cousin disappeared from view.

When sorrows and troubles come, they come not single spies but as the women in my life—Georgiana, Lady Catherine, Anne, and last but certainly not least, the irrepressible Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Interwoven with his tangle with the latter young lady, the knots created by his female relations needed unravelling.

Squaring his shoulders, he made for the house. Veering from the front door, he sneaked in through the garden entrance, thus avoiding another confrontation with his aunt, though he doubted she would be awake until much later.

The manor quietly hummed with activity as maids and footmen went about their duties—opening shutters, cleaning ashes and soot from grates, sweeping, dusting, polishing, and myriad other tasks. But they might as well have been invisible as Darcy passed by them, lost in thought.

Clearly, he had been out of his senses to pay addresses to a young lady of lower standing. Moreover, Elizabeth Bennet was out of her senses to have refused him. As conceit and indignation rose within his breast, Darcy considered how fortunate he was to have escaped such inequality. And he told himself, while hastening up the staircase, that particular thought had nothing at all to do with Aesop's sour grapes.

A lesser man might have felt his life as tragic as Hamlet , the play from which Colonel Fitzwilliam had quoted.

At least, unlike Shakespeare's tale, there are no dead bodies littering the place. Yet.

Darcy had a letter to write, and he would attempt to be civil about it, even if it killed him.

It was done. Three hours had passed since he had awakened at five to bid his cousin farewell and to compose a response to Elizabeth's allegations. Not of an inclination to mince words, Darcy's bitterness had spewed forth upon two sheets of hot-pressed letter paper and spilled over onto the envelope page.

The ink was sanded and the sheaf folded with precision. Quality sealing wax, scented with cloves and balsam, was melted above the candle, releasing an aroma evocative of Christmas. Despite his expectations to the contrary, Pemberley would not have a delightful mistress presiding over Yuletide festivities that year.

Once the wax was applied to the paper, the taper's flame was snuffed between wetted thumb and forefinger. His eyes watered, and he denied the sting had anything to do with other than the smoking candle.

If ever I marry, it will be for affection and connexions, not for some grand love. With undue force, the Darcy intaglio was stamped into the warm, red blob, thus sealing both the letter and his fate. Love—a daft, fanciful notion!

Stepping away from the desk, he flexed cramped fingers and donned his superfine coat. A glance at the pier glass revealed a pale, drawn face with shadows beneath the eyes. Tucked into a breast pocket, the letter weighed him down like the celestial sphere resting upon Atlas's shoulders. Even under that encumbrance, Darcy walked tall and with confidence as he left the bedchamber.

How he wished he could escape as his cousin had done—flee, sneak away from the monstrosity of a house. Just go, and let them sort out their own problems . At times, family duty was a damnable millstone round one's neck.

Descending the stairs, he wondered how a person could be filled with emptiness.

Now I am adrift, off course. Thrown over. Cast aside like so much rubbish into the sea. But there was a lifeline, a rope tethering him. Duty to Georgiana and to Pemberley would save him from being carried along in a strong current, as some of his dissolute peers were apt to do.

With several collars hindering all attempts to rub away tenseness in his nape and with the hatband pressing into his aching skull, Darcy left the house and advanced towards Elizabeth's favourite walk.

Upon arrival, he stood reminiscing. We used to meet here and ? —

Unbidden, an image of her angry face superimposed itself behind his squeezed-shut eyes. At variance with his feelings, she never had cherished their frequent encounters and rambles together. How could he have been so terribly wrong about her opinion of him? At least he had learnt that she, of all the Bennets, was not mercenary.

An endlessly dull, barren world loomed on the horizon. A bleak future seemed imminent. Nevertheless, as he strode eastwards into the rising sun, Darcy had to admit the weeks spent in Kent had made a noticeable difference in the budding of the early trees. The countryside was not as lifeless as it seemed.

Having already postponed his departure several times, he had planned to leave the following day but was compelled to remain at Rosings—not in accordance with Lady Catherine's edict but for his cousin Anne's sake. Never would he have agreed to stay for the ball had he known his proposal would be rejected, but not once had such a possibility entered Darcy's mind. If he remembered correctly, Elizabeth was to depart on the eighteenth.

Perhaps her own departure will be brought forward, sparing me the agony of the woman's prolonged presence. He had gone from wanting her forever by his side to wanting her gone from his sight.

After pacing for half an hour along her preferred route and eventually assuming she, contriving to avoid him, had steered clear of that particular walk, he abandoned any hope of encountering Elizabeth that morning.

How foolish I was to expend time and energy writing to a young lady so wholly unconnected with me.

Cringing at the dreadful bitterness of spirit in which the letter had been written, Darcy intended to consign the missive to a good blaze upon return to his room. His words would be burnt to a crisp, leaving nothing but charred remains, like the remnants of his ill-fated aspirations.

Not yet wanting to return to the manor and the people therein, he ambled along the lane towards blooming wild cherry trees. Even their white, frothy flowers failed to gladden his heart.

When visiting his de Bourgh relations as a youth and wanting to escape Lady Catherine's tirades, he often had run to the wooded paths far beyond the park, so he directed his steps thus.

Perhaps I wandered here this morning to escape the memory of another woman's verbal onslaught. The voice he previously had thought so endearingly sweet had turned harsh twelve hours earlier. Raised in vitriol, it had accused him of numerous shortcomings. In a tone as sharp as a honed dagger, her final insult had been that he was the last man in the world whom she ever could be prevailed on to marry. The last man! Was she mad?

Upon entering the woods, a shaft of sunlight shone through the trees, stabbing his bleary eyes. Tipping his brim downwards and in such affliction as rendered him careless to his surroundings, Darcy watched his boots make long strides. A robin's song could not compete against Elizabeth Bennet's voice repeatedly ringing in his ears. ‘ Your arrogance…conceit…selfish disdain of the feelings of others…so immoveable a dislike…I had not known you a month before I felt that you were ? — '

"Mr Darcy!"

Egad. The self-same young lady who had occasioned the extinction of all his dearest hopes was standing alongside the path.

Bathed in dappled light, she was heartbreakingly lovely. What a pretty picture she made standing there! He thought even the most gifted portraitist could not do justice to her loveliness, and his heart broke anew. Yesterday I was certain to be engaged to her, ecstatically so, by now .

Someday, some fortunate man would win her hand, and Darcy could not help but despise him for it. In his chest, the organ that had grown tender ached from loss and wounded pride, but vestiges of anger remained.

I shall be the epitome of gentlemanliness and charm, and she soon will regret her refusal.

Darcy knew he was deluding himself, for he was wracked more by sadness and mortification than vindictiveness. Still, he wished her a lifetime of happiness. Could she perceive from his countenance all she had wrought?

They looked upon one another, and he fell into the fathomless depths of warm, brown eyes until she moved past him.

"Madam, wait!" His tone, even to his own ears, sounded snappish.