Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Today was the day. After weeks—no, months—of denial, Fitzwilliam Darcy was about to take that great step that would change his life forever. By the time the sun set, he would be engaged to be married!

He scarcely remembered meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It had been, he vaguely recalled, at that dreadful assembly in Meryton, the horrid town in Hertfordshire where his friend had let an estate. What had Bingley been thinking? Why, of all the places in the Eden that was called England, had he chosenthatone?

The decision had seemed reasonable enough when he and Bingley went to see the place the previous spring. In the bright sunshine of a glorious day, the green fields held every promise of prosperity and the blue sky lent the town a rather charming aspect. And, Darcy had to admit even now, the estate was fine. Netherfield Park would have been an excellent choice for his friend, if not for the neighbourhood.

Why, the town only had two inns and a rather respectable public house, and a bookshop and a milliner whose window was really quite inviting, and a lending library, and a decent tailor, and a twice-weekly market for excellent fruit and vegetables, and a… We ll, fine. Perhaps it was slightly better provisioned than Lambton, the town closest to his own estate. But still, the neighbourhood boasted only four-and-twenty families of any sort of standing, including a baronet, two landed gentlemen, and a knight of the realm.

Very well. Perhaps Meryton was not quite the social wasteland Bingley's sisters proclaimed it to be. Even so, it was hardly the place for one of his—Fitzwilliam Darcy's—status. Even if it was close to London and had a rather impressive set of assembly rooms and an unexpectedly fine orchestra for the ball.

Speaking of which, yes, that was when he thought he first encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet. His mind had not been in its finest condition, not after the truly dreadful few weeks he had spent first rescuing and then consoling his sister. There had been many more ladies than gentlemen at the assembly, and he had been expected to meet, charm, and then dance with every single one of them. Elizabeth had surely been in that number. The din in the hall had been tremendous and he had received a most distressing letter only that day from his sister's new companion, and he might have said something not entirely polite about one of those many, many young women who were clamouring for his attention. And his fortune. As they always were.

But over the following weeks, he had come to know her, and had found his eye always drawn to her. She was popular, bright and clever, and was often found surrounded by friends and admirers, usually laughing or showing off some jewel of wit. Her eyes, which at first, he had not taken any notice of, he now saw were bright and fine, intelligent and lined with thick lashes, and her figure, which initially seemed like every other in the town, he discovered was light and pleasing.

But it was her charm, her clever comments, that most drew him in, until he found himself seeking her out whenever they were in company together.

And then, heaven help him, her sister had taken ill whilst visiting Miss Bingley, and she—Elizabeth—had come to care for her. He had, until that moment, thought her an amusement, someone pleasing to the eye and ear to occupy his mind whilst he fretted about his sister and helped Bingley learn about crop rotation. A bauble in the shape of a pretty girl, someone to admire and then, just as quickly, forget, his aching heart not at all touched.

But no. For the more he was near her, the more he longed to be nearer still. The more he heard her laughing with others, the more he yearned to be part of the conversation. She was there when he closed his eyes and when he tried to sleep, when he rode through the fields with his friend, and when he tried to read.

Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. Were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger.

She was perfectly unsuitable. Her family was a disgrace, her prospects low. With that mother, those sisters, how could he even contemplate her? Her uncles, in trade! Her skirts, six inches deep in mud. Her eyes, glowing from the exercise, her footwork at the dance sprightly and precise. No! She was perfectly unsuitable, but, oh God, she was unsuitably perfect.

And so, he had convinced Bingley that Netherfield was a mistake, Meryton was a mistake, that the lady Bingley had fallen in love with a mistake as well, and they had fled like thieves in the night, both leaving their hearts behind them.

That was months ago. November the twenty-eighth, not that he had taken note of the date. Four months ago. But he had put Elizabeth behind him, had determined to forget her bright eyes and soul-stirring laugh. Until he arrived at Rosings, his aunt's estate, where he and his cousin came each Easter to look over the accounts.

And she was there! Her friend was now married to that dreadful parson, and Elizabeth had come to pay a prolonged visit. She was there. In the parsonage, in the fields, in his aunt's grand parlour, caressing the pianoforte. She played with feeling and charm, she sang like an angel, she flirted with his cousin, whom, until now, he had loved like a brother, and Darcy knew for certain that he could not go on without her .

Her family be damned, her low connections and his own expectations be damned, he loved her and knew he would never be happy unless he could marry her.

And today, having heard that she was at home alone, he was about to set off to proclaim his love to her and present her with the offer she surely had been hoping for since almost the first time they ever met.