It was outrageous! Never in his life had he been subjected to such an ill-tempered, spiteful, ignorant, ungrateful, rude, vindictive attack! Oh, he had been in his fair share of arguments at school, and even the odd scrap with George Wickham at Pemberley, but none of those occasions had sunk to the depths of hurtful abuse he had just encountered.

To make it worse, the fact that she was a woman had prevented him from responding in kind, no matter how great the provocation. He had told her a few home truths, to be sure, but at all times he had kept his temper in check. Whatever that harpy might have said, he had conducted himself as a gentleman.

To think he had offered her marriage! He congratulated himself on his narrow escape. Had she one whit better sense, he would now be bound for life to the worst-tempered and stupidest woman of his acquaintance! But oh no, not her. She had not seen the value of the prize he had offered her: to be mistress of the greatest estate in Derbyshire, entrée into the first circles, connections beyond any she could have dreamed of, and more pin money than her whole stupid family would see in a year. And him. She would have had for husband a man whose hand had been sought after by ladies of the highest standing and wealthiest dowries. She would have had him.

Had she been grateful? Not a bit of it. She had disavowed any such sentiment. "It is natural that obligation should be felt," she had admitted, but had continued coolly, "and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot." Oh, unnatural woman! She denied all natural feelings, and went on to abuse him most abominably.

He shuddered in relief that she had refused him. To have made the offer was foolish – to have been accepted would have been calamitous. For that, at least, he supposed he should thank her.

He had thought better of her. He had thought her sensible, witty, wise. He had thought her his perfect match. Oh, how badly he had let his emotions deceive him. In the whole course of their conversation, she had proven herself resentful, gullible and deceitful. What single thing had she said of him that he deserved? Not one! She had accused him of being offensive, unjust, ungenerous, arrogant, conceited, disdainful of the feelings of others – did she not know him at all? And then she had listed his particular sins: he had cheated poor George Wickham of his inheritance and separated her sister from Bingley.

Well, at least on that last point she had the right of it, though how she came to find out was a mystery.

But Wickham? How could any person of sense give a moment's credence to that man's tales of woe? He travelled the country bemoaning his ill treatment at the hands of Fitzwilliam Darcy, all the while running up debts, seducing maidens, and generally behaving like a cad. It beggared belief that he was still getting away with it. Of course, he had that damnable charm, those easy manners, that ensured he was able to make friends with ease. He had even deceived Darcy's father, an otherwise sensible and cautious gentleman. No, Wickham had the luck of the devil and the charm of an incubus. Of course an innocent young lady with no other information to counter his claims would fall for his story. But she had other information. She had ample opportunity to get to know Darcy, while she stayed at Bingley's estate tending to her sickly sister. Knowing him as she did, how could she then fall for Wickham's lies?

Obviously she was a gullible fool, and he was well rid of her. Let her go back to that ridiculous family in Hertfordshire and see how well she fared with George Wickham for a friend – she'd probably have her virtue stolen before the summer was out, and be left high in the stomach like so many girls before her.

It would serve her right.

It would.

It would.

It would … be unbearable. However cruelly she had rejected his proposal, she did not deserve that. The thought of Wickham enjoying the delights Darcy had hoped for (and if that bastard did not have designs on Miss Elizabeth before, he certainly would if she told him of Darcy's proposal – Wickham had never been one to resist getting one up on Darcy, and would take great pleasure in trespassing where Darcy had failed), the thought of Miss Elizabeth being used and abused by Wickham, the thought of her being disgraced and left to raise that man's by-blow – it was all painful beyond belief. She might have behaved like a spiteful hoyden in refusing him, but he could not leave her believing Wickham to be all that was good. He would have to tell her the truth, somehow, or at least enough of it to disabuse her and cause her to treat Wickham with distrust. If she had a talent for rejecting suitors, let her use it equally against his old foe.

But to speak to her again? It was impossible. After the interview they had just had, he could not trust himself to speak without bitterness, and he could not trust her to listen to anything he had to say, so clear was her prejudice against him.

Perhaps a letter? He could draft it carefully, avoiding any expressions of resentment or regret, and just focus on what he needed to tell her. If he could get it to her discreetly, if she would read it without rancour, if she gave any credence at all to his words, he might be able to do this at least: to let her make her way in the world free from harm by George Wickham.

It would be a very great risk, though. Such a secret to trust her with. If she let anyone know that he had sent her a letter, she would be able to compromise him into wedlock. Ha! As if the high and mighty Miss Elizabeth Bennet would do such a thing. What had she said? "I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry." There was no one he could better trust not to compromise him! She had no scruples in telling him to his face that she did not want to marry him. Why on earth would she do anything to trap him, when it would trap her just as surely?

So then, a letter.

It was hard to begin, though. She really had been very rude. It was hardly his place to make the first overture after such a harsh dismissal. It was still hard to believe how quickly the conversation had descended into argument. He had started so well, with an earnest declaration followed by an honest recitation of his struggles. Perhaps he had dwelt a little long on the inferiority of her family. Had he really used the word "degradation"? Dear God, he thought he had!

Until that moment, he had believed himself to have been in full regulation of his conduct, but it was hard to credit that he would have been so rude to a lady in the midst of a proposal. Could she be right to have called him arrogant?

But no, she said it was a view fixed in the first month of their acquaintance. He had not insulted her then. Her resentful opinion was pure prejudice, with no basis in fact. That first month was spent in Hertfordshire, in a series of casual encounters in soirees and dinner parties, and at that awful assembly Bingley had dragged him along to. What a night that had been – stuck between Bingley's clinging sister and the hunting pack of matrons on the scent of a single man of great fortune they might secure for their daughters.

She had been there, of course. He didn't remember whether they had been introduced or not, but he did recall that Bingley had tried to get him to dance with her. He had summoned a semblance of haughty disdain in order to dissuade his friend. It was unthinkable to dance with a stranger, and in such a crowd. Bingley should have known better than to ask, but he had been in a fine good humour, thoroughly distracted by the beautiful Miss Bennet. It had taken a cold and shocking reply from Darcy to convince him to desist. What had he said? Something about the girl not being pretty enough to dance with, he thought. Something of an irony given he actually thought her pretty enough to marry!

If Elizabeth Bennet had heard him that night, she might have had something to complain of – he had been arrogant, proud, rude, disdainful and condescending. How could he have been otherwise in such a press and hoped to come out alive? Those were his weapons of choice in surviving crowded ballrooms. But the chance of her having heard him over the general hubbub was … well, now that he thought about it, quite good, actually. She had been sitting quite nearby and he had not modulated his voice. Oh, dear God, had she heard him? Had her opinion of him been fixed so soon?

If she already thought him proud and … vain? … when she came to Netherfield, had she then been serious when she accused him of those vices? And of hating everybody? When she refused to dance with him? He had thought her merely teasing him, perhaps even flirting. He had thought she liked him. But he had never been more wrong in his life.

Well, he would not regret her. She was poor and insignificant. He could do very well without her. He would find a woman who understood him, who was intelligent enough to overlook an accidental insult or two, who saw his merits and esteemed him for his good properties.

He would be fine.

He would.

It might take a little while, but he would.

But first, the letter. He would simply set out his history with Wickham. And perhaps say something about the Bingley matter. He had been secure in his belief that Miss Bennet's heart was not touched by his friend, but Miss Elizabeth's reaction had shown him the magnitude of his error there. His honour demanded he explain why he acted as he did. He could not let her think it was because of Miss Bennet's lack of fortune – that would make him a rank hypocrite, and he could not have her thinking that of him. She was ready enough to believe the worst about him, so it would be best to put the record straight there.

Yes, Wickham and Bingley. He would explain her error on those two matters, coolly and dispassionately. He would find some chance to put the letter into her hand privately. He would have to meet her one more time to do so, but it could not be helped. He could hardly entrust such a delicate matter to a servant, and he could not bear to have her alive somewhere in the world at risk of seduction by George Wickham.

Secluded in his room, he began to write:

"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter…"

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