Chapter One
Why do I wish to dance with Elizabeth Bennet?
This must have been the fiftieth time Darcy had asked himself that question. As he had seen her speaking with her sisters, the impulse to request her hand for the dance had been so strong that Darcy had only resisted by quitting the Netherfield ballroom altogether. He strode away from the room as fast as was socially acceptable, ignoring a few quizzical glances as he fought the impulse to return.
It was true that Miss Elizabeth's eyes were fine, especially when she smiled. They sparkled as if she knew some wonderful secret to happiness. And her figure was light and pleasing, particularly draped in the ivory silk gown she wore tonight. She was an accomplished dancer; he could discern her superior abilities even though she had been partnered with that oaf, the pastor who was her cousin. And her hair…all those dark curls. If Darcy could only sink his fingers into—
No! Darcy paused in the middle of the corridor, resisting the impulse to bang his head against the wall. I must not think about her. Dancing with her is out of the question. Her station in life was decidedly beneath his, and many members of her family ignored proper social decorum. Even friendship was out of the question. Given how much she occupied his thoughts, he should not even speak with her. Just spying her across the room wreaked havoc with his equilibrium.
Determined to leave this strange obsession behind, Darcy resumed striding along Netherfield's back hallway. He would sequester himself in the library, where he could safely pass the time until these unbidden and unnecessary sensations had passed.
He scrutinized the line of closed doors before him. Which one led to the library again? A volume of history or one of Shakespeare's plays should serve as a sufficient distraction until he recovered his wits and could once more trust himself in Elizabeth Bennet's presence.
"Oh…Wickham!" Lydia sighed as the man traced a line of kisses from her ear to her shoulder. Truthfully it tickled, but she stifled her giggles; the man in the dashing red coat wanted to hear noises of pleasure from her.
"Lydia," Wickham whispered. "You are the prettiest girl I ever beheld."
Oh, he was so romantic! Lydia could not suppress a delighted giggle this time. To be sure, no one had ever uttered similar words to any of her sisters. She was the first! Well, perhaps Mr. Bingley had said something similar to Jane but not while he kissed her neck.
Lydia could barely see Wickham. His form was silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in through the window, but his face was in shadow. Not that she needed to see him when she could feel him; his hands on her back, her shoulders—even her bottom—felt deliciously illicit.
"Remember that we must not tell anyone about this…little tryst," Wickham murmured. His warm breath ghosted over her bare neck.
"I will remember."
Wickham's mouth once again latched onto her neck.
Idly, Lydia wondered which room they had slipped into. After she had consumed all those cups of wine punch, Wickham had escorted her outside to the gardens behind Netherfield, but she had objected vociferously to the cold, so he had found an unlocked door which admitted them to a dark, unoccupied room at the back of the house. They had not found a candle to light the room, but from the sound of the echoes, it must be fairly large. The floor also seemed somewhat uneven, but that might have been the effect of the wine punch.
Wickham's fingers stole inside the edges of her neckline, and Lydia gasped. What a wicked place to touch her! He paused for a moment, observing her closely, but after she smiled, he continued his exploration.
Wickham's hand slipped further into Lydia's bodice, caressing her shoulder; he showered her mouth with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. She moaned with a completely inauthentic enthusiasm. Denny was a far superior kisser, but he was too "proper" to do something as fun as stealing away from a dance for some laughs. Wickham was just as handsome and wore a red coat, too—and he was far more fun.
Why was it so "wicked" to be alone with a man? She was supposed to attract male attention; after all, it was the whole object of a dance. Most girls her age only attracted boys, not real men like Wickham. And the way Wickham touched her was not unpleasant—for the most part. Lydia just knew that if she gave these soldiers what they wanted from her, one of them would propose marriage. Then she would be the first Bennet sister to be married—and she, the youngest of them all! As Wickham kissed her neck, Lydia stared into the darkness and smiled at that vision.
However, an unwelcome thought struck her. What if Mr. Bingley proposed to Jane, and Lydia was still unwed? That would not do! She must redouble her efforts to capture Wickham's attention.
Lydia arched her back, pushing her breasts against Wickham's chest. Men seemed to like that, and Wickham was no exception. He groaned huskily, and his hands moved to massage her back.
A loosening at the back of her gown told her that Wickham had untied the laces that held her dress together. "Oh!" she exclaimed. This was a new experience but not necessarily unwelcome. Perhaps Wickham would propose if she allowed him this liberty.
Her dress slid off one shoulder, baring her breast to the cool air. Lydia could not prevent a shiver. In the next moment, Wickham's hand held her breast, mashing it most unpleasantly. But Lydia did not flinch. Perhaps this was the method for winning a proposal, although she had trouble imagining Mr. Bingley doing this with Jane.
Fortunately, the act was not too uncomfortable, and Lydia wanted Wickham to like her, so she would not complain. She stared into the surrounding darkness and made the little moaning noises men seemed to like. I wonder what room we are in…?
"Mama?" Elizabeth dared to interrupt her mother in mid-gossip with Mrs. Long. "Where is Lydia?"
Standing near the ballroom's windows, Elizabeth's mother could not have looked more annoyed. "Oh, I do not know!" Her hands fluttered about. "Off dancing with one of the officers, no doubt, which is what you had best be doing. They are a handsome lot!"
Elizabeth caught her mother's arm before she could rejoin the chattering ladies. "She is not dancing. I have not seen her this past half hour. Even Kitty does not know her whereabouts."
Mama shrugged carelessly. "Perhaps she is with that handsome Mr. Wickham getting some punch."
"Mr. Wickham?" Elizabeth asked. "I thought he had avoided the ball because of Mr. Darcy."
"Well, of course, Mr. Wickham wished Mr. Darcy to believe that!" Mrs. Bennet waved around her closed fan. "Mr. Darcy has such a handsome…fortune. What a shame he does not have a better character."
Elizabeth tended to agree; the man was unpleasant and proud. She had often caught him staring at her throughout the evening. No doubt he was cataloguing her every fault and misstep.
Mama flicked her fan open and fanned herself with great determination. "Mr. Wickham is here. He spoke with Kitty and Lydia not less than an hour ago."
Why did this news fill Elizabeth with unease? It was unremarkable, save that everyone in Mr. Darcy's party seemed to believe the militia officer was untrustworthy. She tended to disbelieve them, particularly after Mr. Wickham's description of how Mr. Darcy had treated him.
Well, Mr. Wickham scarcely mattered at this moment. She must locate Lydia. Elizabeth and Jane had agreed that their youngest sister should always be supervised at such occasions. But Elizabeth had lost sight of Lydia, and Jane was dancing with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth wanted to credit Lydia with the wisdom not to slip away with a man, but she could not be certain. The thought sent terror down her spine. What if a man hurt Lydia? Or disgraced her? The Bennet family generated quite enough gossip already; they did not need Lydia to ignite a scandal.
Elizabeth grabbed her mother's hand. "We must find her!
Her mother tried to pull free from Elizabeth's grasp. "You do not need me."
Elizabeth would not release her. "Lydia will not heed me. You must help me find her before she does something foolish!"
Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes, apparently annoyed at the prospect of protecting her daughter's virtue. But finally she heaved a heavy sigh. "Oh, very well!" She allowed herself to be led from the ballroom.
Darcy had opened three doors so far. One had proved to be a closet, and two were unused parlors. He was certain the library was along this hallway, but where? Darcy reached the last door in the hallway and opened it. The room was swathed in shadows, but the echoes and musty smell of books revealed that this was the right place. Excellent.
The Netherfield library was a particularly large room, although the collection was unexceptional. It boasted several comfortable chairs, and Darcy eagerly anticipated the escape that books would provide. Perhaps Romeo and Juliet…no, a comedy. Much Ado About Nothing? Twelfth Night?
A faint scuffling emanated from the other side of the room near the windows. Was there another person in the library? Someone who was sitting in the dark?
Darcy experienced a surge of anxiety and anger on Bingley's behalf. Was a guest taking advantage of Bingley's generosity? He could think of no good reason—but a number of bad ones—why someone would lurk in a darkened library.
There had been an oil lamp on the small table in the hallway. After opening the door, Darcy was able to reach out his arm until his fingers closed on the handle. When he pulled the lamp back into the library warm yellow glow illuminated his immediate neighborhood but did not reach the furthest corners of the room.
"Who is there?" Darcy held the lamp aloft so the light could more easily penetrate the darkness. There. He could make out a shadowy figure—or was it two?—in the northwest corner near the door to the back gardens.
The sounds of a muffled curse and the rustling of clothing were followed by a very feminine giggle. Oh, devil take it, had Darcy interrupted an assignation? In the library? Had they no respect? Anger surged through his veins, and he advanced on that corner of the room, hoping to discern more. "Who is there? Show yourself!"
Another curse in a most definitely masculine voice lent credence to Darcy's theory, but he was not near enough to see more than two vague shapes. One moved quickly, and the door creaked open. For a moment a male figure was silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and then he was gone; the door swung shut.
Was the woman still here? Another giggle answered that question. Damnation! Then there was a thump and a moan. Had the young lady hurt herself? Had the departing man injured her? What if she had been unwilling?
Coming across another lamp, Darcy hastily lit it and left both blazing on a tall table behind a sofa. Now he could discern the form of a girl slumped near the door, unmoving. Was she unconscious?
Darcy quickened his pace. The girl opened her eyes and blinked at him owlishly—more likely foxed than injured. She wrestled herself into a sitting position, and it was then that Darcy realized the top of her bodice was untied, exposing her breasts!
He should help her cover up! No, he should leave at once! He should look! No, he should not! Torn among conflicting impulses, Darcy lurched forward, his footsteps faltering. As he neared the corner, his foot encountered an unexpected obstacle in the form of a chair leg. Darcy tripped spectacularly, falling full length on top of the half-dressed girl.
The girl squealed. "Ow! You oaf! Get off! Move your hands!" Darcy hastened to comply, quickly removing his hands from anything that might resemble a female body part. "Get your hands off me!" the girl shrieked completely unnecessarily.
Darcy scrambled backward, attempting to find purchase and regain his feet.
Then he froze at the most horrible sound in the world: the opening of the library door. A female form entered the library from the hallway, silhouetted by candlelight from behind. "Lydia?" a voice called. Darcy had no trouble identifying its owner. Of all the women at the ball, it had to be Elizabeth Bennet.