A/N: Hi to everyone that *might* be reading my fanfic. This is my first ever attempt at writing a story/fic/whatever. I'm just using this site as an incentive to actually finish a story, and work it from start to finish. So please review and whatnot, because I would love feedback on what you all think (considering I'm a ffn virgin).

This is a Pride and Prejudice fanfic, though it will be loosely based on it--not following it as religiously as some might like (much like Bridget Jones was loosely based on it). I want to take liberties with the story by changing the characters around and making them of the opposite sex--though I don't believe all of the characters will be switched. Some characters will also be condensed, because I'll get too sidetracked with the story, and I'm not as brilliant as Miss Austen to keep my head in the game. So without further ado...my story.

Just so you know, I am introducing a character that I am going to write her accent phonetically. It's a Maine accent, and being from Maine, I'm pretty sure I have it down. So please don't take offense to this at all, I'm just writing it as I hear it.

Disclaimer: I would give my left foot to be Jane Austen, that way I could have a claim on this story.

Prologue

Not to sound cliché or anything, but from an early age I knew I was different from the rest of my family. As a Darcy, certain things are required of you in life. I was expected to lead by example, being from a very prestigious New England family. And since I was an only child, and a girl, my parents--or at least my mother--expected me to run the family business. But as it would seem, I had other plans.

I was about four years old the first time I told my cousin Edie I wanted to go to college—and one that was not an ivy league school. Coming from a family that values the name-dropping of higher education, my mother nearly passed out when she heard what I had said, but she recovered. Fast-forward fourteen years and I had made my way to Boston University: I majored in international affairs and minored in communications. I was happy. No one in the world could have possibly taken me down from my plateau of bliss. When I graduated fifth in my class, I thought that nothing could be better, until I was offered a job as a personality on a traveler's guide show. Of course, that meant I would have to travel around the world, and that my home base was not going to be in my hometown. My family was furious when I decided to take the job, but I was in heaven. I was living my dream, making six figures (with a trust fund that was worth infinitely more, mind you), and I was away from Maine. The only problem was that all my worldly experience could not, in a million years, prepare me for that one fateful night.

Chapter One

I was in Italy for a special episode on Rome, and I had just returned to my hotel room after a long day of shooting. My feet were throbbing from standing in "cute" heels and flashing my million-dollar-smile at the camera the whole day, and I had not eaten a single bite of food since the pastry I had for breakfast earlier that morning. After all was said and done, all I wanted to do was lie down; maybe even take a nice, warm bubble bath. I kicked off my heels and unzipped my skirt, allowing it to cascade down my slender legs and onto the floor. I sighed with relief: the only shortcoming of my job was that I had to be in uncomfortable clothing for the entire day. I slumped onto the bed, and within two seconds my cell phone rang. Grumbling, I sat up to find the unwelcome interruption. By the time I found it (at the bottom of my day-bag, of course), I had missed the call. I was so tempted to just put the ringer on silent and toss the phone back into the bag, when I had a sudden urge to check who had called. I looked through my missed calls list and noticed that it was Matt Bingley, my co-star.

What could he possibly want, I thought. We saw each other not even fifteen minutes ago.

As much as I didn't want to talk to anyone, I picked up the phone. There was no way he was already in bed, even if it was almost eleven: Matt was, to a certain extent, a night owl.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you called me back," he said in his beautiful, sexy, albeit arrogant, voice. "What do you say we go back out to see the night-life around here? You know, in Italy, it's not as quiet this late as it is back in the states."

"Matt, it's eleven and we have to be up by six to catch our plane to Morocco," I reasoned. I was usually the last person to be out late at night when there were things to be done early the next day.

"At least come have a nightcap with me. I'm lonely. The bed's lonely. Won't you come—please?" It took quite a bit of strength to refuse him that evening. He was quite the charmer, and I could never resist him. Not to mention that his English accent made it all the more difficult.

"Fine then," he said after some pleading. "I'll see you in the morning. Maybe we can toss in a quick shag before we leave—"

"How about later, then?"

"You mean on the plane? Well I suppose the restrooms are decent. –My God, you are kinky—" His teasing made me sigh; I didn't like it when he made me feel—for lack of a better word—dirty.

"No, Matt. I mean I might stop by for a drink later, but nothing more. We can't get carried away, here; and we have to look alive for the cameras tomorrow, remember?" He was making it harder and harder to resist him, so I had to give myself something.

"Alright, then. I suppose I could live with that," he said. He paused for a moment, and I became mesmerized by the sound of his breathing. "Oh, and by the way, the strangest thing happened," he said, finally breaking my trance. "Your mother called me. She was looking for you; she said that you weren't answering your phone."

"I never answer my phone when she calls," I explained.

"Well, you might want to call her back this time; it sounded quite important. Just call me when you want to come around."

And with that, there was a click on the other end of the line.

If there was one thing I dreaded, it was talking to my mother on the phone. I loved my mother, don't get me wrong; but I had a feeling she was not all too forgiving about me not talking to her in over four years. Every time I had spoken to her on the phone in the past, I was reminded of what I left behind; whom I had abandoned; and yadda-yadda; the list just went on and on. I hadn't been home in over eleven years specifically for that reason. Sure, I missed my hometown, but it wasn't part of what I wanted out of life. I figured that if I wanted to spend time in Maine, it would be during the Christmas season when I had kids. And at that particular point in my life, children were not yet on the agenda. I was only thirty-two, and the biological clock theory had been out the window ages ago. According to Matt, we had time for that later in life.

Not even a minute passed before I decided to pick of the phone and dial. The single hum of the dial tone made my heart flutter.

Why am I doing this? I thought. I must be out of my mind.

Suddenly, there was a click on the other line—someone had answered the phone. A tired voice that sounded to be about fifty mustered all its strength to utter a 'hello'. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was as if no words could form and escape my mouth. The woman on the other line repeated herself several times before ranting about 'how it was lunch-time and how telemarketers should not bother such a nice family as hers, especially in the state they were in'. I could not help but roll my eyes and smile: if I had not recognized the voice before, I certainly did then.

"Mrs.—Rosie, slow down. It's me," I said with a sigh. Rosie, my family's live-in maid, stopped; through the phone, I could sense the wave of shock that struck her.

"Miss Carolyn, is that you?" She asked in bewilderment. Her small-town Maine accent was as strong as ever.

"Yeah, Rosie. It's me. Matt said that mom was looking for me—that it was important."

I wanted to get the conversation going. I had a nagging feeling something was wrong, and if any change in plans were to be made they would have had to be made hours earlier. The next installment in my series was being shot the next day in Morocco, and we would have had to find a fill-in.

"Carolyn, you betteh sit down, hunny. Ah'yer sittin'?"

"Yes, yes. What is it?"

"Lynnie, I'm so sorry I 'ave to tell you this way. It was me that called Matt; I just figuhed that if I told 'im I was yer motheh, you woulda called sooneh." She paused there for a few minutes breathing lightly into the phone. My heart did a little flip at her mention of my old nickname. No one had called me Lynnie in years. I began to get anxious and politely asked her to continue. "Lynnie—yer fatheh's dead."

At that instant, all the air escaped my lungs as if they were a pair of balloons that someone poked a needle through. My father was dead. Dead. I felt more shock than sadness at that point, and racked my brain for possibilities as to how he could have possibly died. He was fifty-eight and healthy—wasn't he? I spoke to him about twice a month (without my mother's knowledge), surely he would have told me if he were sick—wouldn't he? We were so close, and yet I never felt more estranged from anyone in my family, than I did from him, in that particular instant.

"But, how—" was all I could get out of my mouth. I was still unable to form words due to the lack of air in my lungs.

"He 'ad prostate canceh, Lynnie." I could practically hear the sobs she was trying to hold back as she told me this. "He didn't want anyone to know. He hid it from us until it was too late." This confused me, and it took me a few seconds to realize that I should have her elaborate.

"How long?" I asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"He only found out about six weeks ago," she answered solemnly. "It's a pity, too. Steve is the one that found 'im unconscious befohe we took 'im to the hospital. They told us what was really goin' on, and they kept 'im thehe for two days befohe he passed. They tried to keep 'im as comf'table as they could." She finished that last line with a quick sob that I was not intended to hear.

"Rosie," I said when I decided to break a long pause. "Don't let anyone know—I'm coming home."

A/N: So what do you think for a first timer????? Please review, I don't care how harsh you are (it would make my day). Oh, and P.S. the entire story will be in the point of view of the Darcy-like character (something different I thought I would try).