It had taken Fitzwilliam Darcy, who normally prided himself on his astute intellectual capacities, two whole weeks to fully overcome his hurt and anger at Miss Benetin. And to acknowledge without reserve that the fault of that fateful day had been entirely, undeniably, painfully his.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Darcy had allowed himself to hope that hours, days, weeks of not seeing his Liza might somehow temper the urgent desperation with which he desired her.

'No such luck.'

His dreams and desires were as vibrant as ever. And he hated it so.

He had never been so naïve as to think that withdrawing himself from her presence would make him forget her. But to think of her so constantly every moment of every day, to retain such powerful images of her so long after their separation? It was too much. Especially now, when he knew with such certainly that he was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to bed.

How those words hurt him! How much they had hurt him then – how much more they were hurting him now!

Now, when he realized with shame and self-hate that they were utterly, entirely, completely deserved. Now, when the very thought of her pained him with its taunting reminder of his incivility, of his injustice, of his hypocrisy – and of his love.

'Every moment of every day.'

Did he truly deserve such torture?

And he knew quite for certain. 'Yes, I do.'

He deserved every slowly agonizing moment of it for his despicable behavior towards the woman whom he not only desired, but also respected.

Somehow, in the heat of his passion during that shameful proposition, he had managed to forget that.

'I respected her. I admired her.'

Had he not admired the manner in which Miss Benetin had spared Mr. Bingley with such grace, such selflessness?

Had he not been incensed at his friend for repaying Miss Benetin's kindness with cruelty, for divulging her secret?

And then… and then had he not himself behaved a thousand times worse than his friend?

'Hypocrite!'

Bingley hurt her with his scorn following her revelation, and Darcy had scolded his friend for such superficiality. Yet he, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, the man who prided himself on his integrity and his principles, was the one who then went ahead and insulted her a thousand times more than his friend ever could.

And he did it with such purposefully hurtful words.

"The position of my mistress is the most you could ever aspire to."

How those words haunted him!

How could he even think them, let alone utter them aloud?

But he had been so hurt by her refusal, so angry, so desperate… that he forgot for a moment about her feelings, her humanity, her dignity.

He had been so consumed with his desire for her body, that he forgot his respect for her person. Even if she was a fallen woman, she was a human being, and a good one at that. Even if she was entirely unsuitable to be his wife, who was he to demand that she be his mistress?

Even if he could never marry her or make her his, he could have treasured her friendship. But he had ruined everything. Never again would he see her sparkling eyes. And if he did – they would be filled with hatred. It would be torture to continue to have feelings for her. Yet forgetting her was not an option.

'Feelings for her? Is that what I called it?' He now accepted it with certainty for what it was: Love.

He, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, was completely and irrevocably in love with Miss Elizaveta Benetin of St. Petersburg.

In a feeble attempt to vent out his incurable frustration, Darcy tugged with force at his hair, drawing out a small fistful. He winced in pain, and repeated the gesture. As if attempting to punish himself for his brutal behavior. As if he was not already punished enough by the constant memory of soft golden curls that he would never touch.

A firm knock on his study's door brought Darcy out of his melancholic thoughts. He tried at first to ignore the intruder, but the knock persisted.

"I asked to be left alone!" He grumbled loudly, and sank deeper into his chair.

When the persistent knocker did not cease, Darcy grumpily stood and approached the door.

"What in the devil's name is the matter?!" He half-shouted, annoyed, as he opened the door.

There, before his eyes, stood his smiling cousin. Richard Fitzwilliam's broad grin and one challengingly raised eyebrow contrasted markedly with the dark circles under Fitzwilliam Darcy's glaring eyes.

"Oh my, dear cousin! I thought I would find you rotten, but never truly expected it to be quite this bad!" Richard exclaimed playfully, and, without invitation, swayed nonchalantly into Darcy's study.

He reached the desk, threw a casual glance at the near-empty bottle of brandy and the well-used glass by its side. Then walked to the immaculate cabinet and helped himself to some cleaner glassware. The remnants from the bottom of the bottle then entered his perched lips.

"Not bad," He commented noncommittally. "I can almost understand why you've been consuming nothing else for the past few days. Almost."

"What are you doing here?" Darcy grit out through his teeth.

"Coming to your rescue," Richard answered plainly. "What did you think?"

"I would really appreciate it if you could leave me alone," Darcy pronounced slowly, enunciating each cold word.

"No, no, dearest cousin. I am a Colonel in the Royal military; so I do not desert. And hence it is quite out of the question for me to leave my own relation when he is most in need of assistance."

"I do not require your assistance."

Darcy turned angrily towards the window. Richard let out a loud laugh.

"Do you not? You have been rotting away in your house for almost three weeks. You barely eat anything,; you never venture outside; you hardly even step out of your study. Your housekeeper is at her wits' end with worry, Darcy!"

"I am fine."

"You most certainly are not."

Darcy turned abruptly back to face his cousin. "And what would you have me do, Richard?"

"Go out!"

"Where?" There was not a small tint of irritation in his voice.

Richard merely laughed again. "We are in London, cousin! Surely you know that there are plenty of places you could be that are just a tad more jolly than your stuffy library!"

When Darcy did not respond, Richard continued with a playful twinkle in his cheerful eyes:

"Come, Darcy! Let me show you a good time. There are several places with very nice girls who could easily take your mind off whatever – or should I say whoever? – is the cause of your worries!"

Darcy's heart sped and his ears drummed with fury, as he clenched his fists tightly in an attempt to contain his anger. He did not even notice the tiny droplets of blood that escaped his palms as his fingers dug forcefully into the skin.

Of course, it was not the first time that Richard had attempted to entice Darcy to accompany him on such expeditions to less than proper establishments. Usually Darcy, albeit offended, would simply brush off the propositions. He would go along with Richard's banter, but would invariably make up some excuse or another at the last moment, so as not to attend. He had never felt comfortable with the idea of engaging in such intimate activities with a woman who was not his wife – much less a girl from a filthy brothel. It did not correspond to his ideas of gentlemanly behavior, and violated his personal principles of nobility and honor. Yet he had never attempted to argue with his cousin directly on this point.

Never had Richard's blatant offer incensed him as much as it did now.

Now, when that blasted cousin of his had the audacity to propose a brothel as a way to take his mind off of Liza!

'Ridiculous! Preposterous! How dare he?!'

Darcy took a calming breath. It did nothing to help sooth his anger.

'How dare he attempt to tempt me to engage in such sordid encounters?! How dare he presume that it could ever come even close to a replacement for her?!

At last he calmed enough to speak:

"If you intend on continued to speak in such rowdy manner and make such base propositions, sir, then I demand that you leave this house at once."

Richard was a bit shocked by the cold, angry manner in which his cousin addressed him.

"What is the matter, Darcy? I did not say anything quite so preposterous –"

"Did you not just invite me to accompany you to a brothel, cousin?" Darcy replied sardonically.

"Why, yes – I thought it would be good for you. To dispel your melancholy a bit, you know…. Well, you know."

"No, Richard, I don't know."

Richard blinked a few times, confused. Until comprehension slowly dawned on him.

"Darcy, you…. No, surely… you do not mean to tell me… you are not an innocent, cousin?"

The silence that followed was correctly taken by the savvy Colonel Fitzwilliam as a 'yes'.

"Darcy! How can that be?! You are eight-and-twenty, my man! No, surely, that absolutely cannot do. Now you must come with me!"

"Must I? Really? You think I absolutely must come and waste my first time on a senseless girl in a dirty brothel? Are you out of your mind, Richard?!"

Seeing the fury flashing from Darcy's eyes, Richard backed away slightly, holding his hands out in front of him in surrender.

"Alright, alright. I get it. I'm just a bit surprised, that is all. You know, everyone does it. Of course, I understand perfectly that you are not like 'everyone'. You've always been a stickler for propriety and morals; I just never knew that it was to this extent."

Several minutes of heavy silence followed.

"I'm sorry, Darcy. Really, I am." There was genuine contrition in his voice, which almost evoked a smile from Darcy.

"It's alright, Richard. I should not have exploded at you in such a manner."

Another short pause.

"You know, I still think you should get out."

Having gotten over his sudden anger, Darcy felt somewhat spent. But at least his irritation seemed to have dispersed after he had gotten his emotions out. He was calmer now.

He let out a heavy sigh. "You are probably right."

Richard smiled. "Since you're not interested in the delights that the less proper parts of London have to offer, why don't we do something a bit more suitable? What about a trip to Kent? I promised to visit there anyway…"

"You don't mean Rosings –"

"Why not?"

"Richard, if you think that Aunt Catherine is the right way to lift my spritis, then I'm afraid that you are sorely mistaken."

"Well, yes, I grant you that our aunt is not the most agreeable person. But I will be there; and Anne is not so bad. The country air would be good for your health. And besides, I have heard that her parson, Mr. Collins, is quite an amusing character. It could be diverting, Darcy – frankly, I think that anything that would get your mind off your present melancholy would be good."

Darcy considered Richard's offer for a while. Although he certainly did not feel like leaving his townhouse, much less seeing his aunt – he did see some sense in Richard's arguments. It would be good to get away. It had become clear by now that all he could do in that dark study was wallow in self-pity and suffer from self-loathing. Thoughts of Miss Benetin would not leave him even for a moment. Why not journey to Kent, where he would be among people – even if some of them unpleasant – and where he could take his mind off of her?

"Alright," he grumbled at last. "You have convinced me."

Richard clapped him soundly on the back. "Excellent, Darcy! I am so glad you can join me! Truly, your company will be much appreciated in that part of the country. Sour as you are, you're still better than Aunty Cat."

Somehow, Richard's words did not make Darcy any more enthusiastic about the trip.

In Kent three days hence, Elizaveta did not know whether to feel rejoiced or saddened as she swiftly left Rosings Park.

On the one hand, she could not help but inwardly gloat at the way she had expertly handled the Old Cat, as she now called the Lady. There had been some sort of an unspoken battle between the two women throughout the afternoon tea – as if to determine which one of them was more worthy of that magical title: a lady. Liza had won, even if just for a time. And it pleased her greatly: it made her feel as if she fit in at least somewhat into this strange, peculiar world. As if she could act, almost well, the part that she was forced to play.

But on the other hand, the consequences of her victory were quite severe. That she should never step foot into Rosings again was now quite certain. It was the only dignified thing to do, in her present role of an insulted noblewoman. And Liza was sure that she would feel the loss.

After all, what other amusements were there? She could not think of anything more entertaining than Lady Catherine's self-indulgent speeches, and Collins' simpering in his patroness's presence. Liza knew that she would miss these comical scenes when she would inevitably have to remain at home the next time that Collins and the rest of the household would take their tea at Rosings Park.

But the sun shone brightly; the air was crisp and fresh, yet soothingly warm. And Elizaveta Benetin determined to rejoice in her momentary victory and forget the consequences.

After all, was it really such a grave woe to be devoid of Rosings, when it was so jolly to be outside?

She skipped and she turned, enjoying every moment of the walk back to the parsonage. The servants probably thought that her vehement decline of Her Ladyship's carriage had been meant as a further sign of Liza's discontent. But Liza had not even thought of that – she merely wished to enjoy these last wisps of colorful autumn.

Her deep green gown and golden hair fit beautifully among the vibrant yellows, reds, and oranges of the falling leaves. Her steps and jumps were light and playful. And so it was no wonder that her small, lovely figure left the approaching horseman transfixed.

Richard wondered for a moment whether this delightful creature – half-walking, half-skipping, half-dancing – was merely a figment of his imagination. Coming closer, he determined to the contrary, and marveled at his good fortune of coming across this girl on his ride to Rosings Park.

He came up to her, and quickly dismounted from the horse.

"Good afternoon, fair lady," He pronounced with a low bow, and a wide smile on his face.

The lady in question did not reply; she only observed him curiously with one eyebrow lifted in half-question, and one corner of her perfect lips raised in half-smile.

'She is even prettier from up close,' Richard remarked with delight. 'Those rosy cheeks, that pretty nose, those sparkling eyes. Magnificent.'

"May I request the pleasure of an introduction, enchantress?" He addressed her again, when she did not speak.

"You may request whatever you please, sir. Whether your request will be granted is a different matter." Her voice was stern, but Richard could see the smile fighting its way to her lips.

'Cheeky, as well,' He thought appreciatively, already entranced.

"Touché," He drawled. "You have defeated me. And I can do naught but beg you most humbly to tell me the name of my conqueror."

"I would rather have you guess," She remarked noncommittally, and resumed her walk to the parsonage. She was pleased to see that the handsome, pleasant, and playful man, who had come to her seemingly out of nowhere, decided to walk with her.

Richard laughed. "Guess? Why, I would certainly guess that you are a forest nymph, come to enchant unsuspecting, susceptible men."

"Is that so? Then you should better take your leave, sir. You would not wish to be thus entranced."

"Alas! Yet I fear it is too late already – the damage has been done." He sighed dramatically, and hung his head in mock resignation.

Her brilliant laughter was the ample reward for his theatrics.

"Where are you walking to, milady?"

"A lady? Oh no! What an atrocious title. I would much rather remain a nymph."

"And why such radical preferences?"

"A nymph is careless and free, where a lady is bound. You see, were I a lady, propriety would demand that I curtsy to you, and take you seriously, and honor your request for an introduction. Yet fortunately, as a nymph, I suffer none of those obligations. I may tease as I please, and refuse to take anyone seriously."

"You are too clever by half, madam. Is sparkling, unrestrained wit also a quality of mythical nymphs?"

Liza shook her head in the negative. "No, sir, merely a figment of your imagination. For neither do I sport enough precious stones to be deemed truly sparkling, nor am I so slight as to be called a whit. What is more, I assure you that I truly exist. So mythical is hardly appropriate."

Richard smiled at her play on his words.

"Very well, then – my beautiful nymph. Where may your prey escort you?"

"Escort me? Nowhere! I fear you are treading dangerous grounds here, sir. Nymphs do not like being encroached upon. So you better take your leave at once, while you can, and allow me to continue my forest adventures in solitude."

He looked at her seriously: "Do you truly mean that?"

She merely laughed. "Did you mean half the things you have said in the past five minutes?"

Richard smiled, relieved. "In that case, I surrender. You have defeated me with your beauty and wit alike, and I shall escort you wherever you go." He paused for a second, remembering. "Only let me inform my cousin. I wouldn't wish to worry him."

"Your cousin?" Liza asked, with a frown. Something about that made her suddenly uneasy; she knew not why.

"Ah yes, my dear old cousin. We have come here together, to visit Rosings Park. Are you familiar with its inhabitants?"

"Somewhat…" Liza paused, thinking. "Pray tell me, sir, are you related to Lady Catherine?"

Richard smiled. "Unfortunately, yes: I am guilty of that crime."

This was becoming increasingly unpleasant, and Liza dreaded the answer to her next question:

"What is your name, sir?"

Richard laughed.

"Oh, no, my beautiful minx! That is hardly fair. If you refuse to introduce yourself, I shall do the same."

Liza laughed with him. Then cheekily pointed out: "I did, however, give you a chance to guess, which you chose to waste. Do I not deserve an analogous coutesy?"

"Well then: you may guess, milady."

"C-Colonel Richard F-Fitzwilliam?" She asked, with a slight tremble. Liza prayed inwardly for a negative answer.

Richard regarded her quizzically. "Indeed, you are correct. How did you know?"

Dread washed over Liza. 'Does it mean that his cousin is…?' It took all her strength to pull herself back together and answer Richard's question with a smile:

"Your aunt has said something about your upcoming visit, I believe. But I thought you were coming alone; and yet you mention a cousin…"

Richard snickered. "Ah yes, my melancholic cousin. I had indeed intended on journeying on my own. But seeing that my poor chap of a cousin has been behaving even more gloomily over the past few weeks than is typically his wont, I dragged him with me."

"Which cousin do you speak of?" Liza asked, even though she knew the answer already, and was now resigned to the cruel joke that Fate was playing on her.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Do you know him?"

Liza did not have a chance to respond, before a horseman approached them, and Richard waved enthusiastically at the newcomer.

"Darcy, old chap! There you are – I thought I had lost you!" He chuckled before adding: "Or perhaps it was I who was lost – for this appears to be an enchanted forest! I have fallen prey, I'm afraid, to a most charming nymph."

Liza hardly heard the latter part of Richard's blabbering. Her undivided attention was fixed on the man before her.

There, on a beautiful stallion as fit and powerful as its glorious rider, sat Liza's personal nightmare.

There were slight bags under his eyes, which she could not recall having seen there before. His face seemed a little thinner. His lips were a bit duller and almost orange, having lost some of their fullness and color. His hair was disheveled and uneven, especially on the right side – where it seemed as if some of it was oddly missing.

But it was him nonetheless. Liza closed her eyes tightly, willing the apparition to vanish. But it did not. When she looked up once again, he was still there, watching her with an unreadable expression.

'Fitzwilliam Darcy.'