What was he thinking?, a pride and prejudice fanfic

She was not exactly ugly: She bore no scar nor blemish that might make people turn their gaze away, nor did she suffer from too large a nose or too sharp a chin. Her face was comely enough, but lacked a little in symmetry (one eyebrow spent much of its time raised above the other, though whether that was its natural state could hardly be discerned, since the lady spent so much time in laughter at the absurdities of life). She was a little brown, presumably from spending more time out of doors than was fashionable for young ladies, and her curly hair seemed determined to escape its pins. Taken as a whole, the best that could be said for her looks was that she was unremarkable.

Her sister was a beauty, without a doubt. The eldest Miss Bennet's heart-shaped face and long eyelashes displayed a limpid serenity, more akin to a painting than a live woman, but she conformed to all the expectations of the classic ideal. Next to her, the second daughter looked quite prosaic.

There were other sisters, but they had been brought out before their time: children dressed up as adults, still far from grown into whatever their final looks would be. Even so, it was clear that they would all be pretty enough, but not extraordinary young ladies. None of them looked likely to rival their eldest sister for looks or gentility. In short, none of them made any impression at all on the gentleman from Derbyshire: they were simply background noise too insignificant to need dismissing from his notice, since they did not gain his notice in the first place.

No, it was the eldest two sisters who had been thrust into his sphere by simple dint of one falling ill at his friend's estate and the other coming to tend to the first. And of those, one was a beauty and the other was not exactly a punishment to look on, but not even Bingley would describe her as an angel.

Darcy understood the role of women – women of his own class, at least. Of course there were countless women who worked for a living, as servants, tenant farmers, wet nurses, midwives, even as merchants from time to time. But gentlewomen were born to a different fate. Unless their male guardians failed sorely in their duty to protect them from falling into disgrace or poverty, the role of gentlewomen was to grace the arms of gentlemen, to oversee their households, and to bear their heirs.

As a man with the power of choice, he had no doubt that when he came to marry, it would be the first and last of these roles that would be most important. After all, his households already ran efficiently and precisely to his preferences. A wife was not needed for that. He would need an heir eventually: he was aware that many in his class undertook that project as a chore rather than a pleasure, but surely if he selected a wife with an eye to how well she would look on his arm, she would hardly be a punishment to visit for the purpose of getting an heir.

A comely miss, then. But also one healthy enough to survive childbed. He shuddered a little as he thought of his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh's determination that he wed his cousin, Anne. Anne de Bourgh was comely enough, but his cousin was also so sickly that he doubted bedding her would be anything less than a death sentence. She would never survive giving birth. Add her frailty to what he knew of the risks of inbreeding in livestock, and he was certain that a union with Anne de Bourgh would neither deliver a healthy heir nor ensure the future of his family name.

His current hostess, Miss Caroline Bingley, was comely enough, at least on the surface, but he could not countenance a future with her at his side. Quite apart from her low connections (her late father had made his money in trade), she unfortunately matched her attractive exterior with an internal shrewishness that was thoroughly off-putting. The woman barely drew breath but to pour scorn on someone – whether old friends or people she had never met seemed not to matter to her at all – in an apparent attempt to gain Darcy's notice through a demonstration of wit. She had gained his notice indeed, but not inspired the favourable opinion she so transparently desired. Darcy shuddered again, and reminded himself to take precautions to bar his bed chamber from night-time intruders.

So, comely, healthy, and not a shrew. That should not be too hard. Yet here he was, at the ripe old age of eight and twenty and Master in his own right these six years complete, and still he had not found a Mrs Darcy. Instead, he was whiling away the winter in Bingley's company, enduring his sisters and that crushing bore Hurst, and distracting himself from the tedium by analysing the looks of the two Bennet sisters who had just entered the room.

Which brought him back to gazing at Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She was not beautiful, but was not exactly plain either. Once he had looked at her properly, he had acknowledged to himself (and in a momentary lapse of judgement, to Miss Bingley) that Miss Elizabeth was pretty. There was something intriguing about her. Something that caught his attention, although he could not name it. Her eyes held a spark of intelligence and wit that bore its own attraction. Fine eyes, he had called them, and he would not retract that view now.

Miss Elizabeth was pretty, with fine eyes. And she radiated robust good health: he could not think of her arrival at Netherfield this week without remembering the healthy glow her walk had given to her cheeks, and how little daunted she had been by the distance between the two estates. She would have no trouble bearing children. And to watch her in close company with Miss Bingley demonstrated how elegantly she parried all attempts to belittle her, her family and friends, without once descending to the sort of bitter sniping that her hostess specialised in.

Pretty, then. Healthy, and not a shrew. Witty and kind. Well read. A lover of nature. Almost perfect, really…

Darcy grabbed his own wandering thoughts by the scruff of the neck and shook them firmly. His criteria for a wife related not just to the lady herself (and he readily conceded that Miss Elizabeth taken in isolation was a satisfactory candidate) but to her family and connections: it was his duty to use his marriage to improve the standing of the Darcy name. Miss Elizabeth could not be considered in isolation, for she brought with her the worst of connections. Her family was appalling. Her father's estate was of little note. She had close relations in trade. She doubtless had no dowry to speak of.

A man could not marry for congenial company with no regard to such factors. It just was not done. No. Miss Elizabeth might be almost perfect in herself, but she was as far from perfect in social standing as could be imagined, short of marrying a governess or a courtesan!

Darcy was determined to put her out of his mind and concentrate on doing his duty: that his first impression had been mistaken – that the lady was actually quite beautiful, inside and out - was quite irrelevant. She improved on better acquaintance, but her situation in life did not.

He needed to break his growing fascination with such an unsuitable lady, and turn his thoughts to finding an acceptable bride. And he could not do so in her constant company, for she had a strange tendency to draw his gaze and distract his thoughts. Darcy was resolved: Against his baser inclinations, he would avoid her company for the remainder of her sojourn at Netherfield and quit the neighbourhood altogether as soon as he decently could.