"Mr. Darcy, whatever are you doing on the top shelf?"

"I shall stay up here," he called down from the very great height, "where I will not be tempted." If the cavernous library were not so well carpeted, his voice would have echoed among the shelves.

"Come down, sir," shouted Elizabeth, "so that we may at least have some rational conversation."

"Oh, but I cannot." A book slid from its tilted position as if in agreement. "For my self-control is so frail that remaining within your vicinity, even with the threat of an unwanted marriage and overturning all my cherished plans for my family's future, shall force me to ravish you utterly."

Very small upon the hardwood floor, Elizabeth raised a skeptical brow.

"It is," he insisted. "I have it on good authority— that is, on the word of some hundred fan fiction writers, mostly of the female persuasion."

"A few male writers also insist on your indomitable attraction."

"Yes, them too. I assure you, I do not mean to be sexist."

"But, Mr. Darcy! You were not supposed to mention this authority!"

"I cannot keep pretending they do not exist! I should like to strike some fear in them. They would paint me a debauched libertine!"

Her eyes, so fine, twinkled. "Never forget, in those paintings, your very great love always inspires you to become a reformed debauched libertine. As a female, I can tell you that that is very romantic."

He barked a laugh. "Only you can bring out the humor in this, dear Elizabeth."

"You are a libertine! That is Miss Elizabeth to you, sir."

"I beg your pardon. You are right. It is not yet The Perfect Moment."

They laughed. Darcy was very tempted to climb down, but he would not risk the books falling on her.

She waved an arm. "Well, if you will not descend, I will have to enjoy this fine upholstery all by myself."

"And I shall be happily tormented from upon my perch."

"You are easy to please."

"By you. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire, at your service." He bowed as well as he could. "And at the service of a thousand indifferent readers and—dare I call them—writers."

"Is that a sigh I hear? I daresay Rochester, Heathcliff— even Romeo are not so besieged as you."

He shrugged. "The tragedy of being a fine piece of posterior, on top of being famous piece of literature."

That little proverb echoed through the tapestried library. By some miracle of physics, the book she threw hit him square in the stomach.


Let it be known, humble reader, that Mr. Darcy hence toppled off the top shelf and fractured two limbs. He was then nursed back to health by a very repentant Elizabeth. Those events were scandalous enough that none who heard of it felt the need to heap a compromise on top of them. Nor would it have been required, for these two characters were quite complaisant to sail the boat of their happily ever after.


A/N: Hate it? Love it? I'd be gratified to know your thoughts and reactions.