Tears were in his eyes. He felt powerless, angry, shocked, murderous. He wanted to kill and one has to believe it was for more than just selfish reasons, more than just a spoke in his monthly cycle of remembering the near disaster. The turmoil in his mind after that fateful ride into Meryton had unsettled him greatly. He had the audacity to show his presence here of all places. His smirk—Lud I would dearly love to remove that smarmy look with my ring. His face could be populated with small imprints of the Darcy crest, he thought to himself as he worried the ring on his finger, having just finished letters to his cousin, his sister, and his steward. He expressed his outrage to his cousin, his worries after her health to his sister, and his concern with the situation of the estate to his steward. He had his man immediately dispatch the letters to ease his mind somewhat, but he was still troubled. Seeing Wickham in Meryton was unsettling. Worse still, he seems to have ingratiated himself with Elizabeth.

What on God's green earth is he doing here? How long has he been here? Does she fancy him? How could she play me so false? Doesn't she know that she owns my soul?

She has been goading me with knowing looks and pert remarks for (what seemed to be) an interminable amount of time. He chuckled to himself at the ridiculous and dramatic turn his thoughts took.

The concerned look on her face should have been for me, not that wretched non-being. I shall think of them no more. She has no hold on me. She has no control over my actions.

Minutes later, he sunk into an agonizing spiral of want and doubt. The cool air had warmed her cheeks, he remembered. Her hair, caught in her bonnet, was struggling to escape its confines. Her spencer brought out the green and amber flecks in her dark eyes. She looked beautiful. He imagined walking through Lambton with her on his arm, observing the town and villagers, smiling up at him in delight as they walked in silence. His heart swelled to see the smile on her lips. The residents of Lambton would be captivated by her open heart and her beauty. Her smile would light the dark winter better than any thermolamp, or candles in windows, or the sun.

Did I just liken her to the Sun? Copernicus would groan. Now I am a blaspheme and a heretic.

Indulging a bit longer in his fantasy, they would stop at the bookseller's so that she might peruse volumes that could catch her fancy. He would buy whatever she wanted. She would have had long enough to develop improvements to the very impressive book collection already present at Pemberley. They would return home, their eyes brightened by exercise and good cheer. Georgiana would greet them as they arrived and the three would share companionable mirth near the fire, drinking tea and discussing Lizzy's impressions of the village. They would laugh and fill the halls with joy. Georgiana will blossom under Lizzy's kind tutelage. He was sure of it. Would she be kind to Georgiana, would she censure her for her childlike trust in an old family friend whose treachery knew no bounds? Or would she scorn her? No she would love Georgiana as her own sister, solicitous of her feelings, forgiving of the childhood mistake that could have spelled her ruin.

A knock at the door by his man snapped him out of his fantasy. He was to dress for dinner.

A mere few hours later, Darcy was exhausted, angry, and weary as he looked blankly at his Vacheron fob, slipping it back into his vest pocket. The tension with Wickham made him more contemplative than normal during dinner, and thus more withdrawn. During the separation of the sexes—a conceit among such a small party of friends—he had met with Bingley in his study while his friend wrote a list on his escritoire. He did not seem willing to share what he was writing, and Darcy was disinclined to ask. Darcy was mired in his own troubles. He had a worried look about him. He was more pensive than Darcy had ever seen him. He knew his friend well and he knew he was wrestling with something. He waited to hear Charles discuss it with him, but he did not. Charles looked at objects randomly while his eyes remained fixed up them for moments at a time.

"What is it Charles?"

"Not a thing, Darce. I am perfectly well."

Darcy doubted it.

"Why do you think you reacted to the Bennet ladies' company as you did?"

"With them was an old devilry and nemesis George Wickham. Speaking of Wickham, I wanted to suggest that he not be present at your ball next week."

"You mean the short fat man attempting to draw Miss Elizabeth's attention? It cannot be."

"The tall one with the long coat. You could not have missed his self-satisfied smirk."

"Of course, Darcy."

Shortly thereafter, they had returned to his sisters. Hurst, while inattentive to Charles and Darcy's discussions during the separation of the sexes, was alert for cards and drinking. The constant din of the Charles' sisters, especially Caroline, begging his assistance annoyed him even more. He did not participate. Hurst voiced his displeasure at possibly being matched against his wife and his sister, with Darcy helping them. Charles, after having been whispered to by one of the servants, approached Darcy.

"I am sorry old man, when I had the invitation to the office class of the _ militia wintering in Meryton, I had no idea Wickham was among them. He is naturally included in the invitation."

"Think nothing of it."

Darcy excused himself from the activities, claiming a headache. He spoke with his man to ensure his chambers were locked, went to bed, and fell into slumber quickly.

His lips touched the small mole on left side of the back of her neck, as she slumbered. She sighed contentedly but did not stir. Carefully he reached over her slim shoulder to loosen the small buttons of her sleeping gown-decorations really. He had already undone the back as it hung loose on one side. He touched his tongue to his thumb and forefinger and slowly encircled his object. Though he could not see it, he could feel it puckering at the attention and the cool air. She must have been tired from their walk for she continued to sleep soundly. He then moved her carefully onto her back to remove her other arm from the shift. He chuckled at his playfulness. What a sight he was, hovering over his beautiful wife as she slept, coaxing her body's reactions as she remained firmly in the arms of Morpheus. Being so light, it was nothing to lift her to remove it completely so that she was then completely bare to him. He admired her form as the firelight showed it to him, hinting at her curves, her peaks and valleys. Her sheer loveliness, her diminutive, yet slightly curved slimness was beyond what he had imagined of her. As he sighed in admiration, the bed dipped under his weight. Her eyes opened briefly, but quickly closed again as her jaw slackened. She could sleep through a fire!, he worried. He had begun to cover her as he moved the counterpane over her and moved his face towards the object of his attention. Delicately, he tasted her flesh, dipping his tongue into his most favorite place in the entire world. She tasted sweet and cinnamony, with a hint of musk. So intent was he on his task that he did not perceive her definite awakening. His stomach tightened from want and anticipation.

"Hello, Mr. Darcy"

Hello darling

"What are you..." Before she could finish the question, he was kissing her mouth passionately, devouring her lip. His heightened state of interest in her person brought him up to his knees. His left arm had scooped her up with him, lifting the back her knees and resting each of her slim ankles at his ears. His right hand held her arms in a somewhat awkward position. With his strength and the differences in their weight combined with her small size, he effortlessly eased her onto him. She struggled as her eyes widened, her mouth formed a silent scream. In an instant, at this angle and with her attempts to free her legs, he was lost. He looked down and instantly emptied himself inside her at the sight of viewing their connection. The tightness had uncoiled in his lower abdomen and he was at ease, in a haze of sorts. She was no longer silent but screaming in earnest then, yelling and sobbing. He was finished, thus her point was moot. The anger in her eyes teased him into an extremely forced surge deeper. One of her finally free hands hit his cheek with such force, it shocked him out himself and he withdrew from her. For such a little person…Darcy awoke to his darkened chamber. He could feel the warmth of the fire, though the curtains to his bedframe were still drawn.

He looked down and choked on his own scream of frustration, powerlessness, and disgust with himself. Another night, another mess. He thought with her gone from under the same roof, his inappropriate thoughts would disappear. He had been doing everything right—praying daily, diligently helping Bingley, cordially batting away the attentions of his harpystess, reading, riding his horse to the point of exhaustion, shooting. He even took to running as he had when he was a child, in order to induce exhaustion. Seemingly, based on the evidence before him, these activities were for naught. He winced as he removed himself from his bed. He walked onto his balcony from his sitting room allowing the cool air to calm him. He looked down again and saw his body was no closer to calm than the dream had allowed. If anything, it was painfully worse and a tear leaked from his eye. As he returned to his chamber, his man had entered, set to get things in order for the day, when he chanced a look at his master. The misery on Darcy's face, the damp bedclothes, and the obvious state of arousal elicited nothing but a business-like, efficient response. He retrieved a warm, wet towel from the dressing room in trice, handed it to Darcy, and noted that water was already being fetched for a bath for him. He went to the bed to remove the bedding, cold and stiff with the leavings of his master. He shook his head in pity and quickly exited the room, leaving Darcy to clean up his person.

Chancing a look down once again, he noted that shame had finally brought his body into the regulation. It was dual-fold. He remembered a slap, but little else. He saw the pity in his man's eyes as he tried to school his features to help Darcy prepare for the day. Darcy called out to his man to have him delay heating the water as he was roll the rock up the hill again by trying a vigorous run of his horse in the countryside to quell himself.

Struggling to remember what had occurred in this nightmare, he saw the shock in her eyes, but little else. The rest of interlude would remain a mystery, so he thought. The mess, unheard of even during the period in his youth when he was discovering his own body's abilities, was considerable. There must have been very powerful feelings tied to those activities.

This humiliation and disgust with himself was all the wicked imp's fault, he decided. The stress of Wickham's presence, the constant unwanted attention from Bingley's sister, had distressed him to the point of total wanton abandon in his dream. He must have imagined unheard of things for their bodies together to find his person and bedding in such a condition. At least the arousal was gone. He sighed to himself as he was in his saddle, riding as hard as he could, jumping fences and hedges, reaching speeds he had not tested in a long time. He returned to Netherfield hot, despite the dropped temperature, and somewhat calmer. No one seemed to be stirring in the house when he was handing the reins to the groom as he went to the stables. Workers were milling about. A strong, slim man with his back to Darcy was on his knees struggling with one of the collies. He wrested the dog's prize from the playful animals' jowls—a bone. The sight made Darcy chuckle.

Realization came over him as he now remembered the-oh-so-important-and-previously-forgotten portion of his dream. The images flooded his mind as he quickly rushed up the back stairs to his room. He shut his door firmly and wept. He remembered all of his dream now—her mole, her slim form, her taste, her anger, her scream, her slap.

His disappointment in himself was complete. He bathed, dressed for breakfast, and went down to find Bingley, again, in a contemplative state. Being wrapped in his own misery, he mentioned that he would return to London and then to Pemberley shortly after Bingley's ball. Bingley nodded mechanically and absently chewed his food. What was that weighed so heavily on Bingley's mind?

The large clock chimed and Darcy was brought back to himself. He once again returned his dream/nightmare and looked absently at his own plate. For someone who only yesterday resolved to think of her no more, he was doing an exceptionally poor job of it.