Surprise! Here is the first chapter of another book from yours truly!
Chapter One
Thursday, 16 April 1812
Who would have thought that an offer of marriage, followed by an unexpectedly vehement refusal, would lead to a kiss?
Certainly not Fitzwilliam Darcy, a gentleman who had long prided himself on his irreproachable character and excellent self-control.
But it did. He had asked Elizabeth Bennet to marry him, and she had rejected him. They'd argued over why. And then—when he intended only to bid her as polite a farewell as he could muster—the two found themselves suddenly and inexplicably locked in a passionate embrace, kissing each other with equal fervor. He couldn't have said then who had moved first, only that they were staring angrily into each other's eyes one moment and pressing their lips together the next.
Their mutual passion lasted until a noise somewhere in the house startled them back to their senses. Elizabeth jumped back, her bosom heaving with the same shallow, breathless gasping as Darcy's chest. In her eyes was now a different emotion, one he could not quite read, but beneath it all he knew there was attraction. Her response to the kiss at least proved one thing: that she was not as indifferent to him as she'd professed herself to be.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded. "I did not think the perfect Mr. Darcy capable of taking such liberties!"
"Why did I?" Darcy countered. "You kissed me, Miss Bennet!"
"That is absurd!" Elizabeth cried. "Why should I want to kiss the man whose proposal of marriage I have just refused?"
"And why should I want to kiss the woman who has just thoroughly refused me?" he rejoined. "Perhaps you kissed me because in your heart you wish you had accepted me."
Elizabeth scoffed and turned away from him. Darcy pressed on. "You cannot be unaware of the immeasurable advantages that would be yours if you were my wife, of the increase in importance and connections our marriage would be giving to your family."
"Oh yes, the family which you had no scruple in disparaging only moments ago, reminding me even as you claimed to love me that we are beneath you," Elizabeth retorted angrily. She crossed her arms and pointedly kept her gaze turned away from him. "I think it is best you leave, Mr. Darcy—or are you incapable of taking 'no' for an answer?"
Her words brought him up short. They were equally guilty of crossing the line of propriety, but she was refusing to admit her complicity. Very well. Darcy sighed in aggravation and did as he'd originally planned. He bowed, bid her a terse good day, and after taking up his hat and gloves he departed in haste.
It was best, he thought morosely as he stalked away from the Hunsford parsonage, that he gather up Fitzwilliam and take his leave of Kent. He could not have Elizabeth—she had rejected him. Despite the enormity of his wealth, the additional consequence of having noble relations she could claim to be her own, and the honor of simply having been noticed by a man so superior to herself.
Darcy paused in midstride, suddenly struck immobile by one of Elizabeth's angry speeches: "…your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others…"
He supposed it was rather arrogant of him to have had no expectation of refusal and conceited to dwell upon how great his superiority was. But even after having his love spurned, he could not understand her rejection. He had everything to recommend him—wealth, property, connections in the peerage, status in the first circle of society. Marriage to him could only be an advantage to a young woman like Elizabeth, whose father might well be a gentleman—
That must be part of it, he thought as his feet began to move again. Mr. Bennet was a gentleman every bit as much as Darcy was, having inherited a long-held family property. That made them equals, and Elizabeth was—by association as a gentleman's daughter—also his equal. The only material difference was money. If Mr. Bennet's income had been substantial enough to provide respectable dowries for his daughters, even the lack of connections could have been overlooked.
But Darcy had not treated Elizabeth as an equal. He had spoken to her as though she ought to be groveling at his feet with gratitude that he had even deigned to speak to her. He slowly came to the realization that, in fact, her feelings hadn't much entered into his mind at all—he'd assumed she liked him as much as any other young lady of his acquaintance without having taken pains to find out for certain, that she would indeed be grateful he'd taken notice of her, and that she would glory in her triumph over women ten times her consequence. He'd been more concerned with gratifying his desire of having the object of his fancy finally become his than he was with how he worded his proposal.
He paused again as he reached the top of the portico steps at Rosings and drew his hand over his face. Good God—had he really just told the woman he loved that members of her family were embarrassing, that their condition in life was decidedly beneath his own, and that marrying her would be a degradation? That he had fallen in love with her against his will, his reason, and even his character? No matter how natural and just these sentiments were, nor how right he was to have struggled against his inclination, was it possible that he had erred in the timing of his confession of those scruples?
Darcy had only wished to be entirely honest, to prove to Elizabeth that the obstacles which would undoubtedly arise at the announcement of their union were of little matter to him—that his love for her was such that having her for his wife was more important to him than any objection.
"…had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."
When had he not been a gentleman? Darcy wondered as he entered his aunt's house. As he climbed the stairs and made for his rooms, he reflected on the whole of his acquaintance with Elizabeth—from the first moment of their meeting to the disastrous encounter at the parsonage…and he dropped heavily into the chair before the fireplace as he began to understand just what she had meant.
A gentleman would not have kissed a woman who had refused his offer of marriage even if she was an equal participant. Her weakness did not excuse his own, and ashamed hardly described how he began to feel about himself for taking such a liberty.
A gentleman would not have stated every reason he had for not marrying a lady during the proposal in which he asked for her hand. However justified his reservations, it was suddenly, mortifyingly clear that pointing out her family's failings had not so much wounded Elizabeth's vanity as it had deeply hurt her feelings. If she had spoken so of his relations to him—even the supercilious Lady Catherine—Darcy would have been equally offended.
A gentleman would not have said that a lady was only tolerable and not handsome enough to dance with—at least, not aloud. Darcy had been in a very ill humor that evening and had only wanted Bingley to stop pestering him about dancing; he'd been of no mind to appreciate the beauty of any of the ladies around him, let alone one of the local squire's five daughters. He'd known Elizabeth was sitting nearby—Bingley had pointed her out when he'd suggested having his partner introduce them—but he had not thought her so near as to overhear his conversation with his friend. He began to suspect that she had heard him and could now understand why she had afterward seemed so determined to argue with him whenever they conversed.
If so, the proposal was not the first time he'd wounded her. That insult at the Meryton assembly had "formed that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events"—no doubt including his disinclination to socialize with Bingley's neighbors—"have built so immovable a dislike" that even one as intelligent as herself had been vulnerable to Wickham's poison.
Wickham. He could hardly even think the name without wishing to throttle the man. Darcy's behavior—his uneasiness in the company of strangers, which even he recognized made him more likely to offend than recommend himself—had already alienated Elizabeth against him, but he felt almost certain that her dislike might have been overcome had Wickham's lies and half-truths not given her further reason to think ill of him.
In that, at least, I might defend myself, Darcy thought, and he surged from the chair to cross over to the writing desk. There he took out several sheets of paper, ink, and a pen, and he sat down to write Elizabeth a letter. He would explain everything—his motivation for separating Bingley and Jane, the whole history of his relationship with Wickham—and though he knew he could have no chance now of making her his wife, he would be contented if Providence allowed the letter to aid her in one day thinking better of him.
Nearly an hour later, half a dozen crumpled sheets lay scattered across the desk. Darcy was just about to begin a seventh draft when a knock sounded at the door, followed by his cousin's voice.
"Darcy, are you well?"
He sighed. Darcy did not think himself favorable to company, but then he recalled just how well Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth had got on. Perhaps the colonel might offer him some insight.
"Come in, Theo," he called out, and turned toward the door as it opened.
Fitzwilliam stepped inside and closed the door quickly, concern etched upon his countenance. "When you didn't appear for tea, our aunt worried for you."
Darcy scoffed. "You mean to say that she badgered you to tell her where I was, and when you could not provide the information, she complained about how ill-mannered I was not to attend her."
His cousin grinned as he stopped by his side. "Something to that effect," said he. Fitzwilliam then reached for one of the crumpled balls of paper. "Will, you may be rich, but even you are aware that paper is expensive and should not be wasted in this manner."
Darcy snatched it back from him and tossed it back with the others. "I cannot seem to get my thoughts in order," he grumbled.
Fitzwilliam turned and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms as he said, "Tell me what the trouble is; maybe I can help you sort it."
With a sigh, Darcy sat back in his chair. "I… I paid a call on Miss Bennet."
"Oh, did you?" Fitzwilliam returned. "I am glad of it, for how suddenly that headache came upon her concerned me. Is she well?"
He glanced again at the balls of paper and his expression fell. "Oh dear… What happened? Did she confront you about Bingley? She did seem rather incensed when I told her of your triumph there."
Darcy looked up at him. "Oh, so you have been the means of ruining my chances? Thank you, Theodore. Thank you ever so much."
"Ruining your chances?" Fitzwilliam queried. "Don't tell me you… Oh, good heavens, did you propose marriage to her?"
"I did," Darcy replied with a nod. "And she has refused me."
Fitzwilliam stood back, a frown on his face. "Refused you? I thought Miss Bennet to have more sense than to refuse so eligible a match as you! Whatever is the foolish girl about? Why did she refuse you?"
Darcy turned to face his cousin, draping his arm across the back of his chair as he said, "In part because someone revealed that I'd had a hand in separating Charles Bingley from her sister."
Fitzwilliam's expression showed him to be both mortified and astonished. "Good God, Darcy… I had no idea that… Her sister was the lady?"
He turned and paced away, running a hand through his dark hair before he turned back to say, "I'm sorry, cousin. It's just that I had noticed you seemed enamored of Miss Bennet, and I spoke of your triumph only to showcase how kind you are to your friends. I was trying to help you on, not sabotage your chances."
Darcy sighed. "You could hardly be trying to sabotage me when you had no idea of Bingley's paramour being Miss Bennet's elder sister," he said.
Fitzwilliam retrieved a chair from across the room and brought it over to sit next to him. "What happened? What did she say to you? What did you say to her?"
With another heavy sigh, and no small amount of embarrassment, Darcy recounted the disastrous visit to the parsonage. Repeating every word he had said only increased his mortification at his own boorish behavior—repeating hers only served to drive home the fact that she was right about him. He'd hardly conducted himself in Meryton in such a way as to curry favor, with her or anyone else. It was no wonder he'd been thought proud and conceited there, and he had little doubt that after he'd gone, Wickham's lies had spread like the plague. He'd been blind to Elizabeth's dislike of him and had only thought of how happy she must be to receive his offer.
We are all of us fools in love, he thought morosely.
Darcy stopped himself just before confessing that he and Elizabeth had kissed. His cousin did not need to hear of that particular bit of ungentlemanly behavior. When Fitzwilliam only continued to stare silently at him, his countenance once again full of astonishment, Darcy groaned and prompted him to speak.
"I… I honestly am not sure what to say," Fitzwilliam said. "I am amazed at both of you."
"In what way?"
Fitzwilliam scoffed. "Well, for starters, that you were fool enough to think telling a lady why you shouldn't marry her and that you'd fought like the dickens to repress your feelings was an acceptable means of proposing marriage. I'm also astonished that a smart young woman like Miss Bennet is fool enough to believe the word of a scoundrel like George Wickham."
"She does not know him as we do, Theo," Darcy said. "As I told you, I believe she already disliked me when she met him, and he found in her a sympathetic ear. And you know how I am among strangers—we talked of the very subject with Miss Bennet after dinner one evening, do not you remember?"
Fitzwilliam nodded. "I remember. I also recall telling you once that your reticence to engage with unfamiliar company would be your undoing."
"Yes, if only I had heeded you then," Darcy grumbled. "What am I to do? I do not imagine Miss Bennet will ever rescind her rejection, nor that I should even accept her if she did change her mind. But I cannot bear the thought of her thinking ill of me."
"Hence the letter," his cousin mused, looking once again to the crumpled sheets. "Do not write one, Will, and cast the waste into the fireplace. A letter won't do."
"I know that writing to her is inappropriate—given we are not bound by betrothal, marriage, or blood—but how then am I to explain why I sought to separate Bingley from her sister, as well as reveal Wickham for the libertine that he is?"
Fitzwilliam surprised him by laughing. "Come now, Will, you're a smarter lad than this! If you can't write to a lady, what else can you do?"
Darcy frowned. "You think I should talk to her?"
"Yes!" his cousin cried. "Call upon her again—not right now, of course, for sensibilities are still much too provoked on both sides, I imagine. Wait until tomorrow, that you've both some time to settle your vexation and think rationally."
Fitzwilliam then stood and carried his chair back to its original place. "I am truly sorry for my part in making things difficult for you, Will. You must know I would never maliciously interfere."
Sighing, Darcy nodded. "I know that your intentions were noble."
"At the very least, I would say you owe Miss Bennet some form of apology," Fitzwilliam went on. "It doesn't matter if you were right about anything, the fact is that you insulted her and her family, and that was an ungentlemanlike thing to do. Take the night to think about what each of you said to the other—sober reflection can only do you good, and I cannot imagine that her thoughts and meditations will be any different than yours. Hopefully you will both see that neither of you is entirely faultless, and that only owning your mistakes will make things right between you. Even if she never changes her mind and you never renew your addresses, at least you'll have peace between you."
For a moment Darcy could only stare at his cousin, then he slowly gave a nod. "I do so hate it when you are right."
Fitzwilliam, as he expected, flashed a rakish grin. "What can I say, old boy? All this wisdom has to go somewhere."
"Wiseacre," Darcy muttered as he picked up one of the crumpled drafts of his letter and sent it flying toward his cousin's head. Fitzwilliam cleverly ducked away from the paper cannonball and quit the room with a laugh.
Darcy groaned as he rose and went to fetch his errant weapon; he collected the others and threw the lot into the hearth, then used a matchstick to set them aflame. As he watched the paper burn, he was forced to admit that Fitzwilliam had been right—at the least, he must offer his apologies to Elizabeth. Yet he hoped to do more, to make her understand why he'd interfered in Bingley's courtship, even if he did not feel he'd done wrong there. To Bingley he'd been kinder than to himself.
More than that, however, he was determined to make her see Wickham's true character. Darcy could think of no other way to do so than to reveal the whole of their history—the good and the bad. If nothing else, Elizabeth would know to keep watch over her sisters. Lydia Bennet, the youngest, was the most impressionable of the family, and she was just the sort of girl that Wickham liked to ruin before simply disappearing. Darcy had little doubt that several shopkeepers' daughters had already been meddled with, or that his one-time friend had accounts open that would never be paid.
Yes, he thought with a sigh. Tonight, he would continue to think and reflect, and tomorrow he would explain himself. He could only hope that his words had the desired effect.