A/N: A thousand apologies! I am new to Fanfiction, so I had marked this story as "complete." OOPS. I think I now understand that despite the fact that the book is complete (in real life/on my computer), I should not mark it as "complete" HERE until all chapters are uploaded! Mea culpa; I've changed the category designation and will only mark it complete once it's entirely uploaded. I would continue humbly groveling, but I think Darcy will be more interesting... So sorry for the confusion, though!

Chapter 7: Darcy

Outside, the wind blew the heavy snow up and against the long library windows. Darcy shifted in the comfortable leather chair that was set in front of the fireplace. If he were home at Pemberley, today would be one of his favorite sort of days. It would be close to Christmas, and he and Georgiana would be together. His younger sister would be testing her skills at decorating, the cooks would be stirring the puddings, his dear friend and cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam would visit before returning to his parents' estate for Christmas…

And Darcy could take a moment to simply rest in the library, his favorite room. His library at Pemberley was twice as large as Netherfield's, not that he would ever point out such a fact to Charles. And not that Bingley would care. After perusing the shelves—all covered by a layer of fine dust—Darcy was reasonably certain that not one of the Bingleys had ever spent more than ten seconds in this room, and that was only if they'd wandered in here by accident.

Therefore, it was perfect.

He'd written to Georgiana and Fitzwilliam this morning, as well as his Aunt Catherine and his steward. He'd also drafted a letter about the purchase of a new type of fertilizer, though by that point his hand ached and his mind could no longer follow a coherent train of thought…

All because of her.

Elizabeth Bennet was in this house. He'd thought of her, as he drank brandy with Bingley until five in the morning. He'd thought of her, when he finally went to his cold bed in his empty chambers. He'd turned and rolled and been unable to sleep, wondering what room she was in. Wondering what she thought of him.

He'd woken up too early, wondering where she was.

And he'd eaten before any of the other guests in the house were awake, alone in the cold dining room, with only a yawning footman running to and from the kitchens to get him tea and an egg. He'd told himself it was because he had an estate to run, but truly, if he were being honest—he was being a coward. He was avoiding her.

Darcy groaned and ran his hands over his face.

And that's when he heard the noise. Like a rumble of distant thunder, there was some sort of chaotic sound outside the room. And then it grew closer, and louder, and slowly distinguished itself as voices. Many, many voices. It sounded as if everyone in the house were tromping down the halls of Netherfield together.

And—Darcy sat up straight, groaning—headed directly toward him.

The library doors flew open and Bingley stood there, grinning and shouting his name. "There you are, Darcy. I hope we are not disturbing you!"

Bingley ushered Jane Bennet and her parents into the library first. Caroline and Louisa were close behind, sighing and trying not to stand close to the younger Bennet girls, who were perpetually giggling. The clergyman in black came next, trailed by the serious-looking daughter and…

"Miss Elizabeth."

Like a fool, he uttered her name first as he stood up. Thankfully, in the moment it took Darcy to stand and stutter like a lovesick cad, Bingley had already begun a tour of the room. The bulk of the people had followed him into the far corner—Bingley was describing the poetry section as the "horticulture end"—and so Miss Elizabeth was, in fact, relatively close to him as he stood and blurted out her name.

Dear God, pull yourself together, man.

"Mr. Darcy," Miss Elizabeth said, bowing her head and coming to stand next to the fire.

Darcy hung his head for just a moment, before recovering himself. She wore a gown of the deepest green, and it served somehow to make her appear more alive and yet more otherworldly, all at once.

She might as well be a mythical forest creature, he reprimanded himself. For if you try to touch her, she will most assuredly disappear before your eyes…

Or, if you actually touch her, she'll be forced to become your wife, a devious voice added. He was disturbed at not-horrifying that prospect appeared.

"Are you well, Sir?" Miss Elizabeth said, cocking her head in concern. "You look…flushed."

"Yes, thank you. I was simply sitting too close to the fire."

She nodded as if this were a normal, everyday occurrence and looked around the room. "It is a very grand library. It puts my father's collection of books to shame, I must admit. If my father had his way, he would also pull up a chair too close to the fire, and hide—excuse me, study—the day away."

Darcy felt a smile tug at his lips. "Are you accusing me of hiding, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I accused you of nothing, Mr. Darcy. But perhaps you have a guilty conscience, and it warps my simple observation into a personal accusation?"

Guilty, indeed.

She leaned closer and whispered. "But perhaps you are guilty? And then I know your secret?"

He cleared his throat, frozen. Had she seen him surreptitiously studying her? Did he know that he could not stop his eyes from swiftly traveling to the swell of her breasts, where her milk-white skin strained against the green velvet fabric? He had hoped that his transgression was swift enough—and the lady innocent enough—that she had not noticed his wandering eyes.

But had she seen him? And did she take his—his abhorrent obsession with her beauty—in such stride? Was she teasing him?

"My secret?" Darcy said, frozen beside the raging fire.

"Well, not really a secret. You told me yourself last night that you do not converse easily with those whom you do not know."

Relief flooded through him and he took a deep breath. But even that was a mistake, for her clean, floral scent flooded his senses.

"Though, you do know Mr. Bingley and his sisters," she continued. "So I can only assume it is not trepidation of small talk that makes you hide here."

"No?" Mr. Darcy shifted. She watched him, a small smile playing at her lips. "Then why am I 'hiding' here, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Nine pins," she said simply. "You have heard that they are setting up nine pins in the ballroom, and you do not want it discovered that you have dreadful aim."

She smiled then, as if pleased with her silly joke—and with playing at insulting him. It was such a pretty, bright, easy smile that he could not help but smile back. This, however, seemed to shock her; as soon as their eyes met and they grinned at each other, she suddenly faltered and seemed to fall back into herself.

He didn't want that to happen. He wanted her smiles back. He liked them. He liked earning them.

But before he could attempt to coach another of those fascinating, bright grins from her, Bingley finished his tour and came to stand with them by the fireplace. "Darcy! Has Miss Elizabeth told you? We're bringing the outdoors game indoors. Nine pins in the ballroom! You will play, won't you?"

"Miss Elizabeth fears for my reputation, as she assumes I have no skills in that arena," Darcy said.

"No skills!" Bingley said as if shocked. Then he frowned and rubbed his head. "Well, I must admit, I've never seen you play such a game, not even at school. Can it be true, then?"

Darcy smiled. "There's only one way to find out."

Caroline joined the group and came to stand by Darcy's side. She smiled up at him, as if she and he shared a personal relationship. Darcy stiffened, wondering if Miss Elizabeth would notice Caroline's subtle cues that she knew him more than any other woman in the world.

Darcy watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, even as he tried to pay attention to Bingley setting out the rules of the game. Elizabeth stiffened as Caroline moved even closer, the sleeve of her dress brushing against Darcy's coat. Darcy could not deny the slight, foolish thrill that ran up his spine: Elizabeth had noticed. And she did not seem pleased.

Did this mean—did this mean there was a chance she might care if another woman was vying for his attention?

When Darcy had spent time with the Bingleys in London, he had witnessed Caroline attempt to artfully capture quite a few young gentlemen's affections. He'd heard her crow to her sister on the days after balls, that this Sir or that Earl's second son had said this or that. She always made sure that Darcy was in the room when she relayed these stories. For the first time, Darcy understood the impulse.

But, he was not a flirt. He was not a play actor.

He was a Darcy.

And he did not play games—even when faced with nine pins.

He went after what he wanted.

But…did he want…Elizabeth? What, exactly, was he playing at?

"Are there teams?" Kitty asked. "Lydia and I are always on the same team."

"If we don't have teams," Caroline said, "These games might take forever." It was clear that she was not amused at the prospect of lawn games indoors, though Darcy could see that she would not enjoy any amusements with the Bennets.

"Yes, let us play on teams. Each person may take turns tossing the balls." Bingley turned and bowed to Jane. "Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of being my partner?"

Jane blushed prettily. "I'm afraid I've no aim, Mr. Bingley. Are you sure you would not wish to choose a more skilled partner?"

It was Bingley's turn to blush, and Darcy knew what the man was thinking, even if the elder Miss Bennet did not. "I—I would have no one else, Miss Bennet."

"I shall remain here," Mr. Bennett announced. "If Mr. Bingley shall allow me use of his library."

"Of course, Sir, of course!" Bingley agreed eagerly.

But Mrs. Bennet was not pleased. "Then who shall be my partner?" she cried. She turned eagerly to Mr. Collins, but the young man ignored her and addressed the room, instead.

"I fear this game maybe not be ideal. I have heard that lawn bowling is commonly associated with drinking and gambling, activities that a man of my caliber cannot be connected with! They are dreadful vices. Why, what would your illustrious Aunt Catherine say, Mr. Darcy, if she would learn of me, bowling?"

Darcy grit his teeth. "If she saw you bowling? I assume she would bet on one of the other teams."

Elizabeth surprised him by laughing, and then masking the noise and coughing into her fist. Her younger sisters weren't as reserved, and they laughed openly before rushing to follow Bingley and Jane out the door.

"But who shall my partner be?" Mrs. Bennet cried. She grabbed her daughter Mary's arm and began to pull her out the door, though the young woman's eyes stayed on Mr. Collins as long as possible before she was dragged from the room.

"I will stay here in the library as well," Mr. Hurst announced. Darcy noted Mr. Bennet rolling his eyes, but he was sure the elder gentleman would be pleased by Mr. Hurst's companionship: Mr. Hurst had the ability to fall asleep within three minutes, if food or cards were not nearby.

Caroline turned and smiled brightly up at him. "Mr. Darcy, do you have a partner yet?" She did not wait for him to answer, but addressed Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth, I had the privilege to play such a game when my brother and I visited Pemberley this past summer. Mr. Darcy was a most excellent teacher. Why, I could barely throw a ball in a straight line before he assisted me!"

Darcy forced himself not to grimace. Bingley and Caroline had been his guests at Pemberley for a fortnight over the summer, and he had vowed it would be the last time he was the only unmarried man trapped for weeks at a time with Caroline.

"And now you can throw a ball. I'm very happy for you," Elizabeth said drily.

Caroline sniffed. "I do not make it a practice to play such childish games. But since your sisters have so insisted…"

"You will be an elegant hostess, yes." Elizabeth bowed slightly. "I believe I will stay here in the library with my father."

Mr. Collins spoke up, after overhearing her words. "The betterment of the mind, my dear! Excellent choice. I will sit with you and—"

"Actually, I had forgotten," Elizabeth said, turning away from him. "I am promised as someone's partner."

And then Darcy acted—he did not plan out what he would say. He did not repeat it a few times in his mind, to make sure that it was the proper statement at the proper time to the proper people. He took a step toward Elizabeth and said, "Yes. Thank you for agreeing to be my partner, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's brown eyes grew larger and—for once—she had no reply. But she quickly regained her sense of composure and nodded serenely. Darcy could not help but smile; she was all propriety on the outside, but he could see her eyes flashing. He could feel her frustration and confusion and relief, all aimed at him.

It was, he realized, very similar to what he felt inside. Confused, frustrated, and elated. But he felt himself giving in to his desires. She was here. There was no escaping her—the storm trapped them bodily together, and he could no longer escape his impulses. He wanted to know this woman. He wanted to see why he…why he liked her so much.

And he wanted her to like him. Why did she not like him?

Mr. Collins stared, flustered, as Darcy guided Miss Elizabeth out the door. Caroline followed close behind, but not so close that Elizabeth could not quietly reprimand him. "Sir, we made no such agreement. Why did you declare it so?"

Darcy resisted leaning toward her, though he could imagine what it would be like to have a relationship with Miss Bennet. How lovely, if she were his…friend. He would not have to be so formal and stiff. He could offer her his arm, and bend down to whisper back in her sweet, shell-shaped ear.

"I was thinking of your ankle."

"My what!" Her cheeks colored and she glared at him.

"Your ankle—how dancing with Mr. Collins injured you last night. I was afraid Mr. Collins might become dangerous, should he have missiles at his disposal."

She took a deep breath and lifted her pert little nose in the air. "Nine pins does not exactly involve missiles, Mr. Darcy. I imagine even Mr. Collins could manage to throw a ball and not injure anyone."

"Are you certain of that?"

She glanced up at him, and he watched in fascination as she bit her bottom lip so as…not to smile? He could not help the burst of pride that filled his chest; he was making her laugh! Even if she was too stubborn to do so outright.

When was the last time he had tried to amuse anyone? He faltered for a moment. The last time he'd worked hard to make someone smile—had it really been when his sister was young? And what did that say about his life now?

"Are you making a joke, Mr. Darcy?"

"Me? Never," he said.

Now she laughed out loud. "You are different here. Different than I expected. I could almost imagine we could be friends, but for—" She bit her lip again, but this time she looked concerned.

Darcy wished that he didn't sense Caroline, desperately racing toward them from behind. But for what? He did not get the chance to ask, for Caroline had reached them and now he was trapped between the two women.

On his left, Elizabeth stared straight ahead and engaged with him no more. Caroline, on his right, made such a great show of breathlessness that he was obliged to offer her his arm so that she might walk in a straight line.

As the group approached the open ballroom doors, they could hear shrieks of laughter, Mrs. Bennet exclaiming, and Bingley shouting about which pins were worth how many points.

"Miss Elizabeth, I do hope you are worthy of your partner," Caroline said as they entered the room. "He is quite the sportsman."

"I cannot claim to excel at nine pins," Elizabeth said. "But I shall aim to compete as well as I can."

Both women had stopped and were staring at each other. The fact that Caroline was taller did not seem to cow Elizabeth, and Darcy could not help but admire how she tilted up her chin and stood straighter. He had the feeling Elizabeth Bennet could take on anything—Caroline, a pack of wild dogs, a French army—and still look so determined and beautiful and strong, all at once.

Caroline sniffed. "There's Louisa. I know she shall be my partner. We should wager on something, don't you think?"

"Wager on who will be required to sit next to Mr. Collins at dinner," Elizabeth said. "should he discover our gambling."

"Do you fear him so?" Caroline raised an eyebrow.

"I do not fear him at all. But he has been our houseguest for the past fortnight; let me assure you that you do not wish to be his dinner partner."

Caroline sniffed and turned toward him, pasting a bright smile across her face. "Mr. Darcy, you should be the prize! Whomever wins is allowed to sit next to Mr. Darcy. I should know, he is an excellent conversationalist."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. "I would never describe myself as such." And Caroline knows that.

"You are too humble," Caroline said, smiling triumphantly at Elizabeth before she flounced through the room to her sister's side.

Elizabeth glanced up at him, her eyes dancing.

"You are amused?" he said, conscious of how tall her was next to her petite form. It made him want to protect her, while the challenge in her eyes made him want to spar with her. Verbally, at the very least.

"Truthfully? 'Humble' would have been one of the last words I would have used to describe you, Mr. Darcy."

He stepped back on his heels. What did she mean by this? He paused, that familiar tension rising in him. The stiffness and formality that descended on him, when in a room full of people he did not know.

And now, when standing in front of confounding woman whom he wanted to flee from and kiss, all at once.

Darcy watched the chaos in front of them. Bingley stood in the center of the room, holding a pin above his head and shouting about which pins count for three, four or five. Jane stood nearby, repeating what he said in earnest. Caroline stood near a wall with her sister, both practicing their tossing motions and arguing over form. Mrs. Bennet was arguing with Mary over where to stand for the optimal shot. And Kitty and Lydia were standing on the opposite side of the ballroom, dancing around the nine pins and knocking them over, much to Bingley's gentle consternation.

He cleared his throat and finally said, "You give your opinion quite decidedly, Miss Elizabeth."

"And does that offend you, Sir?" She stopped and turned to stare at him, a challenging look in her pretty, bright eyes. Darcy realized that despite his nerves, he was smiling. How long had it been since he had matched wits with anyone, much less a beautiful young woman?

"Do I look offended?" he said, allowing his smile to widen.

She raised her eyebrows. "Do you answer every question with a question?"

He laughed. "No. And you do not offend me. I appreciate a person who knows himself—or herself—well enough to express their opinions."

"And not be cowed by you, in all your stately glory?"

He stopped and stared at her, realizing they were slowly making their way in a circle around the large, open ballroom. It had been cleared of any evidence of the night before.

"I am truly asking," he said. "Do I appear so very—stately? Or do you wish to offend me, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I would not wish to offend anyone. I am merely trying to make out your character, Mr. Darcy."

"Is my character so very mysterious, then?" he said.

"When you respond to my questions with more questions, I believe you are attempting to be mysterious."

He paused, feeling daring, and thinking of her sitting with him last night. "Perhaps I am trying to work out your character, Miss Elizabeth."

She turned, regarding him archly. "Until today, I would have said we have a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure." Darcy clenched his fist as they made another turn around the room. He did not know her mind, or how she had gone from laughing to…attacking him. "How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly."

She shrugged. "I must not decide on my own performance."

He made no answer, and they were again silent as they walked down the length of the ballroom. The only sounds were the discussion of the players and the occasional smack of the ball on the wood pins.

As they turned again at the end of the room, she remarked, "It is strange to think, that just last night this room was full of dancers and friends and merriment. How quickly it has all been erased."

"Does this make you melancholy?"

"It makes me feel for the maids and footmen who had to work so hard to perform this magic. And yes, I suppose it makes me melancholy, a bit. When there is a ball, a girl has such grand expectations. You cannot help it, no matter how rational you might attempt to be. There are days of anticipation, and once it is all over, you must adjust to your everyday life again."

Darcy watched her face closely. She both spoke the truth, and yet concealed some deeper emotions beneath the smooth, perfect surface of her skin. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he cared to know what another person was thinking. And that bothered him exceedingly: how unfeeling had he become toward others? Had he truly never sought out another person's good opinion? Had everyone around him given him their good opinion so easily, based on his being…who he was?

Having what he did?

Indeed, the only person who had ever caused havoc in his life was George Wickham, and whether that was due to a deficiency of character, or jealousy, or both, he did not know. He had tried to erase the man from his—and Georgiana's—lives.

And yet, the image of Wickham walking with the Bennet ladies filled his mind, and his heart, with quiet, desperate rage.

"And did all your anticipated hopes come true last night?" he asked. They turned another corner, and her skirts brushed against his legs, for one brief moment.

"In truth? No."

"Ah yes, dancing with Mr. Collins." He tried to make a joke, but his mind was filled with worry about Wickham.

Nor did she smile. Elizabeth kept her face averted, studying her sisters in the center of the room. "I had hoped to see a new friend at the ball last night. When you met my sisters and I in Meryton the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."

Darcy stopped walking, a deep, old anger resurfacing in his heart. She brought up Wickham? Here? Now?

She had wished to dance with him last night?

Darcy forced his voice to remain low and even, but it took an effort to respond to her and not reveal everything: every wicked deed Wickham had done, and every particle of anger that still swirled through Darcy's soul.

"I presume you speak of Mr. Wickham?"

"I do."

"He is blessed with such happy manners, as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."

Now it was her turn to stop, and Elizabeth turned and stared up at him. Ah, there it was. The lift of the chin, the tilt of the nose. Her flashing brown eyes. Her full pink lips, angry and speaking quickly.

Why did his chest ache and heave so? Why did he care what she thought—why did her anger make him want to draw closer, rather than step away and erase her from his life altogether?

"He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,"' she replied with emphasis, "And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."

Darcy took a step closer to her quivering form. "You defend him, then?" He felt himself shaking with rage, but he could not be mad at Elizabeth—it was Wickham. Trying to twist another woman's opinion of him. And who knows what else he might attempt to do…

He could not leave this be. What if Wickham seduced Elizabeth, the same way he had Georgiana? Darcy did not think Elizabeth that naïve about love, but here she was, defending that man. What lies had he told her? Darcy wanted to tell her everything, tell her the truth—now—but how to do that and protect his sister at the same time?

"I wonder what Mr. Wickham has told you of his past?" Darcy stared at her, a slow feeling of dread overtaking him. "Or perhaps I should ask what Mr. Wickham has told you, regarding my own past."

Elizabeth kept her face still, but she clasped her hands together. She was nervous, he realized. Finally she said, "I have heard such varying accounts as puzzle me exceedingly."

"I would wish to enlighten you," he said, and he was going to say more but then there were footsteps and suddenly all her sisters surrounded them.

"It is your turn, Lizzy! Kitty and I have bested everyone so far, so now you must play us!"

Elizabeth gave him one final, curious look, then turned and clapped her hands as her sisters bombarded her with the story of their last few points.

Darcy followed the chattering women to the center of the room. He was astounded. She defended Wickham. Did she care for that scoundrel? He should walk away now. He should forget this woman, this town, forget he ever came here.

But would that leave her vulnerable to Wickham's charms and lies? He should speak to Elizabeth, at least once more, to ensure that she was…safe.

Or to ruin Wickham in her eyes, and defend yourself, a part of him added.

Was it possible? Could he change the anger in her eyes to—friendship?

Or something more?

"Mr. Darcy, if you wish to choose another partner, I relinquish any claims to you," Elizabeth said from a few paces in front of him. She turned back to stare at him, her cheeks still two pink spots on her face. She was upset by their conversation, he realized. He had the sudden urge to cup her face, to calm her. He could not be mad at her.

She had been fed lies, and he would fix this. He would right it, and all would be right with the world again.

And—he considered the young woman before him—once he did so, perhaps she would look at him with admiration. Or respect.

Or more…

"Mr. Darcy?" she said again.

He realized everyone was staring at him.

"In truth, I have awful aim," Elizabeth said. "Would you prefer another partner?"

"No," he said curtly. He heard her soft intake of breath, but he offered her his arm nonetheless, then stared down into those deep, confusing, burning brown eyes. It was madness, to offer her his arm. To want her. To stay here, in her intoxicating presence.

But perhaps he was tired of always being logical, of always doing the right and proper thing. When was the last time he felt a thrill moving up his spine, simply from a woman's hand on his jacket? When was the last time he imagined touching her back?

He cleared his throat and looked down at Elizabeth Bennet and said, "I have excellent aim. And when I find my target, I never miss."