This scene should be read at the end of chapter 11. Jane accepted an invitation to dine at Netherfield with Bingley's sisters. She ended up having to stay the night because it began to rain. The next morning she became ill and Elizabeth came to Netherfield to care for her. Elizabeth stayed mostly with Jane in her room, but joined the rest of the party for meals and in the evenings. Miss Bingley, being jealous of the attention Darcy was paying to Miss Elizabeth, began to treat her unkindly.

Darcy scowled at Bingley across the billiard table as the last ball fell into the cup.

"Really Darcy, don't be ridiculous!" Bingley complained, setting down his cue.

Darcy ignored him as he started collecting the billiards to reset for another game.

"What was that… four?" Bingley asked.

"Five," Darcy responded morosely.

"Now don't be cross with me Darcy. It's not my fault your head is somewhere else."

"Another round Charles? -make it an even number, shall we?

"No, I'm afraid I am too tired for another, it's past midnight. I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, my friend, whatever it is has you all wound up."

Darcy tossed his cue down. He was restless and uneasy. He knew if he retired to the solitude of his own apartment he would no longer be able to distract his mind. Thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Bennet would plague him, as they had continually since her arrival at Netherfield. He could not suppress the knowledge that even now she was somewhere under the same roof, in her own private chamber, perhaps one that was very near his own.

Resigned to Bingley's desertion, he solaced himself by downing a glass of brandy. He poured himself another and moved into the Library, resolving to read until he was too fatigued to think of anything but sleep. He took a place upon the sofa with his back to the fire, and opened his book to the place he had last marked.

Perhaps now that he was free of Miss Bingley's frequent interruptions he would finally be able to read. She was becoming a nuisance. Her not so subtle attempts at flirtation were growing more irritating by the day. What's more she was jealous, she had been blatantly unkind to Miss Elizabeth that afternoon. She had called attention to every perceived defect in Miss Elizabeth's person and situation. Her incivility towards her guest only served to lower his opinion of her, but any defense of Miss Elizabeth by him would probably increase her cruelty. His close friendship with Charles had led Caroline to believe she had some sort of claim on him. Perhaps he should put a stop to her designs by finally giving into his Aunt Catherin's demands to wed his cousin. Darcy pictured Ann's pale face, and gaunt frame. He shuddered at the thought.

Darcy had not been seated more than an half hour before he heard the sound of another entering the room. To his abject horror, when he looked up he saw the very person he had wished to avoid in thought, now present. Miss Elizabeth; she was attired in her chemise. A dressing gown covered her, but her feet, and ankles were shockingly bare. Darcy cursed himself, was he never to have a moment's peace? As Elizabeth approached the row of books he sank down covertly in his seat so as not to be observed. She took a moment to inspect the various titles on offer. Her attention was then directed to the uppermost shelf. Darcy smiled to himself, knowing what works were stored there. How odd that she should choose something she had previously claimed to disdain.

Elizabeth made use of a nearby stool. She glanced to the door, making sure she was alone before stepping up. As she extended her arm, the hem of her gown inched up, revealing the gentle swell of her calves. Darcy closed his eyes and groaned silently to himself. He felt a rush of heat in his loins as he imagined his hands gliding up the length of her legs, exploring every one of the delicate curves that were now on display. He could practically feel her soft warm flesh under his fingertips.

Despite the stool, Elizabeth was unable to reach the volume she desired. Supposing she would soon undertake a search for something else to climb on, Darcy gave up his attempt at concealment. He left the sofa and stepped silently across the carpet, placing himself behind her.

"Miss Elizabeth, would you allow me to assist you?" He said calmly.

"Mr. Darcy!" She cried out in alarm, spinning on her perch to face him. "I thought I was quite alone."

With the added height of the stool, her eyes were almost on a level with his own.

"What is it you desire?"

She looked up at the shelf.

"Oh, the green, if you please. The one with the gold filigree," she indicated, a bit flustered.

He looked up at the tome she indicated, then back to her.

"Shakespeare," He said dryly. "I thought I understood you say that you did not enjoy poetry?"

Elizabeth was unnerved. He was too close, pestering her with questions, and showing no intention of retreat. She would not be able to leave the stool without pushing past him in an undignified manner. She supposed that was his intention, to force her to draw his censure. Refusing to yield, she gathered her courage, determined that she would not allow him to intimidate her. She stuck her chin up defiantly and met his gaze.

"You mistake me. I enjoy reading poetry for my own pleasure. But what I meant before was that I believe the practice of its recitation should be reserved."

Darcy noted the subtle change in her attitude, the added fire behind her eyes. Taking the offered gauntlet, he met her challenge. He took another step forward.

"Reserved, for who?"

She swallowed, then responded boldly.

"For those with shared feeling."

"What sort of feeling?"

"Affection… Love…"

"Passion?" He questioned.

"Yes."

"And you think a sonnet would not inspire such sentiment, should we test your theory then?"

He tucked an arrant curl behind her ear.

"You wanted Shakespeare… Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" He stopped, shaking his head. "No, that will not suit." He leaned forward, gently placing a kiss upon her cheek before whispering- "There is nothing temperate or angelic about you. You, Miss Elizabeth, are my tormentor, my temptation…"

He pulled loose the fastening of her dressing gown, slipping his hands beneath it. He gripped her firmly by the waist, stepping forward until his body pressed against her.

"My love is a fever, longing still for that which longer nurseth the disease. Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please…"

She was at once outraged by his impertinence, and beguiled by the sensation of his touch. The rich velvety tones, the passion in his voice, set her pulse racing. As he spoke, his hands embarked on a course of exploration. She closed her eyes, breathing deep. Her mind reeling as she felt her body awaken to his touch.

"My reason, the physician to my love, angry that his prescriptions are not kept. Hath left me, and I desperate now approve…"

His hands groped her breasts, he felt her nipples harden at his provocation.

"Desire is death. Past cure I am."

He pulled at her chemise, baring her breasts, then set his mouth upon them to feast upon her flesh.

"Ohh," she gasped, indulging in the enchanting sensation.

She combed her fingers through his dark locks, granting him favor.

"Now reason is past care, and frantic-mad with evermore unrest; my thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are."

His hand dipped between her legs, emboldened by the wetness he found there, attesting her arousal. She moaned aloud as he rubbed over her mound, finding her little bud of pleasure, and teasing her mercilessly. He kissed her, invading her mouth as he ground his hardness against her. He pressed her back against the bookshelf, fumbling with the fastening of his breeches, he freed himself. He lifted her thigh, teasing her folds with his ready member, spreading her wetness upon him.

"For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art black as hell, as dark as night."

As the last words fell he heeded the urge to conquer. He thrust into her, exalting in the sensation of her body. She held tight to him, her arms wrapped about his shoulders as he began to move within her. He lifted her in his arms, each thrust of his cock driving her against the shelf, sending books toppling to the floor.

Her cries of pleasure ushered his descent into madness. He thrust into her with all his force, all his energy until he heard her cry out in ecstasy. As he reached the height of passion he poured himself into her.

Darcy started awake, shocked to find himself still seated on the sofa. The library was empty and quiet. His book laid open upon his chest, and his breeches a disgraceful mess. His head fell back with a sigh. As he waited for his rapid pulse to calm he wondered just how long the Bennet sisters would remain at Netherfield.

As always comments and corrections are welcome and appreciated.