Ok, I wrote this story or started to write it years ago, and then my adhd brain died out and/or I wrote myself into a corner I couldn't get out and I deleted it from here. So if some of this seems familiar it is. I have come back to it as I liked the plot outline but I have changed the story slightly, in that I have added things and taken things out. Its still a WIP, though I am way further along and have broken through what I felt was my corner. I have been working on it for the last few days between writing short one shots. I am already at over 55000 words and I would say about a little over half way there. I will probably post a chapter every other day, hopefully I will finish this one like I did the Mid-wife. So without further ado the Prologue once again.

Prologue ~ The Day He Gets Wrong

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However, little is known of the true feelings or views of such a man, even when in his company for some time. It might also be said that any single lady would be eager to accept such a man, knowing as little as possible of his defects before securing such a position.

With this in mind, we look in on a gentleman of eight-and-twenty, residing in the family wing of his aunt's estate at Rosings Park. He has been in the neighborhood for some time, struggling between duty to family, wealth, and connection on one side, and the stirrings of his heart on the other. Upon waking, he is often resolute, determined to follow his heart, yet as the day progresses, the reflective mind of duty and honor begins to seep in, igniting an internal war. Each evening, he declares to himself his resolution to uphold family honor above all else, though with each passing day, the words lose a bit of their conviction. Still, the struggle continues, until finally, a decision is made. But on the day that he yields to his heart, fate has other ideas. A lesson, hard at first but necessary to learn, awaits this proud gentleman in possession of good fortune.

A dog's bark pierced the silence first, sharp and distant, like an echo from a place he could not name. Then came the low groan of wind rattling the windowpane, accompanied by the faintest chill seeping through the cracks. The sounds swirled together, tugging at the edges of Darcy's subconscious, anchoring him in the liminal space between dream and wakefulness.

A clock chimed six. The first note was muffled, but the reverberation drew him further from the warmth of sleep. One. Two. Three. The rhythm became more distinct, resonating in his chest. Four. Five. Six.

Darcy blinked against the dim light, the final echo of the clock fading into silence. The dream, now fractured and fleeting, tried to cling to him: Elizabeth, her laughter soft and unguarded, a hand trailing across the pianoforte at Pemberley.

Pemberley.

Reality settled heavily upon him, pressing him into the mattress. He was not at Pemberley. He was at Rosings Park, far from home. And Elizabeth Bennet—perfect, maddening Elizabeth—was not his wife.

With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face, attempting to recapture the remnants of his dream. It was always the same, this brief moment of hope before the weight of his waking thoughts returned.

The faint glow of a candle caught his eye. The wax had melted halfway down, the wick leaning precariously as if it might collapse. He frowned slightly, surprised by the detail—it was not uncommon, yet it left a sense of disquiet in its wake.

Another gust of wind rattled the window. Darcy glanced toward it and noted it was ajar. The servants were not in the habit of leaving windows open overnight, yet this, too, seemed odd. Small details, insignificant on their own, gnawed at his already unsettled mind.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, the chill of the room creeping through his nightclothes. Today would be the last time he might see her. He had already delayed his departure twice, citing trivial excuses that even his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had not believed. Duty called him to London, to his family, to the expectations society had pressed upon him since birth.

And yet…

Darcy's brow furrowed as the familiar debate began anew. Elizabeth Bennet. The very thought of her was a spark in the shadows of his mind, bright and impossible to ignore. He could see her at Pemberley—her light step upon the gravel paths, her quick wit animating the drawing room. She would bring life to the austere halls, laughter to its solemn corners.

But the objections rose just as swiftly. She had no fortune. No connections of worth. Society would sneer, his family would disapprove, and his name—the Darcy name—might be diminished.

Duty. Training. Honor. The words echoed in his mind like the clock's chime, unyielding and relentless.

Darcy rose to his feet, the cold floorboards creaking beneath him. He moved to the window, pushing it closed with a firm hand. Outside, Rosings stretched into the gray morning, shrouded in mist. How perfect it would be if Elizabeth Bennet could stand beside him, gazing out over the grounds of Pemberley instead.

For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence. But reality pulled him back, as it always did. There was no place for dreams in the life of Fitzwilliam Darcy.

"Good morning, sir," Wentworth said with a slight bow as he entered the room, his movements measured and precise. "I trust you slept well? Your bath is ready."

Darcy turned from the window, where he had been watching the first light creep over the horizon. The air was cool and still, a sharp contrast to the restlessness of his thoughts. "Well enough," he replied tersely, though the truth was far from it. Sleep had evaded him; his mind had been plagued by thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet.

Wentworth moved about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening Darcy's desk as he continued, "John returned late last evening with correspondence from London. I've placed it here for your attention. Lady Catherine has requested your presence at breakfast at seven."

Darcy gave a noncommittal hum, then moved toward the adjoining dressing room. There, the steaming bath awaited him, offering the promise of a brief reprieve from his ceaseless musings. He dismissed Wentworth with a gesture, preferring solitude for the moment.

The warmth of the water soothed his tense muscles, though it did little to quiet the storm in his mind. The day loomed before him like an unanswered question. Elizabeth Bennet's presence at the Hunsford parsonage had unsettled him in ways he could scarcely admit, even to himself.

When Darcy returned to his chambers, a towel draped over his shoulders, Wentworth stood ready with a fresh robe and his usual unspoken precision. Darcy allowed himself a rare moment of gratitude for Wentworth's discretion. The valet's calm competence was a welcome contrast to his own chaotic thoughts.

Wentworth began the familiar ritual of shaving Darcy, his steady hand a quiet anchor in the room. The rhythmic scrape of the blade against his skin allowed Darcy's mind to wander—to Elizabeth.

What did he truly want in a wife?

For years, the answer had been simple: a woman of good breeding, with impeccable manners, and connections that would complement the Darcy name. Yet now, that vision seemed shallow, lifeless, when compared to the vibrant, intelligent, and maddeningly forthright woman he had come to know.

He imagined Elizabeth at Pemberley, her laughter filling the grand halls, her sharp wit enlivening the formal dinners. She would challenge him, inspire him, perhaps even make him better than he was.

And yet...

Darcy's chest tightened. Society would not approve. His family would not approve. His aunt would not approve. The weight of those expectations bore down on him like a millstone, pressing against the hope Elizabeth had stirred within him.

Wentworth retrieved Darcy's shirt and waistcoat, helping him into them with his usual efficiency. "The Colonel will likely arrive for breakfast as well," the valet remarked casually.

Darcy gave a faint nod, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The letters waiting on his desk were a reminder of the responsibilities that tethered him—responsibilities he had always borne with pride. And yet now, they seemed insignificant compared to the desire that had taken root in his heart.

He could no longer deny the truth: Elizabeth Bennet was everything he had never realized he wanted.

As Wentworth adjusted the waistcoat over Darcy's shoulders and set to fastening his coat, Darcy caught his reflection in the mirror. His outward appearance was as it always was—impeccable. Yet the man staring back at him was a stranger, torn between duty and longing.

"Very good, sir," Wentworth said at last, stepping back. "You are ready."

Darcy nodded absently, his gaze lingering on his reflection for a moment longer. Then, with a resolute breath, he turned away.

Breakfast with Lady Catherine awaited, as did the letters and the countless obligations that came with being the master of Pemberley. But his mind remained elsewhere, fixated on a woman who had turned his world upside down.

Could he defy society and claim the happiness he so desperately craved? Or would duty, as it always had, prevail?

The morning sun was higher now, casting a golden light across the grounds of Rosings. Yet for Darcy, the day felt as uncertain as the choices that lay before him.

Darcy descended the grand staircase, his steps measured and deliberate, though his thoughts were anything but composed. Passing through the hall and into the breakfast room, he was greeted with a sight that momentarily stilled his internal musings: Miss Anne de Bourgh sat alone at the table, a faint smile gracing her pale lips as she stirred her tea.

"Good morning, Miss de Bourgh," Darcy said, inclining his head politely as he moved toward his place at the table.

"Good morning, Cousin," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She gestured lightly toward the dishes laid out on the sideboard. "Do help yourself. The eggs are quite warm still."

Darcy acknowledged her suggestion with a faint nod and turned his attention to the array of food. Selecting a modest plate, he returned to the table and seated himself opposite her. Though they exchanged no further words, there was an unspoken understanding between them. Any extended conversation, particularly in so public a setting, would undoubtedly find its way back to Lady Catherine's ever-listening ears.

The quiet that settled over the room was not unpleasant. Both Darcy and Anne seemed content to focus on their meals, the occasional clink of silverware the only sound between them.

It was not long before the peace was broken. Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the breakfast room with all the regal authority of a queen holding court, her sharp eyes immediately assessing the scene. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed close behind, his easygoing demeanor a stark contrast to his aunt's commanding presence.

"Good morning, Darcy. Anne," Lady Catherine said, her tone brisk as she moved toward her place at the head of the table. "You are both punctual today—most commendable."

Anne dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing. Darcy, ever formal, replied, "Good morning, Aunt. I trust you slept well."

Lady Catherine did not bother to answer. Instead, she turned her assessing gaze on her daughter, her sharp features softening only slightly. "Anne, you look quite well this morning. The country air agrees with you, I am sure. Do you not think so, Darcy?"

Darcy glanced at Anne briefly, the faintest flicker of discomfort passing across his face. "She looks as well as ever," he replied, his tone carefully neutral.

Before Lady Catherine could press further, Colonel Fitzwilliam intervened with a grin. "Indeed, Aunt, it is a wonder Anne does not venture out more often. The fresh air does seem to work miracles."

Lady Catherine fixed her nephew with a glare that could have frozen the sun. "Nonsense, Richard. You know very well that Anne must not exert herself unnecessarily. If she looks well, it is because her mother ensures her comfort and well-being."

"Of course," Fitzwilliam replied, the corners of his mouth twitching as though suppressing a laugh. "Your diligence in such matters is unparalleled, Aunt."

Lady Catherine sniffed, clearly unconvinced by his sincerity. "It is fortunate that someone in this family takes matters of health and propriety seriously. I dare say some people could learn from my example."

Darcy focused on his tea, determined not to engage in the familiar battle of wills between his aunt and cousin. Fitzwilliam, undeterred, offered his aunt a polite but mischievous smile.

"Quite fortunate, indeed," he said, the teasing lilt in his voice earning him another sharp look.

Anne, who had remained silent through the exchange, glanced at Darcy briefly before returning her attention to her untouched plate. Darcy found himself wishing for the solitude of his rooms but resolved to endure the meal for propriety's sake.

Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the routine tranquility of the morning. Everyone's eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a footman had dropped a silver serving tray, its contents scattered across the polished floor. The man froze, his face pale as he stared at the mess, a teapot still spinning on its side.

Lady Catherine's sharp intake of breath made the tension in the room nearly palpable. Her voice, imperious and cutting, sliced through the stunned silence. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing at the trembling servant.

"I-I beg your pardon, your ladyship," the man stammered, bending hastily to gather the fallen items.

Before Lady Catherine could unleash further scorn, Fitzwilliam chuckled softly, drawing her attention. "Come now, Aunt. Even the best of us has clumsy moments. Shall we chalk it up to the influence of Rosings' grandeur?"

Lady Catherine's lips tightened, her disapproval clear, but she did not argue further. Instead, she waved the footman away with a dismissive flick of her hand. The servant scurried out, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

But the momentary disruption had stirred something in Darcy. He glanced at Fitzwilliam, noting his cousin's bemused expression. As if to underscore the morning's oddity, Lady Catherine turned to Fitzwilliam and said in a tone of mock solemnity, "Richard, if you had been half as diligent as that footman, perhaps you might have spared yourself some of your more regrettable escapades in the army."

The remark was startlingly specific, and Fitzwilliam, uncharacteristically caught off guard, blinked before bursting into laughter. "Aunt, I'll have you know my 'regrettable escapades' are what keep life interesting."

The tension broke, and the breakfast conversation meandered, as it often did in Rosings, with Lady Catherine dominating the discourse, once again. Darcy and Fitzwilliam contributed sparingly, their remarks more out of obligation than genuine engagement. Anne, however, grew increasingly quiet, her delicate complexion fading to a sickly pallor.

Darcy's sharp eyes caught the change first. Anne's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her teacup, and beads of sweat gathered at her temples. She dabbed them away with a lace handkerchief, but the motion seemed to exhaust her.

"Anne, are you unwell?" Darcy asked, his voice low with concern.

Anne blinked at him, her pale lips parting as though to deny it, but the words faltered. Instead, she pressed her hand lightly against her stomach, as if the gesture could still the growing discomfort.

"I believe... I must excuse myself," she murmured, her voice so faint it barely reached the table. She rose unsteadily to her feet, clutching the back of her chair for support.

Lady Catherine's brow furrowed, but instead of expressing concern, she waved her hand dismissively. "Very well, Anne. Go and rest. Perhaps you took too much cream in your tea this morning. I have warned you about such indulgences."

Fitzwilliam was already on his feet, moving to assist his cousin. "Let me call for Mrs. Jenkinson to attend you," he said kindly, but Anne shook her head.

"Thank you, Richard, but I can manage," she replied, though her trembling hands suggested otherwise.

Darcy stood as well, bowing slightly as Anne turned toward the door. "I hope you recover swiftly, Anne. Rest well."

"Indeed," Fitzwilliam added, his tone warm. "We shall expect to see you much improved by luncheon."

Anne nodded weakly, her steps faltering as she left the room.

The door had barely closed behind her before Lady Catherine's imperious gaze swept over the two men. "Poor Anne. She is so delicate, but such refinement is to be expected in a young woman of her station. Darcy, you must not be troubled by this slight indisposition. Once she is mistress of Pemberley, the care and comforts of that grand estate will no doubt do wonders for her constitution."

Darcy stiffened, his lips pressing into a firm line. Fitzwilliam, however, leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he replied, "I am sure my cousin has quite enough to concern him without imagining himself a physician, Aunt."

Lady Catherine turned her sharp eyes on him, her tone cutting. "Do not be impertinent, Richard. You may jest about many things, but this is not one of them. Darcy knows his duty, as Anne knows hers. It is only a matter of time before the engagement is announced."

Darcy resisted the urge to sigh, instead focusing on his untouched tea. How many times had this conversation been forced upon him? His parents, before their untimely deaths, had both been clear in their disapproval of such a match. The Earl and Countess of Matlock, too, had never supported the notion, though they were far too diplomatic to voice their objections openly to Lady Catherine. Even Fitzwilliam's elder brother, a man Darcy had rarely seen since childhood, had expressed his distaste for Lady Catherine's schemes when the topic arose years ago.

And Anne herself—gentle, soft-spoken Anne—had confided to him once, in a rare moment of candor, that she had no desire for the arrangement. "I would rather spend my life in solitude at Rosings," she had whispered, "than endure a marriage born of obligation."

Yet, despite the unanimous disapproval from all quarters, Lady Catherine persisted. Her delusion was a fortress, impervious to the reasoned arguments of others. In her mind, the union was as inevitable as the rising sun.

Darcy's jaw tightened, but he offered no response. Any attempt to dissuade her now would be met with derision at best and outright hostility at worst. Fitzwilliam, ever the master of deflection, took it upon himself to steer the conversation toward safer territory, and Darcy allowed himself a moment to breathe.

As Lady Catherine's voice droned on about Pemberley and its virtues, Darcy felt his resolve slipping. For the past three mornings, he had sought refuge in a walk, deliberately timing his departure to encounter Elizabeth Bennet. These brief meetings had become the highlight of his day, her spirited remarks lingering in his thoughts long after she had disappeared from view.

Today, however, his plans threatened to unravel. His valet, Wentworth, had informed him earlier that John, his personal messenger, had returned from London with a bundle of correspondence—letters requiring his immediate attention. Among them was a reply from his steward regarding the tenant negotiations at Pemberley, a report on the London house, and, most importantly, a letter from Georgiana.

Darcy's gaze flicked to the clock in the hall as the breakfast conversation continued without his input. An hour remained before Elizabeth would likely take her morning walk. It would have to suffice. Rising abruptly, he bowed slightly toward Lady Catherine. "If you will excuse me, Aunt, I have matters of business to attend to."

Lady Catherine barely acknowledged his departure, too engrossed in outlining her plans for Anne's future. Fitzwilliam, however, shot him a knowing look, one brow raised in silent amusement. Darcy ignored him, striding toward his office with determined steps.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the room, Darcy settled at his desk, breaking the seals of the letters with practiced efficiency. The steward's report was thorough, confirming that Pemberley's harvests had been abundant this season. He drafted a reply commending the tenants for their hard work and authorizing repairs to one of the smaller cottages.

Next, he turned to Georgiana's letter. Her handwriting, always neat and precise, betrayed a certain hesitancy in the phrasing. She wrote of her studies, her music, and her growing affection for her governess, but there was an underlying loneliness that struck a chord within him. Georgiana had suffered much after Wickham's betrayal, and though her spirits had improved, Darcy still worried.

His thoughts drifted to Elizabeth. She would be good for Georgiana, he mused. Her liveliness could draw Georgiana out of her shyness, and her wit would serve as a balm against the melancholy that sometimes clouded his sister's days. Elizabeth's moral compass and forthright nature could only be a positive influence.

But then the practicalities intruded, as they always did. Elizabeth brought no wealth or powerful connections to a match. Would society judge Georgiana harshly for her association with such a sister-in-law? Would the whispers about Elizabeth's unsuitable family tarnish his sister's already fragile standing?

Darcy pushed the thought aside, finishing his reply to Georgiana with a promise to visit her soon and a reminder of his affection. He sealed the letter and leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath. The clock in the hall chimed eleven.

He was late.

Darcy rose swiftly, gathering the stack of outgoing letters and ringing the bell. John appeared moments later, his broad frame filling the doorway. "Sir?"

"Take these to London at once," Darcy instructed, handing him the correspondence. "Ensure the replies are expedited."

John nodded and departed without a word, his efficiency a comfort in moments like these. Darcy turned toward the door, his stride purposeful. The morning was slipping away, and Elizabeth would already be on her walk.

Darcy strode through the corridors of Rosings, his boots echoing faintly against the polished floors. The clock in the hall had struck eleven moments ago, and he was acutely aware that Elizabeth Bennet would have already started her walk. The letters for London were entrusted to John, and Darcy felt a rare sense of urgency as he stepped out into the brisk morning air.

The sun hung high, casting dappled patterns through the budding trees, but Darcy barely noticed the beauty around him. His thoughts were fixed on Elizabeth—on her lively expressions, the cadence of her voice, and the way her quick wit had started to challenge his carefully ordered world. There was no denying it: these walks had become a tether to his growing infatuation.

He hurried toward the gravel path, his heart racing in a way he found altogether unfamiliar. Yet before he could make it far, a familiar voice called out.

"Mr. Darcy! How fortuitous to see you this morning!"

Darcy stifled a groan and turned to find Mr. Collins scurrying toward him, his round face flushed with exertion and his hands clasped together in what he likely thought was a deferential pose.

"Good morning, Mr. Collins," Darcy said stiffly, inclining his head.

"Indeed, it is a good morning, sir! A blessed one, I might add! I was just returning from inspecting Lady Catherine's grounds—such magnificence, such perfection in design—and I thought how grateful we all must be for her patronage. Truly, a pillar of—"

Darcy's patience wore thin as Mr. Collins prattled on, each phrase more obsequious than the last. His eyes flicked past the clergyman, scanning the grounds for any sign of Elizabeth.

"...and of course, her ladyship has often remarked upon the exceptional virtues of you, Mr. Darcy, and of Miss Anne de Bourgh, who surely—"

"Mr. Collins," Darcy interrupted, his voice sharper than intended, "if you will excuse me, I must take my leave."

"Oh, naturally, sir!" Collins said, his grin widening in what he clearly thought was understanding. "I would not dream of detaining you from your important business—though I might venture to say that Lady Catherine herself—"

Darcy stepped back, nodding curtly before walking swiftly away. He reached the path at last, and there they were.

Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled side by side, their pace unhurried, their conversation animated. Elizabeth tilted her head toward the colonel, her features alight with amusement. A soft smile played upon her lips—the kind of smile Darcy had not yet earned during their own walks.

A bitter pang twisted in his chest.

She smiles at him so easily, he thought, his fists clenching involuntarily at his sides. Is his company so much more agreeable than mine? He speaks with charm, certainly, but charm is fleeting. What does he offer her that I do not?

The colonel leaned slightly toward Elizabeth, and she laughed—a sound that was musical and free, untouched by the reserve she so often showed Darcy. He found himself rooted to the spot, his mind a torrent of jealousy and doubt.

Of course she enjoys his company. Fitzwilliam bears none of my failings. He has neither my taciturn demeanor nor my pride to contend with. And yet... does she truly see him? Or is he merely a distraction?

Steeling himself, Darcy turned abruptly on his heel and walked back toward the house. He could not banish the image of Elizabeth's smile, nor the laughter that echoed faintly behind him. Each step felt heavier than the last, burdened by the weight of what he had seen—and what he feared he could never possess.

Darcy spent the afternoon in a restless haze, his mind circling endlessly back to the sight of Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam on their walk. The image gnawed at him—the way she tilted her head toward his cousin, the ease with which she laughed, the softness in her expression. It was unbearable.

Jealousy flared hot and bitter in his chest, but it brought with it another, more insidious feeling: certainty. She cannot possibly prefer him. She would not. Why should she? Darcy paced the length of his room, his thoughts spiraling toward arrogance, a shield against his simmering doubt.

Who else could match her wit and vivacity as I do? Who else could offer her the security and prestige of Pemberley? He stopped abruptly, gripping the back of a chair as his pulse thundered in his ears. She must see it. She must.

Yet the thought of her smiles, her laughter with another man, left him raw. He wanted her to look at him that way, to smile for him, to let him be the cause of her joy. The intensity of his longing shocked him. It was no longer enough to admire her from a distance; he needed her, in a way he had never needed anyone before.

As the day waned and tea approached, Darcy resolved to join her there. He would reclaim her attention, prove his worth. But when he descended the stairs, he was met by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Collins and Maria Lucas. Their chatter filled the drawing room, but Elizabeth was conspicuously absent.

"She is unwell," Mrs. Colin explained, her voice tinged with concern. "She has taken to her room and will not join us."

Darcy's heart stilled, and then quickened, thudding heavily against his ribs. The idea of Elizabeth alone at the parsonage unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Was she truly ill, or was it something more? Anxiety twisted with the insistent pull of his desire.

Excusing himself abruptly, he left the room. His feet carried him to the parsonage before his thoughts could catch up, driven by a need that felt beyond his control.

Darcy arrived at the parsonage, his pulse quickening as the door opened. He scarcely heard the servant's greeting or her soft assurance that Miss Bennet was within. His strides carried him to her sitting room without hesitation.

She rose to meet him, a flicker of surprise in her expression.

"I was told you were unwell," he began, the words clipped, betraying more tension than he intended. She assured him it was nothing serious, her tone polite but distant, and he struggled for a moment to find his footing.

But something about the way she stood there, so poised and yet so unattainable, broke through his restraint.

"In vain I have struggled," he said, the words tumbling from him before he could stop them. "It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

For a moment, he thought he saw a change in her, a softening—her lips parted, her eyes widened—but it passed as swiftly as it came. She listened as he went on, speaking of all he had overcome to make his declaration. He spoke of her family, of the degradation of the connection, and of his struggle to act against his better judgment.

When he finished, silence hung between them.

Her refusal came with a calmness that belied its sharpness. Her accusations—his interference with her sister and Bingley, his role in Wickham's misfortunes—came in measured tones, each word striking him like a blow.

The conversation continued, but Darcy scarcely remembered the words. Her calm dismissal of his affection, the passion behind her anger—both wounded and fascinated him. He left the parsonage in a haze, his chest tight, her accusations echoing in his mind.

Alone in his room, his mind whirled with the bitter memory of their argument. How could she accuse me of separating Bingley and her sister? Of acting out of malice and arrogance? Her words cut deeper than he had thought possible.

He dropped into the chair by his desk, staring blankly at the letters John had brought back from London. They demanded his attention, yet he could not summon the will to read a single word.

How could she twist everything I said into something so horrible? He replayed their exchange repeatedly, her refusal echoing in his mind. The pain was unbearable, an ache that burned through him like fire, consuming his thoughts.

Dinner was out of the question, as was facing his family. He dismissed his valet, sent away Fitzwilliam when he knocked, and locked himself inside, craving isolation.

His body felt leaden with weariness, though his mind refused to rest. Slumping forward at his desk, Darcy laid his head on his arms, trying to will the pain away. Closing his eyes, just for a moment, he succumbed to the turmoil of the day, unaware that sleep would soon claim him.

It was not a restful sleep. Fitful and restless, it offered no solace—only the relentless replay of her words and his failure. In the dark recesses of his dreams, Elizabeth's rejection haunted him again and again.

Yes this chapter I tried to fill in Darcy's day as we get much of Elizabeth's from the book. I will say I am trying to faithfully follow the book when things are affected by Darcy change but I am also trying not to quote the book too much, I never write directly form Jane Austen for more than a line or two and usually just the dialog as you can sort of see in this chapter. Mostly cause I know I start scanning personally if someone quotes Jane Austen too long...Let me know what you think!