Darcy and Elizabeth’s Dreams of Redemption
Chapter One
Fitzwilliam Darcy was utterly miserable. Almost a week had passed since he danced with Elizabeth Bennet at the Netherfield ball, where they argued about George Wickham, of all people. How had she been so easily taken in by that cad? Upon further reflection, though, he remembered that many others, including his own father, had fallen for the man’s slick tongue. Elizabeth lacked the experience to see Wickham for what he truly was—a dissolute rake.
Since his return to London last week, Darcy had concluded that he had fallen in love with Elizabeth Bennet. In his mind, she was his Elizabeth, and his recent dreams only intensified this sentiment. Night after night, he dreamt of her—in the library, in the billiard room, at Pemberley, at Longbourn, at the assembly rooms where he had first seen her. During the day, he could fleetingly push these thoughts of her aside, but at night, forgetting her was impossible.
He groaned and rubbed his face, attempting to banish thoughts of her. Exhausted, he acknowledged that his sleep had beenfrequently interrupted in the last week. He had often awoken from his dreams, panting and desperate for release.
Darcy removed his clothing and sat down on the bed in his London home. Trying to clear his mind of Elizabeth Bennet, he read until he eventually succumbed to a deep sleep.
Darcy foundhimself standing in a room in the parsonage at Rosings, with Elizabeth Bennet standing before him, her eyes ablaze with anger—a fury he knew, in his gut, he had provoked.
He heard himself say,“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!”But he did not stop there. He continued asking—no, demanding—that she explain why she had rejected him. Had he proposed? What possessed him to do such a thing?
Though her eyes were flashing with anger directed at him, Darcy thought he had rarely seen her look as beautiful as she did at that moment. Any thoughts in that direction were instantly replaced with shock as she accused him of offending and insulting her. How? He did not understand what she meant. He had only attempted to explain what he had overcome to offer for her.
Wait? What was that she just said about her sister? He focused again on her words.
“Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who hasbeen the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
He felt himself blanch. Did she mean that Miss Bennet cared for Bingley? She had smiled at his friend, to be sure, but that did not indicate genuine affection. Yes, he had divided them, but only because he believed Miss Bennet did not care for his friend. He had rarely seen Bingley so affected, but Miss Bennet was always so serene and calm. Shaking off the shock of her words, he refocused his attention on Elizabeth.
“Can you deny that you have done it?”she repeated, her anger rising further.
He heard himself coldly reply,“I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him, I have been kinder than toward myself.”
As the words left his lips, he berated himself mentally. “That was impolitic,” he chastised himself, feeling the urge to slap himself for the thoughtless remark.
However, before he could say anything further, she continued.“But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded.”
Again, he reproached himself for not saying more to Elizabeth that night at Netherfield. Of course, she believed Wickham; why would she not? She had little reason to distrust Wickham, and all the reason in the world, apparently, to dislike him. He felt defeated and wanted to hang his head, bringing an end to this awful interview, but he could not. He seemed to lack control over his own body, specifically his mouth.
Almost against his will, his anger surged as she accused him of treating Wickham unjustly. He had told her just days ago thatWickham was better at making friends than keeping them, but plainly, that was not enough. His face reddened in anger and shame as he attempted to defend himself, hoping that focusing on this would relieve the pain he was feeling. All he received was another scathing response. In hindsight, perhaps he should not have mentioned her inferiority.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Her accusation staggered him. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the scion of an earl and master of Pemberley, ungentlemanlike? It seemed impossible. Astonishment flickered across his face. Surely, she had a better opinion of him than her response indicated. She had flirted with him frequently, had she not? They were informally courting when they met in the grove, or at least he thought they had been. Wait, what was she saying?
“From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
He uttered some parting words, not entirely certain what he said. Straightening to his full height, he stormed out the door, her words leaving him feeling thoroughly thrashed. He had overcome all his scruples, only to be met with her vehementrefusal. Part of him applauded her for it—virtually all the women he had encountered before would have eagerly sought to marry the master of Pemberley, despite any negative feelings toward him. But not Elizabeth Bennet, not the woman he loved.
Feeling broken and torn, he wondered how she could choose to believe Wickham? What had he ever done to be deemed ungentlemanly in her eyes?
His thoughts drifted back to the night of their first meeting at the assembly in Hertfordshire. The memory of his own words echoed in his mind, the ones he had spoken to Bingley when attempting to dissuade him from dancing with Elizabeth.“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
Once again, a groan escaped him. “She heard me that night,” he suddenly realised, inadvertently expressing his thoughts aloud. He exhaled deeply. “Oh, what a stupid fool I have been. Elizabeth did not deserve such awful words, nor my disdain.”
His hands scrubbed across his face once more. As he revisited the words spoken during his proposal, regret washed over him. “I was an utter fool to bring up her family and her situation in life. Why would I recount all the ways she is beneath me instead of telling her how much I loved her? She will never have me, but if I cannot marry her, I will never marry.”
Unexpectedly, a new, painful thought struck him, causing him to sit up abruptly.
Did Elizabeth love Wickham?
He woke with a start,drenched in sweat, a profound sense of loss lingering. “Elizabeth?” he cried out, prompting his valet to rush into the bedchamber from the door to his dressing room. He sat up and realised he was not in Kent, but in his London townhouse.
“Simmons,” he said, still disoriented from his dream, “we are in London? What day is it?”
