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Prologue
June 29, 1811
Fitzwilliam Darcy fought the temptation to close his eyes. This stretch of road was a rough one, and if he allowed himself to doze, he would surely find himself in an undignified sprawl on the vehicle’s floor, however well-sprung his carriage. He ought to have ridden; not only would it have been faster, but guiding his temperamental, unsuitably named stallion, Gallant, would have required his attention. He would not have had this endless time to think—an enforced time of contemplation bringing him no peace whatsoever.
This journey was an attempt at escape. He would not lie to himself, even if his visit to Ramsgate was well justified. Their comfortable house, Sea Cliff Lodge, beckoned, invigorating seaside breezes would refresh, and his sister would appreciate amends for his recent neglect. But these were excuses, not reasons.
The truth behind his flight had little to do with his sister, and much more to do with a certain green-eyed beauty of regrettable family and little fortune. Why had he ever chosen to spend the summer at a leased home in dull, insipid Hertfordshire? A stupid choice.
But what further insanity had led him to propose marriage to one of its inconsequential, inappropriate inhabitants?
He ought not have insulted her at their first meeting. He knew that. He ought to have simply danced with her instead of allowing his general exhaustion to rule him, instead of uttering a slur upon her hair colour—taken in at a glance and thoughtlessly spoken. It was not well done, and he had been instantly sorry. But how was he to have known how soon she would captivate him—heart, body, and soul?
Elizabeth was not a typical light-eyed redhead, with spotty porcelain skin—though there were a few sun-kissed freckles on her perfectly shaped nose. Miss Bingley called her skin ‘brown’ and ‘coarse’ when it was actually golden—a bit exotic, even. Her eyes were large, expressive—twinkling with enjoyment or condemning with reproach—leaving one in no doubt of her feelings. He had the strangest impression that he had seen her before, that she was somehow known to him, but she was so unique, so utterly unforgettable, it was impossible. Take her hair, for instance; that it was red was an unquestioned truth. But to call it only ‘red’ was a serious misstatement. It was every imaginable hue of the shade, from chestnut to deepest ruby, thick and luscious, and it was all he could do not to imagine it spread upon his pillow.
He knew better than to pursue insolent, ineligible beauties. The stupid proposal must be yet another symptom of this dratted muzzy-headedness, a bone-deep fatigue infecting what he knew was a blessed and privileged existence. The lassitude had already robbed him of closeness with those he held dear. His correspondence had become terse and impersonal. His attendance at his club had become a trial. In the drawing rooms of his friends, he felt only hunted and pursued by the dynastic concerns of the ton. When Fitzwilliam’s dandified elder brother, Viscount Mallory, had approached him—again—for a ‘loan’ until his next allowance, he had simply written out the draft, rather than ensuring it went to payment of the man’s debts or the needs of his young family.
It was all he could do to maintain his current business interests—new opportunities were victim to a wall of indifference he was too drained to scale. He had never enjoyed ballrooms, but even once-heartening pursuits, ranging from hunting and fishing to scientific societies, lost their appeal in the depths of his exhaustion. Thus, his foolish decision to summer in Hertfordshire, the site of the country house he had helped Bingley lease, hoping for relief and respite.
But Bingley could seldom interest him in their favourite entertainments, so why he had agreed to attend the party in the Meryton assembly rooms in the first place was puzzling. Why his attempted apology took the form of requesting a dance—she of unfashionable gown and untameable hair that not even a linen cap could contain—was bewildering. And why he had fallen so swiftly in love with her, someone so much the opposite of demand, duty, and decorum, was a baffling, unsupportable mystery.
His declaration of love to Elizabeth Bennet was insanity itself.
She had no fortune, his aunt’s ridiculous parson as the heir to her father’s estate, and a family which, for the most part, was a mortification. For any one of these reasons, he ought never to think of her again. And yet, these difficulties might be overlooked—after all, he had wealth sufficient for ten penniless wives, her birth was good enough, and surely she would not maintain close connexions with such kith and kin if she were raised up to a higher sphere.
Neither was she precisely unsuitable; however, she was different. Different from the fragile blooms sprouting amongst the ton, different from the stiff and starchy females who were regularly thrown—or throwing themselves—at him, and her unique hair colouring was the least of it. Miss Bingley was quick to call her ‘unwomanly’, but in this opinion, he could not agree.
Elizabeth—as he called her in his mind—preferred tramping about the weeds and thistles of the countryside—alone—more than the cultured paths of formal gardens. He had observed her at every event she had attended as she’d easily shared friendly witticisms and anecdotes with her neighbours. Never anything cutting or mean, only the humorous or intriguing. She laughed much, talking effortlessly, drawing out the shyest with the skills of a master conversationalist; Miss Bingley styled it ‘boldness’ and ‘flirtation’, but it was not. She was simply…interested.
And when her sister, Miss Jane Bennet, had been struck by fever whilst dining at Netherfield—the result, doubtless, of Miss Bingley’s stuffy, airless dining parlour during an excessively sultry June evening—Elizabeth had walked miles in the hot sun searching for some type of herb or weed with which she had brewed a tea. She’d appeared before them all damp with sweat, her hems laced with dirt and grass stains, declaring Mr Jones’s remedies to be inadequate and insisting upon her own.
He ought to have been disgusted, like Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, instead of attracted to dewy, glistening skin, unkempt ruby curls, and clinging muslin. He ought to have joined their critique of her instead of mentioning that his own mother had enjoyed working in her stillroom and that her Culpepper’s The English Physitian held pride of place in Pemberley’s extensive library.
Assuring himself that the admiration would fade in time, he had pretended he’d only amused himself during an otherwise dull period, that despite his desire for rest, his sleepless imaginings of holding her, kissing her, were a temporary addiction. He might have ignored the disruption to his peace of mind and remained at Netherfield until Christmas had he only kept his mouth shut.
The morning had begun with the arrival of a missive from Lady Catherine, imploring him to present himself without delay at Rosings and address himself to her intimate concerns regarding his unmarried state and her preferences for changing it. How many times had he informed her that such a union was impossible? A spike of misery had clawed him at the very thought of presenting his refusals once again. At that very moment of despondency, Miss Bingley had intruded upon him in the library, weeping into her handkerchief and laying the problem of her brother’s romance at his feet.
“You must prevent Charles from making an error of monumental proportion,” she had cried. “Offering for such a girl, from such a family! It is not to be borne!”
“He has offered for someone?” Darcy asked, incredulous. “Who?”
“No! As yet, he has not. But the entire countryside is speaking of his intentions towards Miss Jane Bennet! Penniless, inappropriate girl. Surely you can stop him!”
“You know your brother—he falls in and out of love with every change of season.”
“His preference for the sly thing is beyond what I have ever before perceived in him. I do not exaggerate the danger!” She dabbed at her eyes, looking up at him pleadingly.
He ought to have done as he had in times past—observe Bingley with Miss Bennet, determine whether the girl was truly attached or whether it was yet another idle, meaningless flirtation—then distract him away from it before his attentions attracted notice or expectation. The notion made him unutterably weary.
Why could not the people in his life manage themselves? Why must he repeat to his aunt, again and again, a rejection so distasteful to her? Why could not Bingley heed the countless warnings already given him? Why should Miss Bingley look to him as her brother’s caretaker?
In very real dismay, he had mounted Gallant and galloped over fields and pastures, only to come upon the temptation herself: his Elizabeth, unruly curls hidden by a cap, an apron covering her light and pleasing figure, a basket full of weeds upon her arm. She looked like a peasant girl, simple and wild, and yet those marvellous eyes of hers caught and held his gaze as an equal. Heady, piercing desire shook him. His heart leapt, then beat too fast as he halted the steed beside her and impulsively blurted his love from atop it in mortifying, passionate awkwardness.
“Miss Elizabeth, it is all in vain. My sentiments cannot be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
He would never forget her humiliating response: laughter. She believed he was joking, teasing her. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, or any participation of like sentiment. Obviously, she did not believe him truthful, or want any part of his love.
It was a fortunate reprieve. Allowing the ‘joke’ to stand, he had galloped away from her, leaving her staring after him. He had ordered his man to pack his trunks, written brief apologies to both Lady Catherine and Bingley for being unable to delay a journey to the coast to visit his sister, and fled Netherfield so quickly, it was barely polite.
