Love Drunk for Mr Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Happily Ever Afters)

Prologue

Elizabeth’s head hurt. This was not a mild aching or even a persistent megrim.

It was a sharp pain that felt distinctly like someone was pounding a hammer into her skull.

What’s more, her mouth felt like it was filled with sand.

Foul-tasting, acrid sand. And what was she lying atop of?

It did not feel like the comfortable bed she shared with her sister, Jane.

Instead, it was firm and oddly shaped and—good God, was it snoring?

! Elizabeth shot up into a seated position so fast that the room swam around her.

Then before she could regain her senses and come to her feet, the human-shaped pillow she had been lying on reached out an arm and gathered her close.

For a few moments she simply stayed very still and tried to decide what to do next. Clearly she had been drugged. And kidnapped. And now she was being held captive by some sort of brute who was determined not to let her go.

The light in the room—wherever she was—was dim but not pitch black and she angled her head up to get a good look at her captor.

The first thing she noticed was a lawn shirt that lay open at the neck, crumpled but very fine.

It seemed her kidnapper was more well-to-do than could be expected, or at least he had fine taste in the clothes he stole.

The portion of chest she could see was sprinkled with dark hair and the sight sent an unexpected jolt through her.

She had never seen a man’s bare, or at least partially bare, chest before and it felt oddly intimate, despite the strange situation she found herself in.

Her gaze wandered upwards to a strong jawline covered in dark stubble, a fine aquiline nose and soft dark curls that had been mussed in sleep and lay haphazardly over a forehead that was slightly creased.

Recognition dawned with horrible speed. Elizabeth gave a shriek so piercing that the man beneath her woke with a violent start. He sat upright, taking her with him, his arm tightening instinctively around her as his eyes darted about the room.

"Mr Darcy!" Anger pierced through Elizabeth’s confusion. "What have you done?"

Mr Darcy looked down and blinked at her. His eyes unfocused. His gaze dropped to the arm he still had wrapped around her waist.

"This is inexcusable behaviour," she continued, wrenching herself free and attempting to get to her feet before stumbling inelegantly to her knees. "Really, most inexcusable!"

Something was wrapped around her and restricting her movements.

It was his coat. The cad had her trussed up like a Christmas goose.

She kicked it off and rushed to the other side of the small room, pressing herself against the rough stone to put as much distance between herself and the despicable Mr Darcy as possible.

The space itself was small and cool with only a slight golden light penetrating from a narrow horizontal window close to the ceiling.

The walls were lined with wooden racks which held all manner of bottles, and crates were stacked neatly in one corner.

A wine cellar. Why on God’s green earth was she in a wine cellar with Mr Darcy?

The man himself was still sitting in the centre of the room, looking for all the world like a small child about to receive a thorough dressing down.

His dark curly hair stood out in every direction, his mouth hung slightly open and he stared at her with an expression of such utter horror that she felt vaguely offended.

Around him, empty bottles littered the floor along with one of her slippers, his limp cravat, and her evening gloves.

His crumpled coat lay between them and her shawl was bundled up where they had lain, clearly acting as a pillow for one or both of them.

Hazy memories started to return to her as her head continued to beat a merciless tattoo.

She remembered swigging wine from the bottle and giggling into the darkness.

Repeating a rude joke about a kipper merchant that she had heard her father tell Sir William when he was in his cups one Christmas.

And, good Lord, singing. There had definitely been singing.

She rubbed her face with her hands, hoping to scrub the thoughts away as they assaulted her one by one.

When she remembered running a finger down the line of his jaw and his warm hand pressed to the small of her back she let out an inelegant groan that was muffled by her own hands.

This was much, much worse than being kidnapped.

When she looked up again, Mr Darcy was standing and attempting to tie his own cravat, as though a return to proper attire might somehow rebalance the utter disrespectability of the situation in which they found themselves.

His fingers made a poor business of it. After fumbling twice with the linen, he appeared to recognise the hopelessness of the endeavour and allowed it to hang loose around his neck.

"Miss Elizabeth," he began in an unsteady voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I believe it would be wise if we both remained calm."

"Calm?" Elizabeth stared at him. "I have awoken in a wine cellar, wrapped in your coat, while my personal effects lie scattered about the floor.

Sir, I have no notion how I came to be here, very little memory of what has happened since we have been here and a pain in my head which suggests someone is attempting to split it open with an axe.

I do not think calm is an emotion that is presently available to me. "

Darcy’s gaze travelled over the objects in question.

Her slipper had come to rest beside his abandoned cravat, and he bent to collect it, offering it to her with a solemn bow that made her want to laugh and scream at the same time.

She had to press her fingers to her lips to stop a hysterical bubble of laughter escaping.

Elizabeth snatched it from him and pushed her foot into it, although the movement caused the floor to shift beneath her.

She caught the wall before he could reach her and held up a warning hand when he instinctively stepped forwards. "Do. Not. Touch. Me."

He stopped immediately. Something in his expression made her wish she had phrased it differently, but she was in no condition to concern herself with Mr Darcy’s tender sensibilities. Her own were in tatters.

"I assure you," he said carefully, "you have not been harmed in any way."

"I do not believe you," she bit back. Though in honesty she had no idea what she believed. Somehow, sniping at him dulled the pain in her head just a little.

His eyes shifted away from hers, settling upon the narrow window near the ceiling.

The faint morning light caught the edge of his profile and revealed a flush creeping slowly above the open collar of his shirt.

Elizabeth’s stomach lurched for reasons that had nothing to do with the quantity of wine she had consumed.

"Miss Elizabeth," he tried again, "I remember more of the evening than you appear to," he said. "And although this is an unusual situation, I assure you it was not of my making and you have truly not been harmed." He stared at his hands, "Unless you count the hangover of course."

"That is not at all reassuring," she hissed. "What happened?"

"I followed you from the ballroom following a… err… lively debate. I had ducked into this room to avoid my aunt and it appeared you had sought refuge here also. We accidentally became locked within. We decided to pass the time with a little wine and things, well, they went on from there."

A confused collection of images moved through her mind. She remembered the Rosings ballroom blazing with candlelight, Lady Catherine’s voice carrying along the passage and the sight of Mr Darcy appearing appearing out of the gloom. After that came the wine. So much wine.

Elizabeth pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Why did we open so many bottles?"

"You objected to the taste of the first."

"I objected to it?"

A memory returned of her taking a cautious mouthful from the first bottle and immediately pulling a face before shoving it back at him. "It tastes like furniture polish."

Mr Darcy had laughed at that. Properly laughed, his head tipping back and all the usual severity leaving his face.

She remembered staring at him, struck by how different he looked when he forgot to be Mr Darcy of Pemberley.

The thought was doing nothing useful for her composure now.

"And the rest?" she asked, glancing towards the empty bottles.

"You insisted there must be something in Lady Catherine’s cellar fit to drink."

"I insisted?"

"You were quite determined to make a study of it."

"And you simply allowed me to continue?"

His brows lifted. "I did attempt to stop you. You can be very determined when you wish to be so. I suppose another word for it might be pig-headed."

She gave him a sharp look. "You cannot have tried very hard."

"Miss Elizabeth, you took great delight in informing me that I had no authority over you and that if I did not assist you with your wine selection, you would have no choice but to open the French brandy."

She hated that she could well believe it. She remembered lifting a bottle in a wonky salute, announcing that she would not be ordered about by the worst proposer in England and taking a drink directly from it. Her face burned. "I spoke of your proposal."

"Yes," he said, an emotion crossing his face she could not identify. "At some length. There was a reenactment accompanied by many helpful pieces of what I believe you called feminine wisdom."

"Oh, good God." Elizabeth stared at him, fragments of feeling and speech returning in a disturbing jumble of emotion.

Darcy’s flush deepened, although his expression remained solemn.

A new moment returned to her, Mr Darcy standing before her while she arranged his posture, pressed one hand against his chest and instructed him to look like a man in love.

Then she had taken his face between her hands and told him that no woman wished to be proposed to by a man who appeared to thoroughly dislike her.

A new thought occurred to her and her mouth opened before she could prevent the words escaping. "Did we kiss?"

Darcy suddenly appeared entirely incapable of speech.

His gaze moved to her mouth before he seemed to catch himself and turned away.

He bent to retrieve his coat, shook it out and folded it across one arm with great care.

Elizabeth waited, her heart beating almost as violently as the pain in her head.

"Mr Darcy," she said at last, when it became clear he had no intention of answering.

His shoulders rose as he drew in a slow breath. "You kissed me."

For a moment she could only stare at him. Then her knees weakened so abruptly that she was forced to press one hand against the wall. "I could not have done. I just… I would not have done."

"You did." His voice was quieter now, though there was no hesitation in it. "You had drunk a considerable quantity of wine and may not remember it, but I assure you that I do."

Elizabeth searched his face for some sign that he was teasing her, although Mr Darcy had never looked less inclined towards humour. "You had been drinking too."

"I had." He looked at her then, and whatever she saw in his expression made the denial die upon her tongue. "But not enough to forget that. Never enough to forget that."

Another memory returned with unflinching clarity, and Elizabeth felt heat rise from the tips of her toes to the very top of her scalp.

Mr Darcy had been sitting against the wall with one knee raised, his cravat loosened and the neck of his shirt lying open.

The wine had softened the stern lines of his face, and there had been a warmth in his eyes she had never seen before.

He had been smiling at something she had said when she looked at his mouth and informed him that it appeared much less disagreeable when he was not using it to insult her.

Then without so much as a by your leave she leaned forwards and kissed him. The first touch of her lips against his had been clumsy and brief, no more than a warm, uncertain press before she drew back. Mr Darcy had gone completely still. His eyes were wide and every muscle tensed.

Elizabeth had stared at him, fascinated by the expression upon his face.

Then, apparently deciding that the fault lay in her execution rather than the experiment itself, she had run a curious finger down the hard line of his jaw and across the softness of his lips—causing his breath to catch. Then she had kissed him again.

This time she had lingered. He had allowed her to lead, his hands remaining firmly at his sides while she explored the shape of his mouth with wanton curiosity that caused her to cringe as she recollected it.

Then his restraint had broken. One hand had settled at the small of her back, drawing her into his lap with great care while another threaded into her hair, causing pins to scatter against the hard floor.

The remembered sensations flooded her now, the roughness of his stubble beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his body against hers and the quiet growl he had made when she gripped the longer curls at the nape of his neck.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, only to discover that shutting them made everything worse.

She could still feel the slow sweep of his thumb across her cheek and the way his mouth had followed hers when she drew back for breath.

When she opened her eyes, Darcy was watching her.

He no longer looked like a small boy awaiting punishment.

He looked pale and determined, which was much more alarming.

"Nothing further occurred," he said. "I give you my word.

You became cold as you grew weary, so I wrapped you in my coat.

I did not intend to sleep beside you, but there was little room and you would not release my shirt. "

Above their heads came a faint sound, followed by the unmistakable tread of footsteps crossing the floor beyond the cellar door.

Both of them looked upwards. The household was waking.

Within minutes, servants would begin moving through the lower passages and someone would discover they had been in the wine cellar, completely alone, all night.

Darcy’s expression had hardened. He collected her gloves, set her shawl over her shoulders and then stood before her with his coat folded across his arm. "Miss Elizabeth," he said, with dreadful formality, "we must marry."