Misunderstandings & Ardent Love (Romantic Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Chapter 1

WHERE MR DARCY IS NOT ENJOYING HIS EVENING.

The stifling temperature of the ballroom was unbearable with the incessant crush of elegantly dressed bodies, the loud thrum of conversation, and several roaring fires, which, despite the crisp autumn weather, were hardly needed.

Standing with his back to the richly papered wall, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley sighed as he slipped his index finger beneath his collar and tugged impatiently at the impeccably tied cravat about his neck.

Finding no relief, he hailed a passing servant and accepted a glass of wine.

He drank deeply, attempting to quench his irritation as well as his thirst.

Not for the first time that evening an excess of practiced laughter from a gaggle of finely dressed ladies grated on his last nerve, and Darcy wondered why he had ever allowed his aunt, the Countess of Carlisle, to drag him to Lord and Lady Palmers’ for such a function.

He was in no mood for cards or conversation and felt even less of an inclination to dance.

Darcy absently swirled the contents of his wine glass while his eyes moved with measured deliberation over the fashionable throng.

Not one person in attendance sparked a desire to forge a more intimate acquaintance.

He stiffened as he noticed too many discerning eyes turned upon him.

A disturbing number belonged to those of the female persuasion.

Frowning, Darcy fixed his attention upon the burgundy liquid in his glass and allowed his mind to wander.

His thoughts, as always, settled upon the one woman whose admiration he would not consider it a punishment to endure: Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Since that fateful day last April when his declaration of love to her had been met with abhorrence and rejection, Darcy had suffered keenly.

Elizabeth’s refusal was a painful reality for him, and a subject he found himself revisiting daily; one that had, even now, remained as permanent and unwavering as his continued attachment to her proved powerful.

Never had Darcy been denied something he truly wanted, and he found this lesson in humility far more humbling than he ever could have imagined.

His sentiments and his heart were wholly affected, both deeply marred by Elizabeth’s reproachful words and refusal of her hand.

Whether awake or asleep, her very memory threatened his peace of mind.

Looking back, he realised he had never entertained the slightest possibility that Elizabeth Bennet might reject him.

That an unknown, untitled, unconnected country miss with no fortune or prospects to speak of would dare reject his suit was, to a man as wealthy and coveted as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, unthinkable; but it was the shock he experienced when Elizabeth had spoken of her dislike of him that dealt the most staggering blow.

She did not return his ardent admiration, nor his passionate regard.

In fact, she had told him in no uncertain terms that she had never sought his good opinion in the first place, nor had it escaped her notice that Darcy had bestowed it upon her most unwillingly.

Darcy’s heart felt heavier and more constricted than it had moments before.

How on earth could he have been so unfeeling as to tell her of his struggles—of his failed attempts to overcome his regard for her?

What demon ever possessed him to inform the woman he loved that an alliance with her must be considered a reprehensible connexion, a degradation?

How could such insults ever cross his mind, let alone leave his mouth?

God in heaven, she was justified in her response!

Vividly, he recalled the anger that flashed in Elizabeth’s eyes as she berated him, not only for his arrogance and his insults, but for a multitude of grievances he had supposedly perpetrated against others for whom she cared, the least of which happened to be his officious interference in separating her eldest sister from his friend Charles Bingley.

Darcy closed his eyes at that recollection. He certainly had been officious in that matter. Again and again, he asked himself what right had he to arrange the lives of two people to suit his own purpose? The answer was as consistent as it was painful: none.

He had since made his confession to Bingley.

Though his friend was initially furious with him for his presumption, the information Darcy related regarding Miss Bennet’s continued partiality had put Bingley in an extremely forgiving mood; he had hastened to Longbourn and declared himself to the woman he loved within the span of an hour.

The smile on Bingley’s face when he returned to Netherfield that night had spoken volumes.

Not only had Jane Bennet welcomed his addresses, but they were to be married on the twenty-sixth of November in Longbourn Church.

As far as Elizabeth’s other accusation, that Darcy had mistreated and wronged his former childhood friend, George Wickham’s true nature and dissolute tendencies had eventually emerged in full force, though far too late and at much too high a cost to allow Darcy to feel any vindication over Elizabeth’s enlightenment.

Lydia Bennet and George Wickham were now safely married, thank God, though whether happily Darcy would forever retain a doubt.

It had both sickened and infuriated him to stand in church and witness Elizabeth’s fifteen-year-old sister pledge her obedience to such a worthless reprobate for the rest of her life, but if there had been another solution to the mess in which Lydia found herself, Darcy had failed to recognise it.

The knowledge that Elizabeth would suffer keenly for the impulsivity and impropriety of her most foolish sister was difficult for Darcy to bear, especially given that he had the means to bring about her relief. And so, he handled it all.

While he had counted on Lydia’s marriage to do much for Elizabeth’s peace of mind regarding her family’s reputation, Darcy was appalled to discover that her mother’s enthusiasm for Mrs Wickham’s newly married status did nothing but cause further distress.

He could not help but wonder whether he had only succeeded in making another grave error in judgment.

The more time he spent in Elizabeth’s company when last in Hertfordshire, the more deeply he believed that was precisely what he had achieved.

There was no longer a sparkle in her eyes, no joy in her step, no laughter bubbling up.

For three days Elizabeth barely even looked in his direction.

On the few occasions she did meet his eye, it was only to colour deeply and look away in poorly contained distress.

To make matters worse, Bingley and his amiability were received at Longbourn with immense pleasure and much fanfare; Darcy and his reserve were not, as was evident by the cool civility shown to him by Mrs Bennet during his visits.

He could not in all honesty say he was surprised.

After all, even he must own he had done little to make himself agreeable to the neighbourhood the previous autumn, and no one in residence there—including the Bennets—had any idea it was to him that the principal family of the village was indebted for the restoration of their good name.

After enduring countless days of silence from Elizabeth and varying degrees of incivility from her mother, Darcy arrived at a painful conclusion: there was nothing for him in Hertfordshire.

The village, the town, the entire neighbourhood believed both Netherfield gentlemen guilty of caprice; and while the good people of Hertfordshire seemed capable of forgiving Bingley’s past transgressions, they were apparently not as willing to oblige Darcy for his.

With a heavy heart Darcy informed Bingley of his intention to leave for London.

Though his friend saw him go with regret and had since written to request his company once more at Netherfield, Darcy simply could not bring himself to face Elizabeth again.

It was difficult enough seeing her in his dreams—her eyes darkened with passion, tempting him as she whispered words of love and devotion—but to meet her again after all that had taken place, knowing all hope of gaining her regard and her hand was now lost to him forever, proved too painful.

Perhaps it was cowardice on his part, perhaps it was shame; Darcy chose to remain in town.

To his dismay, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who appeared less pleased with his evening than Darcy would have expected, joined him then.

Unlike his taciturn cousin, the colonel was usually at ease in company, as he did not mind in the least that his status as an earl’s son often made him an object of interest for a multitude of eligible ladies.

Darcy quickly schooled his features into a semblance of composure and took a fortifying drink from his glass. His hand was only slightly unsteady as his stoic mask slid back into place. “Are you not dancing?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted as he raised his own glass to his lips and glowered at the assembled crowd.

“I believe I am not yet foxed enough. Her ladyship persists in her insistence that I patronise Miss Cromwell and her grandfather Lord Everett this evening. I confess I have not the stomach for it.”

Darcy frowned. “Surely there is another lady better suited to your disposition and taste of whom Lady Carlisle approves?”