Mr. Darcy’s Reluctant Vows (A Sensual Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Chapter 1

One

ELIZABETH BENNET TUGGED HER SHAWL TIGHTER around her shoulders as the first cool breath of wind rustled through the trees.

The clouds had thickened since her departure from Longbourn, transforming from harmless white puffs to threatening gray masses that pressed down on the Hertfordshire countryside.

She should return home. Any sensible person would.

The thought of her mother’s shrill voice lamenting yet another missed opportunity with some eligible gentleman made Elizabeth quicken her pace in the opposite direction.

“One-and-twenty already and not a prospect in sight!” she mimicked under her breath, lifting her skirts to avoid a muddy patch in the path. “Jane may be the beauty, but you, Elizabeth, must secure a husband before your bloom fades entirely!”

Her failure to secure attention from any particular gentleman during the ball at Netherfield months earlier was, she suspected, the reason for this delayed outburst of motherly frustration.

Another gust of wind, sharper this time, sent leaves swirling around her feet.

The air had taken on the metallic scent that preceded rain.

Elizabeth glanced up at the darkening sky with growing concern.

She had walked farther than intended in her determination to escape Mrs. Bennet’s matchmaking schemes after the Netherfield ball in November and a winter of uneasy quiet in Meryton before spring set in.

Having watched her mother send Jane to visit the Bingleys the previous autumn and her sister inevitably catching sick, Elizabeth had hoped that the sacrifice would not be in vain despite its outlandish risks. For a while, all were certain Jane and Mr. Bingley were mutually fond of each other.

Then came the disaster of the Netherfield ball. Mr. Collins made a fool of himself. Her parents had unleashed their offspring on the unwitting crowd. Elizabeth had danced with the one of the most disagreeable men in all of England.

In the end, none of it had mattered one whit. The Bingleys were gone, and with them, Jane’s happiness.

That assembly in particular, and Mr. Darcy’s cutting remark from the night they had first met, had driven her outdoors despite the threatening weather.

“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

The words still stung, not because she desired the attention of such a disagreeable man, but because he had delivered his assessment as though she were a mare at auction rather than a woman with feelings and a mind.

He had requested a dance with her at Netherfield despite his dim view of her assets. His contradictory words and actions confounded her.

The first fat droplet of rain struck her cheek just as a low rumble of thunder rolled across the valley.

Elizabeth picked up her pace, recognizing she had ventured onto Netherfield property.

Word in Meryton now spoke of Mr. Bingley’s recent return with Mr. Darcy this spring.

There was no word on whether the stay was to be of any significant duration; rumor had it he was still deciding on whether to lease again.

The Bingley estate—and its less amenable guest, Mr. Darcy—lay somewhere to her right, but she recalled an old gamekeeper’s cottage near the property boundary that might offer shelter until the worst passed.

The heavens opened when the cottage came into view, a small stone structure with a slate roof and smoke-blackened chimney.

Elizabeth broke into a run as rain pelted down, soaking through her bonnet and dampening her hair.

By the time she reached the weathered wooden door, her muslin dress clung uncomfortably to her legs, and her thin boots were thoroughly soaked.

The door creaked as she pushed it open and stepped into blessed dryness.

The cottage appeared long abandoned but intact.

Dust motes danced in the gray light filtering through small windows.

A stone hearth dominated one wall, with an ancient wooden chair beside it and a rough-hewn table under the window.

The roof seemed sound, with only one small leak dripping steadily into a rusted bucket someone had thoughtfully positioned.

At least I shall not drown indoors, she thought. Elizabeth removed her sodden bonnet and shook it out. Her dark curls had come loose from their pins, and she sighed as she tried to restore order to them with damp fingers.

The storm intensified, rain lashing against the windows as lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations.

Elizabeth surveyed the hearth, pleased to discover a small stack of firewood and kindling left by some previous visitor.

With numb fingers, she arranged the kindling and smaller sticks, grateful for her father’s practical insistence that all his daughters learn such useful skills regardless of her mother’s protests that gentlemen’s daughters had no need of them.

A successful strike of flint later, a small flame flickered to life.

Elizabeth fed it carefully until the fire cast a warm glow through the cottage, illuminating corners the gray daylight couldn’t reach.

She positioned the chair closer to the hearth and spread her shawl over it to dry, then stood as near to the flames as she dared, letting the heat seep into her chilled bones.

The sudden sound of the door latch lifting made her whirl around, heart leaping to her throat.

The tall figure silhouetted in the doorway was unmistakable even before he stepped inside, rainwater streaming from his greatcoat. Mr. Darcy’s imposing height seemed to shrink the cottage around him as his gaze locked with Elizabeth’s.

For a moment, neither spoke. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and rivulets of water ran down his face. Despite his drenched state, he maintained that infuriating air of superiority as his eyes widened in recognition.

“Miss Bennet.” His voice held surprise and something else: dismay, perhaps, at finding her of all people in his refuge.

“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth lifted her chin slightly, determined not to show how disconcerted she felt by his sudden appearance. “I see the storm has driven you to shelter as well.”

He remained by the door, water pooling around his boots. “I was inspecting the property boundary with Mr. Bingley when the storm broke. He continued to the tenant farm while I sought the nearest shelter.” His gaze swept the cottage before returning to her with unconcealed concern. “You are alone?”

The impropriety of their situation struck Elizabeth fully for the first time. A single woman and an unmarried gentleman, alone in an isolated cottage. She straightened her spine.

“I was walking when the weather turned. As you see, I had little choice but to seek shelter.” She gestured toward the window where rain now fell in sheets. “I shall depart as soon as it eases.”

Another violent crack of thunder punctuated her words, making such a prospect seem increasingly distant.

Darcy removed his sodden greatcoat and hung it on a hook by the door, revealing a blue coat and buff breeches beneath that had largely escaped the rain. “That seems unlikely to occur soon.” He glanced at the fire with apparent approval. “You’ve made yourself comfortable, I see.”

“Would you prefer I had remained cold and wet, Mr. Darcy?” The words escaped before Elizabeth could moderate her tone.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not at all.” He moved toward the fire, maintaining a proper distance from her. “I merely observe that few young ladies of my acquaintance would know how to start a fire.”

Elizabeth couldn’t decide if his words were complimentary or condescending. “Perhaps you know the wrong sort of young ladies, sir.”

His eyes met hers. “Perhaps I do.”

The intensity in his dark gaze unsettled her, and Elizabeth turned toward the fire to hide her confusion. Despite their brief antagonistic history, she could not deny the man possessed a commanding presence that filled the small cottage like a physical force.

“I apologize for intruding on your solitude,” he said after a moment, his deep voice softer than she had ever heard it. “I assure you I would not have chosen to compromise your privacy had I any alternative.”

“Nor I yours,” Elizabeth replied, finding her equilibrium again. “But as we find ourselves unwilling companions, we might at least be civil about it.”

A rumble of thunder, more distant now, filled the silence between them.

“May I?” He gestured toward the fire, and Elizabeth stepped aside to allow him closer to the warmth. She noted how carefully he maintained a proper distance between them despite the cottage’s small dimensions.

“You are very far from Longbourn,” he observed, stretching his hands toward the flames. “Do you often walk so far alone?”

“When I wish to think clearly, yes.” She watched the firelight cast shadows across his angular features. “My thoughts flow more freely outdoors than in a drawing room.”

“Your preference for solitary wandering explains your excellent complexion, though perhaps not your mother’s nerves,” he said, then looked immediately as though he regretted the familiarity.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “You presume to know a great deal about my mother’s nerves, sir, after one evening in her company.”

“Forgive me.” He turned toward the window, watching the rain. “I spoke without thinking.”

“A rare occurrence for you, I imagine.” Elizabeth couldn’t resist the gentle barb. “You strike me as a man who measures each word before releasing it into the world.”

He glanced back at her. “You have formed quite a detailed opinion of my character from limited acquaintance.”

“As you formed an opinion of my looks from across a ballroom?” The words left her lips before she could reconsider them, and Elizabeth felt color rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to reveal she’d overheard his slight.

Darcy stiffened, his posture becoming even more formal. “You refer to a private remark not intended for your ears.”