Love at First Light (Pride & Prejudice Novella)

Chapter 1

Elizabeth Bennet had long accepted that Meryton assemblies suffered from a chronic shortage of gentlemen willing to dance.

That evening, Mr. Bingley and his party might have improved the odds from dismal to merely disappointing.

Yet, of the three gentlemen attending, only Mr. Bingley invited a partner to the floor.

The newest resident of Hertfordshire appeared pleasant enough.

He smiled, he danced, he made himself agreeable to every matron with an unmarried daughter.

His sisters were another matter entirely.

The married one, Mrs. Louisa Hurst, looked perpetually bored, and her husband moved immediately to the drinks table, establishing himself as a permanent fixture by the punch bowl.

The unmarried one, Miss Caroline Bingley, was attached—quite determinedly—to the arm of a tall gentleman whose expression suggested he found the entire assembly beneath his notice.

“Father reports that Mr. Bingley is an amiable man. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are his eldest sister and brother-in-law. Miss Caroline Bingley is the youngest. The stoic gentleman is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley,” Charlotte Lucas whispered in Elizabeth’s ear.

“Ten thousand a year, at least. A perfect match for Miss Bingley.”

Elizabeth was about to agree when she noticed Mr. Darcy shake Miss Bingley off his arm with barely concealed irritation.

Apparently, the lady wanted the connection far more than he did.

Elizabeth might have pitied her, but Miss Bingley’s overt disdain for Meryton’s residents left Elizabeth with no sympathy whatsoever.

Not an hour later, Mr. Bingley approached Mr. Darcy, gesturing toward the dancing, pointing out Elizabeth as a potential partner.

Elizabeth’s hands stilled on her fan when both men looked her way. No! Please, no.

Mr. Darcy, as opposite in character to his friend as black was to white, declared loud enough for Mr. Bingley to hear over the music, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Each syllable struck her like a physical blow. How dare that wretch insult her!

Around her, faces turned away in embarrassment for her sake. Whispers began—soft, pitying murmurs from those who had witnessed her humiliation. Mortifying shame enflamed Elizabeth’s cheeks and scalded her throat before igniting a fury so scorching it raged through her limbs.

Lifting her chin, she stood, smoothing the front of her dress with trembling hands. Nostrils flaring, her eyes captured and held his in a piercing glare.

Charlotte attempted to grab her arm. She missed.

“Lizzy…”

Ignoring the unspoken warning, Elizabeth approached the gentlemen, grateful when Mr. Bingley walked away. Looking up at the tall form of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, she grabbed fistfuls of her skirt to keep from striking him.

In a harsh whisper that only he could hear, she lashed at him with her tongue. “I demand satisfaction, sir. Tomorrow morning at dawn. The field east of Netherfield Park. Bring your second. My father shall act as my second if I can keep him from injuring you first.”

He jerked back as if she had slapped him.

“Satisfaction? You?”

Elizabeth saw it all in his expression. Initial shock and disbelief were immediately followed by alarm and concern. She cared not one iota that she upset him after what he had said.

“If you do not appear, I will not hesitate to blacken your name as the coward you are until you will be the object of scorn in every London drawing room,” she snarled.

Brushing past him, Elizabeth gathered her outer garments and left the assembly.

Meryton was less than a mile from her home at Longbourn.

The moon was full. The air, crisp. The only sound was that of her footsteps.

By the time she reached the walkway at the front of the house, her temper cooled enough to consider what she had done.

Her laughter, born of pure, unrestrained defiance, filled the air. Replaying the look on his face, his complete inability to process what happened was wildly satisfying. Mr. Darcy, so composed, so sure of himself in his arrogance, became utterly undone. His reversal was intoxicating.

The man appeared to be a capable enough opponent, well-muscled and strong.

Nonetheless, she knew her skills. Confidence squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine.

Entering the house where she had spent twenty years since her birth, she approached her father’s library to tell him the tale with the expectation that he, too, would anticipate the sunrise.

Poor Mr. Darcy. If he had any gentlemanly inclination at all, he must be squirming in despair. For if he accepted and lost, he would face humiliation at her hands. If he refused, he would evermore be known as a coward. Either way, he loses, and she wins.

Energized, she spun in a circle, her arms outspread.

“Did I really do that?” Her heart pounded with the thrill of it.

She had not waited for someone else to defend her.

She had not sat passively by, hoping some brave soul would intervene or her mother would care.

She acted on her behalf—and won. “Yes, I absolutely did, and I would do it again.”

Thomas Bennet looked up from his book when Elizabeth entered his library, her color high, her eyes ablaze.

“Lizzy, why are you not at the assembly?”

Closing the door behind her, she warmed her hands by the fire.

“Papa, I fear I have done the most extraordinary thing.”

“Have you indeed?” His book fell to his lap. He stared at his favorite daughter at length—taking in her windblown hair, her flushed cheeks, the dangerous light in her eyes. “You walked home alone. In the dark.”

“I could not stay another moment.”

“Why?” His voice was sharp now, concerned. “What happened?”

“Mr. Bingley’s guest insulted me. He called me tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him within my hearing. I…” Her chin lifted. “I challenged him to a duel.”

For a long moment, her father said nothing. Then: “What, exactly, did he do when you demanded satisfaction?”

“He stepped back in disbelief. Then disdain settled upon his features.”

“Then you walked home. Alone.”

“I was not thinking clearly, Papa. I only knew I must leave.”

Thomas Bennet rose from his chair, crossing to her.

He placed both hands on her shoulders, studying her face.

“Most young ladies would weep into their pillows after such an insult. You challenged him to combat instead.” A smile tugged at his lips.

“I suppose I should have expected this. You are, after all, my daughter.”

“You taught me well, Papa.”

“That I did. Though I confess, when I began your instruction, I did not anticipate you would use it quite so…decisively.” He studied her with pride. “Do you recall Mr. Collingwood?”

Elizabeth’s smile turned sharp. “He believed his aggressive opening would overwhelm me. His belief that only my wit was rapier sharp proved to be to his detriment.”

“He underestimated his opponent. A fatal error.” Grinning widely, he added, “And Sir Christopher Knott? He, too, was confident in his superior skill.”

“His confidence was his weakness. He focused on offense and neglected his defense entirely.” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed. “I exploited the opening he left and finished him in six moves.”

“And this Mr. Darcy? What is his weakness?”

“If he proves as arrogant as I suspect, he will make early mistakes. I will capitalize on them swiftly.” She lifted her chin. “If he proves more skilled than expected, I am prepared to be patient. Either way, Papa, he will fall.”

Her father’s grin widened. “Do you intend to…finish this quickly? Or make him suffer?”

Elizabeth considered. “I will give him the opportunity to defend himself properly. But Papa?” Her smile was absolutely wicked. “I do intend to make a point he will never forget.”

“That’s my girl.” He squeezed her shoulders gently, then released her. “Wake me early, my dear girl. I shall need the fortification of strong tea before we proceed.”

After hugging her father, Elizabeth heard his chuckling all the way to her room. Tomorrow, Mr. Darcy would know what it was like to be ‘slighted’ by someone of the opposite sex.

Darcy was stunned. Had he heard correctly?

A female challenging a gentleman to a duel was unheard of in his society.

He was top of the swordsmanship team at university.

During the past six years, he continued to hone his craft at Angelos while in London.

Among his peers, he was considered a marksman with pistols.

He glanced around to make sure no one else had heard her challenge. Fortunately, Bingley was already on the dance floor, and his sisters had moved away.

Why would a stranger, a female no less, in a god-forsaken place like Hertfordshire, break social conventions to call him out?

As a complex cascade of emotions throbbed through his veins, his first thought was for the lady’s safety, not only physically, but also the scandal that might ruin her and her family.

A flicker of guilt rose in his chest, threatening to choke him. The fault was his, as the weight of his insulting comment crashed down on him. Her threat was concrete proof that his hastily uttered comment wounded her deeply.

He had not meant to injure her. He merely wanted Bingley to leave him in peace.

Blast!

He searched the room for her. Towering over the majority, Darcy failed to see the young woman in the blue gown, the color of cornflowers.

Calling for his cloak, he signaled to his host, Charles Bingley. Once his friend broke away from the blonde ‘angel’ he was admiring, Darcy explained that he must return to Netherfield Park to pen a letter to his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.

“You have barely been here an hour, Darcy. Can you not wait until the morning to send your missive? I have just secured the final dance with Miss Bennet.”

“Do not trouble yourself. I shall send my carriage back for you and your family.” Darcy again surveyed the room for her. When he still caught not a glimpse of her, he added, “Might I invite Richard to Netherfield?”

Bingley, ever amiable, grinned. “Of course, my friend. Your cousin is always welcome.”

Nodding, Darcy left the assembly behind.

His foot tapped against the carriage floor in an unceasing rhythm. He forced it to stop, only to find his fingers drumming against the window frame. Once he returned to the house, he poured a brandy. Quickly, he penned his note.

Richard,

Bring my pistols and my sharpest sword to Hertfordshire. I need them before dawn. Will you be my second?

Darcy

Calling for one of the grooms, he gave instructions that the note be delivered to Matlock House, where Richard recovered from a slight battle wound. Fortunately, his shoulder was almost healed. It should not pain his cousin too much to ride four hours north.

As soon as the express rider was on its way, Darcy paced.

Despite everything, he was struck by the lady’s courage and fire.

She was willing to defend her honor with her life, which secretly impressed him.

Frustrated with himself for having driven her to this, he wished he could have located her.

Without hesitation, he would have apologized or at least explained himself. Blast!

Desperation crept into his bones. Beneath his concern was a sting that she found him so objectionable that she would rather risk harm than let his offense stand. He needed to stop this, knowing he was the cause of her fury.

Running his hands through his hair, he paused at the window, looking out into the blackness.

Somewhere out there, she was very likely reconsidering her reaction.

Was she weeping in fear at the potential for harm?

Was she quivering in her bed, wishing the night would never end?

Remembering her eyes, so like the sparkle of the sapphire stick pin in his cravat— No, she was more probably sharpening her sword.

He covered his mouth with his palm. What could he do to shield her from bodily injury and social destruction? Would her father be reasonable? Surely, he would fear for his child.

Darcy would never draw blood deliberately against a woman. The idea was so repugnant to him that his stomach threatened to empty itself.

Reluctant admiration, guilt, misplaced protectiveness, and wounded pride fought for dominance, leaving him in anguish.

The clock was ticking, marking the hours until dawn. He finally pulled a chair close to the window in his bed chamber, resigned to face whatever came, unable to even consider sleep.

At Longbourn, Elizabeth Bennet crawled under the bedclothes and was asleep before her head hit the pillow, a small smile on her lips.