His Dark Heart

Chapter One

Once upon a time there lived a young girl who was fair of face and figure with extraordinary fine eyes the colour of a summer sky.

She was beloved amongst her people and the pride and joy of her Papa.

This girl, innocent and pure although gifted with a sharp wit, captured the attention of an important and powerful man who decided he could not live out the rest of his days in happiness if he could not possess her, body and soul, despite the fact she was promised to another.

From the moment this man had seen her laughing in the music-filled hall, he had been enchanted.

He had sought out excuses to be in her company, ventured into places decidedly below his station in order to seek her out, if only to have her in his line of vision, although she expressed no desire to be in his company.

Very soon, the girl unknowingly had the man’s complete devotion, a devotion, however, that was unwanted and discouraged.

And so, due to this unhappy accident of bewitching fate, we begin our tale.

* * *

Elizabeth released a heavy sigh. She had encountered High Lord Darcy yet again while she walked through Meryton on her way to Aunt Phillips's house.

He had appeared out of nowhere, as he seemed prone to do, and his eyes followed her.

Her senses prickled before she had even spied the Prince, a talent she had begun to think of as incredibly helpful, though the situation still unnerved her.

She had not favoured him since they had met at the Assembly where her engagement was announced, much to the joy of the other citizens since her fellow was a kind and well-respected chap.

Lord Darcy had behaved poorly amongst strangers with his haughty demeanour, which she could not forgive despite his station.

A powerful ruler such as he should have had better manners, especially a man who walked the fine line between diplomat and warrior every day.

She had been presented to the High King the previous summer and although she was no expert on the ways of royalty, the High King had been the very model of a gentleman even while exuding a tremendous amount of power.

“My lady,” said the High Lord as he gave a slight bow.

“Lord Darcy.” She dropped a deep curtsey and congratulated herself on her own impeccable etiquette in the face of such provocation.

“I trust you are well.” A lock of black hair fell from its binding and curled along his cheek, making him appear more like a pirate than a prince. It should not have caught Elizabeth’s eye, but it did.

“Aye. Many thanks for asking.”

There did not seem to be much else to say, so Elizabeth excused herself and walked away in a hurry.

Lord Darcy made her uncomfortable with his inky, dark blue eyes, which never seemed to stray very far from her form.

Since Cheesman the footman was with her, she ducked into the village chop house, vowing not to come out until Lord Darcy was gone.

Inside the smells of ale and lager were thick, and the midday crowd filled the air with a dull roar.

A few people looked up as the lady walked in; her appearance caused a smile on many a face.

She was the only child of Meryton's current Lord's Councillor, Sir Thomas Bennet, the man who acted as a representative to the local gentry, Lord Lucas, and though she did not assume that was the reason she was so well-regarded, she had to admit she did enjoy the adulation.

“My lady, ’tis a pleasure!” Phinneas Crowe, the chop house’s owner beamed. “Have ye come to fetch a meal for your young man?”

Elizabeth smiled, considered the idea, and decided it was indeed a good one. The visit to her aunt forgotten, she said, “Aye, Phinneas, I do believe I shall take my George a bit to eat. Shall ye pack some cheese, bread, and wine into my basket?”

* * *

As the comely lady took her refuge in the dank tavern, Darcy smiled to himself.

He had quite the effect on her. Within him, there had never been a more burning desire than for that of Lady Elizabeth Bennet.

The slight bit of reason still left to him told him that to want her so was a poor idea, that she was a poor choice of consort because he should use his carnal conquests for political and monetary gain, but the other part, the part that now ruled him, did not care about her lack of high connections or about his duty as the Prince of Pemberley, the seat of the Northern Country, over which he ruled.

Indeed, that primal, base part of himself wanted only to keep her as a slave in his bed.

She had pulled him under her spell the moment she had brushed by indignantly at that rather piss-poor excuse—vile food, bitter spirits, and too many homely lasses—for an Assembly.

The next moment, she had done what no other woman had ever dared to do before: she had laughed at him, had mocked him, and rather blatantly at that.

He had hated her for it. Now, he was aware of how utterly important her mirth had become.

He was not laughed at. Ever.

People always came to him, begging for him to use his power, his wealth, or his body in their stead and they were willing to debase themselves in all sorts of ways to get what they needed.

That part of his life was tiresome and uninteresting.

Unlike those who begged him for things, he had fought hard for his position and power.

For a man like him, anything worth having was there simply for the taking.

And Elizabeth Bennet was worth the taking.

She required aught from him, which filled him with a sensation akin to relief, but he had come to want more from her, almost desperately.

He had been apprised of her promise to another: a poor, smiling sap that could never see her for the temptress she was—but that would not matter.

The boy was in his way, and he would be dealt with as such.

He loitered in the street for a few moments more, his judgement compromised by his lust. He resumed his course back to the neighbouring berg of Netherfield, where he took lodgings with his friend Lord Charles Bingley while he hammered out a new trade agreement for a recently discovered cache of gold.

He had time, plenty of time to receive what was his and, for now, he had the patience required in order to acquire the prize.

* * *

While she stared into the bowl of cherry scented water, Caroline tried to control her rage.

The water had shown her that her efforts had been in vain, that her heart's desire would never truly be repaid for all the years she had waited patiently for Lord Darcy to see her as more than an advisor.

She had used her gifts to help him amass fortune and power like other men bought sheep.

He had paid her handsomely, but she had always wanted more.

The Fates, though, told her she was not to receive what she longed for most and she could not disobey their mighty will, even though her heart told her to take what was hers and be done with it.

But, like anybody who has ever had a taste of power, Caroline was addicted and, despite her passion for Lord Darcy, her need for power was greater.

She sat down on her favourite chair in front of the fire and snuggled into the pale green velvet while she stared into the flames and let the heat melt the anger, so it pooled around her feet instead of eating her alive.

Caroline was well aware of who was at her door and why before she opened up her apartment to Lord Darcy. His large, dark form was perfectly framed by the grey stone of the archway. He stared down at her with cool, icy blue eyes that whispered danger and violence.

“My lord, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Caroline asked, a sweet smile upon her blood red lips.

“I need a charm, witch.” His reply was smooth but soft, commanding.

Caroline nodded; her lips pressed shut. She took his hand and pulled him inside.

The feel of his skin always shocked her: it verily hummed with power.

For a moment she was caught up in the consideration of whether she wanted him or the power he commanded.

With a glance over her shoulder, her eyes grazed his darkly beautiful countenance, and she had her answer.

Darcy was tall, taller than most of the men of her acquaintance and it forced him to duck beneath most doorways.

Her eyes were drawn to his considerably well-muscled arms and chest, which seemed to strain the very fabric his clothes.

His hair was thick and black and tended to be tied back in a loose manner, as was the custom of Northern nobility while Southern nobles like her brother wore their hair short.

It was his eyes, though, that could capture without so much as a vague effort; they were a deep blue and they shone cold with ambition.

Caroline was affected, but she would not let him know by even the merest of sighs.

She led him through the chamber to the wall where her fingers danced over a series of stones, a magic combination to a door that should not exist. Moments later, a section of the wall slid aside, and they disappeared into the passage.

The wall sealed behind them, and Caroline began to shed her heavy outer robes.

She pointed to a spot near the chamber’s entrance, and Darcy stood back and allowed her to work as he watched her with care.

Could he value her female form through her thin blue shift like she had appreciated his?

She gathered a small clay bowl, a black candle, and some herbs. Finally, Caroline approached him, a silver dagger in her hand. She dropped into a deep curtsey before him.

“My lord, what is it that ye wish?”

“The heart of a girl.”

“Then ye might use this dagger to cut it out of her.”