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 inElizabeth’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. Lookingup 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 lookedup 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.”
