Chapter 1
27 November 1811, around eleven o’clock in the morning
When Fitzwilliam Darcywoke up, he felt as if he had been trampled by hundreds of sheep. He had counted them as he struggled to get to sleep.Ifone could grace the way he spent his night with the name ‘sleep’. Andifthe animals that had trampled him were sheep, as opposed to galloping herds of wild horses determined to mow down anyone in their way.
Not that it mattered what metaphor he used for how he was feeling. He knew preciselywhyhe felt trampled, andwhohad done the trampling. The figure that came to mind bore little resemblance to a sheep, or to a horse for that matter. It took the form of a charming young lady with unsettling dark eyes and a siren laugh that lured him to set everything in his life aside and follow her.
There was nothing metaphorical about the way Miss Elizabeth Bennet had destroyed his peace of mind and eliminated any possibility of restful sleep. Last night when he had danced with her at the Netherfield ball, he had known with absolute certainty that if he stayed a day longer, he would find it impossible to leave. And leave he must, because duty and position and the weight of centuries of tradition dictated that he could not even consider her a suitable candidate for marriage. It was becoming more and more difficult for rational thought to prevail. Better to leave now, before he was caught like a fish on a reel and left gasping for breath.
Fish and sheep. That was what he was reduced to.
If only he could stop thinking of her! The flash of her dark eyes and the quirk of those seductive lips haunted his nights and days, along with the tinkle of her laughter. The ball last night had left Darcy in a state of fevered agitation. The image of Miss Elizabeth Bennet intruded on his mind, no matter how much he tried to dispel it. No. Not the image. It was more than that. The feel of her as she danced with him. The touch of her fingers through her gloves. The heady scent of her hair as she twirled close to him – a subtle hint of jasmine and soap and something uniquely hers. The mix sent his senses giddying around until he thought he would melt with a need to draw her closer, to crush her to him.
The grandfather clock at the end of the hall chimed solemnly, a reminder that it was time for action. It was already eleven o’clock. If this was to be his last day at Netherfield, preparations needed to be made for departure. And, most importantly, he needed to make certain that Bingley did not stay behind. Bingley was in just as much danger of being entangled as Darcy was.
Darcy threw aside his covers and dressed himself without ringing for his valet. He could not delay a moment later. He strode down the corridor and rapped at Bingley’s door.
“What it is?” said Bingley, sleepily. “Is the house on fire?”
Darcy stepped into the room.
“The house is not on fire, but I know something that is.”
“The stables?” said Bingley, sitting up in alarm.
“No. Your heart.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Bingley, preparing to slip down under his cover and go back to sleep.
Ruthlessly, Darcy took hold of the cover and pulled it away.
“What the devil, Darcy? What are you up to?”
“I need you to come walking with me.”
“Go walking by yourself.”
“You will come with me, or I will tell Miss Bingley that you broke that Ming Dynasty vase that she is so proud of.”
Bingley groaned.
“Very well, Darcy, but you had better have a good reason to wake me up so early the morning after a ball.”
***
IT WAS A BLUSTERY NOVEMBERday, with the wind blowing first from one direction, then from another, and confusing the weathervane – a painted iron cockerel swinging back and forth on top of the house, unable to decide on a direction. The clouds tossed and turned, racing madly one way, then stopping as if meaning to turn back.
In other words, it was a dismal kind of day, but at least it was not raining.
Fitzwilliam Darcy waited impatiently, his back stiff and his mood surly—to say the least. He had an unpleasant conversation ahead of him – quite literally, since his friend Charles Bingley was leading the way through the gates of Netherfield. He was dashing away, irritated at being forced out of bed into the cold.
Not that Darcy blamed him. Now that they were outside, he realized it was a mistake. He should have spoken to Bingley in the comfort of the manor, sitting by the fire, somewhere where Bingley could not bolt. Darcy had wanted privacy, away from the prying eyes and ears of Bingley’s sister Caroline – a young lady for whom eavesdropping was second nature—but he had not counted on Bingley stalking off.
As it was, Darcy was forced into a jog to catch up.
“We need to talk, Bingley.”
Bingley stopped and looked completely unimpressed.
