by J L Pearl
Contents
Alone with Mr. Darcy
Description
Prelude
1
2
3
4
5
Author's Note
Alone with Mr. Darcy
A Steamy Pride & Prejudice Variation
J.L. Pearl
Copyright 2019 J.L. Pearl, all rights reserved.
No portion of this work may be duplicated or distributed without the author’s permission.
“Alone with Mr. Darcy” is a variation story featuring characters from Jane Austen’s beloved novel Pride & Prejudice.
It features a very steamy romance and as such should be enjoyed responsibly by readers of a certain age.
"I will always love you, Elizabeth. I have known this, in truth, since the day we met."
Get caught up in a whirlwind romance full of steam and with all the trappings of Austen's regency England in this sweeping JAFF variation. Featuring characters from Jane Austen's beloved Pride & Prejudice in new situations, and meant to be enjoyed responsibly by readers of a certain age.
Prelude
___
The problem, as it often was in that certain way of life, was propriety. None of it ever would have happened if it wasn’t for the silly thing.
Elizabeth Bennet swallowed against a lump in her throat and turned from her side to her back. The bedchamber, generous in size and furnishing, was illuminated only by the light of the moon through the large window framed in heavy dark curtains. Nevertheless her eyes had long ago grown accustomed and no detail of her surrounds escaped her. She lay awake, eyes wide, and wondered that she was here in bed in the house of the man to whom she had been so very opposed only days before.
A sound stirred her from her thoughts and she sat up on her elbows. The telltale creak of wood, just outside her door. Someone passing by? One of the household, perhaps? Perhaps, yes. But what if it were him?
A knock sounded. It was soft enough to have permitted her to continue sleeping had she been asleep, but unmistakable in its intention to rouse her to the door if she were awake. She slid from the bed, belting her robes about her and clutching at the fabric to pull it together more firmly at the neck so as not to leave any tender skin exposed, and crept to the door. The rapping had come only once but she had not heard any other footsteps, and she could all but feel the presence on the other side.
“Yes?” she called softly, her heart beating in her ears.
“Elizabeth,” the voice said. And with that one word, her name, spoken in the voice of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth felt her legs grow weak beneath her.
1
___
One Week Earlier
The day was very fine, which explained why nearly everyone in the house was outside. Neither Elizabeth’s parents, nor any of her sisters, were anywhere to be found, having all gone out to walk to town or take turns about the garden, and Elizabeth, ever the devoted sister, was doing her utmost to be patient while Mr. Bingley visited her elder sister, Jane. The two of them were in the garden now, under the watchful eyes of Elizabeth’s mother and Mr. Bingley’s traveling companion, the shockingly handsome but unfortunately arrogant and unpleasant Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth smiled gently as she thumbed through a book of songs at the pianoforte. There had been a moment, however brief, when she had not yet taken any estimation of Mr. Darcy’s character, but had seen and admired the fine figure he cut, and she had to admit to herself that she, along with every other warm-blooded woman who had been in attendance at the assembly at Meryton that evening, had found him most attractive at first showing. It was unfortunate indeed that he had shown himself almost immediately to be generally lacking in beauty of manners to match the beauty of his face.
“Do you play?”
Her head shot up at the sound of the voice.
His voice.
None other than Mr. Darcy stood in the hallway just beyond the open door. He had the look of a man who had been passing through but who had stopped midstride. She looked at him askance, and he took a step toward her, into the room.
“Pardon me,” he said, seemingly recalling some semblance of manners. “I was only coming inside to see if the lady—your sister—had left Mr. Bingley’s kerchief in the sitting room.
“Ah,” Elizabeth said. His explanation, though thoroughly believable, said little as to why he had now entered the music room, nor why he was speaking with her. She was silent for a moment, hoping he would leave, but he did not. Finally she realized he had asked a question and she had not yet answered. She looked down at her hands, feeling silly. “I would say I play for my own pleasure, Mr. Darcy. Very little, and very ill, I am sure, but it brings me joy.”
“My sister would say the same,” he said, “though I know, from hearing her, the false modesty of a young woman who is in fact very talented. I suspect you have this in common as well.”
What an odd thing to say! Did he mean to pay her a compliment? She quirked an eyebrow at him in spite of herself.
He shook his head slightly, looking away. “I apologize if I’ve brought offense,” he said quietly. It was the first time he had shown any tender sensibility of any kind, any empathy for others, even if it did seem a forced formality, and Elizabeth found herself embarrassed by the way in which she had received him.
“No apology is necessary, Mr. Darcy.” She then thought of how she might steer the conversation most appropriately. “Your sister plays well, then?”
He warmed a bit. “She does. It gives me—it gives all who know her great pleasure to hear.”
Elizabeth smiled at the keys. “I should have devoted more time to it in my youth. Then perhaps I could bring pleasure to others, too.”
“You could play for me, now,” he said.
Elizabeth’s smile fell just a bit. Here? Alone? Propriety dictated she not be alone with a strange man. A chaperone should be present, surely. Although, she reasoned, since there was no doubt as to the platonic nature of their relationship—indeed, they had no relationship at all—what could be the harm? No one in Elizabeth’s family could enter the room and think anything untoward were happening, knowing, as they all did by now, how he had received her at the Meryton assembly. “Not handsome enough to tempt me,” he had said of her. The words had brought laughter to her lips in the company of her sisters, though, in the quiet solitude of her heart, had brought some discomfort.
Nevermind that now, she thought. The point was that Mr. Darcy was a safe man, not a potential suitor. She brushed the thoughts aside. “If you wish,” she said, “I suppose I could. Though I must warn you, we are very rustic here. I’m sure I play nothing like the fine ladies you are accustomed to hearing, let alone the marvelous talent your have described in your sister.”
Mr. Darcy seemed pleased. “Nevertheless I would hear you, if you wish. It will bring back happy memories of her, since we are at present not together.”
If anything could have convinced her, it was the thought she might do some kindness to a stranger, even a haughty one, so she turned the page once more, found a song that seemed appropriate, and began to play.
2
___
Some few minutes later she had struggled through the better portion of an Arne aria from Xerxes, but had made good work of most of it. It was a much simpler endeavor to play without her sister Mary attempting to croon along, and if the piece lacked anything from the presence of the primary instrument, it gained much in style by the absence of that particular singer. Mr. Darcy, at the end, seemed unsure as to whether or not to applaud, and settled on inclining his head and simply saying, “Thank you, that was very lovely.”
Elizabeth blushed. It was silly, and she felt silly. “It was atrocious,
” she said. “And it’s theatre, of all things. You’ve probably no desire for it at all.”
“I appreciate musics of all kinds,” he said. “Would you play another?”
Bolstered by his praise, she turned to another piece and began to play a gigue, a simply country song. Perhaps, she reasoned, if she played something that might offend his sensibilities enough, he would finally leave and put an end to this awkward encounter. But as she played and examined her feelings, she was surprised to find that she also very much hoped he would praise her again. Perhaps, she thought for a fleeting moment, he was in earnest, and not making fun. Perhaps he truly enjoyed what he was hearing.
Her thoughts interrupted her playing and, to her mortification, she found herself stumbling so through the middle passage that she was obliged to stop and gather herself. Before she could start again, Mr. Darcy approached. “I am not familiar with this one,” he said. “Is it a local piece?”
A local piece? Ha! “You might say that,” she said wryly, “insomuch as that it has probably never graced the concert halls of London. I did say we were rustic, Mr. Darcy.”
He had come close. Closer, perhaps, than she might have found comfortable, if he were any less stoic in his manner, and less attractive to the eye. It was for the purpose, of course, of reading over her shoulder to see the title of the piece and name of the composer. But the piece’s true name was not there, for it was a hand-copied score in Jane’s own book, transcribed long ago from some forgotten country song.
“It’s just a gigue,” she said, as if that would explain everything.
“Yes, so I see.” His voice, soft, had a depth and warmth she had not expected to find so alluring when he stood mere inches from her. She could all but feel his breath on the back of her neck. How odd, she thought, that a man she found so off-putting by his actual behavior could still have this effect on her. She felt the thrill of pure, bestial attraction, and did her best to tamp it down. This was nothing. He was only passing through, and simply curious about the music on behalf of his sister. That was all.
By unhappy chance, though, it certainly looked as though more was afoot when, at the exact moment that Mr. Darcy leaned down to better read the inscription Elizabeth had scrawled across the top of the page—”Country gigue for dancing”—Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, Jane and Mr. Bingley, and the two youngest Bennet sisters all appeared in the doorway, surprising them both.
“Oh my goodness!” Lydia squealed, laughing with delight to see her second eldest sister in an apparently compromising position. She grabbed her sister’s hand and ran from the house, yelling as she went, “Elizabeth loves Mr. Darcy! Elizabeth loves Mr. Darcy!!” The rest of the party watched her go, eyes wide. She hollered for all the neighborhood to hear.
Mr. Bennet turned a wrathful eye on the couple at the pianoforte. “What,” he fairly growled, “is the meaning of this?! Elizabeth, back away from that man, at once!”
Elizabeth, shocked to hear her father speak thusly, he who had always been so kind and soft-spoken, lurched back in quick, mindless obedience, meaning to throw herself from the bench and away from the instrument. This she did, but it rather backfired, as she found she had thrown herself into the arms of Mr. Darcy. For his part his face was deeply reddened, and he seemed to go back and forth from trying to apologize to her for being in her way, and trying also to distance himself from the incriminating image. But the damage was done. They had been discovered alone together, far too close to one another, and that news was even then being publicized. The image of her coming into contact with his body as she flew from the bench would surely only go further to cement the exact wrong notion in the party’s minds: that she and Mr. Darcy had been involved in some sort of improper congress.
“And you,” Mr. Bennet said, pinning Mr. Darcy with a glare. “What are you doing alone with my daughter?”
Elizabeth looked from the shocked face of her mother, to the pained face of her sister, and finally to the face of Mr. Bingley. There she saw understanding and pity, and she knew, somehow, what was about to happen before it did. Because it was the only thing that could happen, the only possible option that would not result in dishonor for not only her and her entire family but for Mr. Darcy himself, whose reputation was unimpeachable thus far, save for his haughty manner. The only thing he could do, the only recourse he had, no matter how odious it may be to him or to Elizabeth, was to say these simple words:
“Why, sir,” he said calmly, though his face was still much colored with violent emotion, “I have just asked her hand in marriage.”
For a full minute the room was deathly quiet. Then Elizabeth’s mother burst in, squealing with delight, and rushed to wrap her arms around her daughter. “Oh, Lizzie! Oh, you never told us, you never did! Oh, how wonderful—simply wonderful! Just think, we will be the talk of the whole of the country—no, the whole of England! Oh, Mr. Bennet, what a day of celebration we shall have!”
Mr. Bennet’s face remained a tight line. “Yes,” he said more softly but no less sternly than before, “what a day indeed.”
3
___
If there was ever a choice to refuse the match, it would have been a choice between luxury and ruin, so there was really no choice at all. Elizabeth did not think she required luxury to be happy; indeed, she would have far preferred marrying a man she knew to be of good character. But she could not and would not abide the thought of being the reason for dragging her family, her sisters’ prospects, and happiness of her parents to perdition. So the wedding took place.
“Oh, my dear!” her mother had said as she fussed over Elizabeth’s gown, “how glorious! How radiant! You are the perfect bride! Mind you, it might have been better if you had waited for Jane to take precedence and marry first, as she is your elder, but I quite understand the urge to rush in, heedless of the consequence, when you have found such a man. And such a man, indeed! All ten thousand pounds’ worth!” Elizabeth did her best to accept the motherly affection while brushing aside the ridiculous commentary. This was her mother, after all, and if she had learned one thing in her time on earth thus far, it was that nothing would change that.
The wedding itself was a grand affair by Elizabeth’s estimation. Grand as might be expected, at any rate, given the standing of her own family. She had no doubt it was a paltry affair compared to what Mr. Darcy had probably been expected to enjoy, had he married someone of more standing. This, too, Elizabeth endeavored to brush aside, knowing herself for a gentlewoman and the daughter of a gentleman. It was hard to ignore the scornful sneers of Mr. Darcy’s relative, however, the right honorable Lady Catherine DeBourgh. Neither did Lady Catherine’s implied disapproval of the match escape Elizabeth’s notice, but what could the woman have done? There was no intercession once the engagement became public knowledge. Mr. Darcy’s honor was to remain above all reproach.
And that, at the end of the day, was the reason for the match, Elizabeth supposed. Not love, nor logic, nor any sort of kindly affection or joining of houses, but the simple act of a man saving face. She resented it, and him for it, from day one. The carriage ride from the church after the ceremony was a stony quiet one. Indeed, it was not until after the pair had crossed the threshold of Pemberley that her new husband deigned speak to her.
“Well, it is done,” he said. They were standing in a sitting room. “Will you take refreshment? Anything?”
“No, thank you.” Elizabeth glanced around at the grandeur of the room, so much more in style and general affect than anything at Longbourn. Was this all to be hers, now? She felt alien inside the walls. A visitor, just passing through. Not at all like the lady of the house.
“Very well. A servant will show you to your rooms. You’ll find, I trust, everything you need there, including your trunk. Please do ring for anything else. I’ll see you at seven for dinner, yes?”
The subtext might have been “I expect you at seven for dinner.” Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment, and Mr. Darcy was gone, replaced by a maid
who brought Elizabeth upstairs to a handsomely decorated set of rooms that, though spotlessly clean, had the feel of not having been lived in for some time. The trunk of things she had brought from Longbourn stood at the foot of the bed. Elizabeth wandered past it and sat on the edge of the bed, sighing.
“Well,” she agreed to herself, “it is done.”
4
___
Propriety had indeed been the problem, not the solution, and Elizabeth’s life was no longer her own as a reward. She reflected on his as she retired to her chambers that night. Dinner had been less icy. Mr. Darcy seemed to be making an effort to be considerate toward her feelings, which she did appreciate, but it did little to rectify the oddity of the situation, and she did not do much to encourage him. Therefore they had parted once more not with animosity, but still a somewhat frigid formality, each to their own chambers. Elizabeth dressed for bed and settled beneath the covers with a book.
Some time later, when full dark had long since fallen but Elizabeth’s wakeful eyes had grown very much accustomed to the moonlit chamber, she rose, startled, to hear the sound of someone in the corridor outside her closed door. Then there was the knock: three quick, quiet raps, followed by silence. They waited.
Elizabeth waited too at first. But when it became apparent the person on the other side of the door, whom she supposed to be a servant, was not leaving, she got out of bed, pulling her clothing tight about her neck.
A chamber maid, perhaps? But why would they wait if it were? Wouldn’t they have assumed Elizabeth was asleep?
Her heart thudded in her chest as she padded silently as she could across the floor. If it were Mr. Darcy… what would she say? She stopped just inside the door.
