Prince Darcy
Pride, Prejudice & Fairy Tales 1
Allison Emma Smith
Excerpt
Darcy stopped dragging Elizabeth down the street and whirled, jaw clenched, his eyes flaring with anger.
This time it was Elizabeth grabbing Darcy’s arm. “He isn’t worth it.”
“Oh, he is worth it. He is well worth the thrashing he begs for.”
“You have what you came for, Prince. There is no purpose in lingering here, especially if your aim is discretion. And this will not help my family.” If Darcy and Wickham brawled in the middle of the street, having been guests at her aunt’s party. . .and god forbid if the theft of the ring came out and knowledge of Elizabeth’s part in it. Ruin would be too tepid a word. Not just for her, but for all her sisters.
The neighbourhood would never stop talking about the time Elizabeth Bennet broke into a soldier’s rooms, with a foreign prince, and stole an expensive jewel. Alone, at night. She might try to brazen it out until the next scandal broke, but there were limits to how many times her family could be the subject of gossip and escape unscathed.
“I see you have thrown your lot in with him,” Wickham said, giving Elizabeth a glance filled with contempt. “I did not think you would lower yourself to be any man’s—”
“Say the word,” Darcy said in a low, deadly tone. “I need no excuse, but that would give me even more leeway to indulge myself.”
Wickham snarled. “Spoiled princeling. You sneak about behind the skirts of a woman under the cloak of night. You cannot face me like a true man—”
Darcy’s fist connected with Wickham’s jaw.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
What Lingers in the Heart
Newsletter
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Allison Smith
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Allison Smith
Chapter One
The pressure on her wrist was gone, a man’s distant shout fading to the background. Run. She must run.
Elizabeth turned, stumbling. She did not feel her ankle twist and the delicate ice blue slipper fall away, though the sole of one foot encountered chill, rough stone.
Run.
She must find shelter in the forest. Her enemies would not find her there.
“Elizabeth!” the crone cackled, reaching forward. “You will pay for this. You will not get away.”
The moon turned its disapproving face towards her as she ran, her gown catching on foliage, tearing rents in the fragile fabric. She dashed through gardens and fields until she reached the edge of the forest that nestled Pemberley. Sharp pain faded to the background as ghostly hands reached out to grasp her. She slid away from their imprisonment, a racking cough in the distance spurring her on. The crone was following, would not allow her to escape with her life.
No—not a crone. Mary. Her sister, Mary. How long had Mary carried such malevolence in her heart? Was she the one who had cursed Bingley?
She stumbled. A wrap, why had she not brought a wrap? “Foolish, Elizabeth. Very foolish.”
“Elizabeth.”
The sepulchral voice reached out. She turned. In the moonlit mist a figure emerged, cloaked in Mary’s sensible weave.
“It was you,” Elizabeth said, clutching her forehead. Confused. Nothing made sense anymore. “The one who witched Bingley against Jane.”
“You are distraught. Come before you harm yourself.”
“What have you done to me?”
“Come with me, I shall explain.”
“No!” She shied away as Mary came closer, crossing the distance of a mile in mere seconds. When had Mary become so powerful?
How?
Several Weeks Prior
No man wants a sickly wife, no matter how comely. . .and Elizabeth is such a clever girl—clever girls never wed.
Elizabeth stabbed at the loamy earth, uncaring of broken nails and dirt caked in her nail beds. How dare that woman speak in such a dismissive manner? She cared little for her stepmother’s opinion regarding herself, but Jane—insult to Jane roused her temper, stoking determination to find a way out. Somehow. Away from Longbourn, though the thought of leaving her childhood home exacerbated an unsettled ache in her heart since the death of her father three years ago.
Standing, she picked up the brown wicker basket filled with the wild plants she came to the forest to pick for Jane’s restorative tea. There were people, even in these modern times, who denied the existence of magic and the wild, herbal arts of wise women. Elizabeth had never been one, especially not since she could be accused of using some of their skills on Jane’s behalf. People were fools, however. There was nothing magical about knowing the right plants and methods of preparation. Though even were her sister in perfect health, she would find an excuse to flee to her outdoor sanctuary. Out here the only sounds were the sigh of the wind through the forest canopy, the chatter of birds and rustle of small creatures. No critical stepmother, no tittering younger half sisters. Just peace.
Before she sought peace or adventure, perhaps her own chance at love with a man who appreciated her cleverness—a man worthy of respect—she must see Jane wed to a gentleman who would dote on her. As the loveliest of all the Bennet sisters, it should not be so hard to find Jane a husband. If not for their modest dowry and the constant, subtle sabotage of their stepmother, the second Mrs Bennett, Jane might have wed years ago.
Elizabeth walked, weaving through trees and underbrush until she came to the common path that traversed the forest. It was an hour until she returned home and she had spent twice that time finding her plants. She skirted the front entrance and entered the house from the side, going straight to the kitchen where she sat her basket on the wide working table and hung her threadbare shawl on a peg.
Heavy footsteps came down the hall that led to the rest of the house. Elizabeth turned, taking a half empty tea tray from Mrs Carson’s hands.
“You were gone a good while,” Mrs Carson said, a warning in her voice. “Mrs Bennet missed you at tea.”
“I doubt she missed me. She may have complained I was not present.”
Tormenting Jane was beneath her stepmother, as Jane was soft spoken and rarely spoke back. Her own daughters Adelaide Bennet doted on, which left only Elizabeth for the woman to subject to her constant dissatisfaction. She dared not displease their remaining servants. Mrs Carson fulfilled the roles of two servants, due to her loyalty to the deceased Mr Bennett, without demanding the pay.
“Well, go on upstairs and clean up before she sees the dirt caked in your nails. I’ll bring a tray up.”
“No,
do not trouble yourself. I will come back down and help you with dinner.”
“Not right. A daughter of the house helpin’ in the kitchen.”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek. “Cease your grumbling. It has not killed me yet.”
Mrs Carson flicked a towel at Elizabeth. “Get on with you, daft girl.”
Grinning, she left the kitchen, walking as quietly as possible through the hall to the stairway that led to her and Jane’s small, shared bedroom.
“Elizabeth!”
She stopped, taking care to smooth the grimace from her face before turning. Her stomach clenched as always, throat dry from the effort to swallow imprudent speech. “Stepmother.”
Mrs Bennet was a tall, slender woman with ash blonde hair and a perpetually dissatisfied expression in her hazel eyes, her dress a touch too ornate for an afternoon tea with family. Pearls adorned her ears and neck, mouth thin with restrained temper.
“Where have you been all day? Tea was late. I ask very little of you, Elizabeth, in return for convincing Mr Collins not to toss you and Jane out into the cold world to make a living as decent, unwed gentlewomen past a certain age should rightfully do.”
At the mention of her ridiculous cousin, usurper of her inheritance, Elizabeth’s lip curled. “We are both eternally grateful, no doubt.”
“I will have none of your sass. You are covered in filth so I can guess where you have gone. Wasting time when there are chores to do. And Jane whiling away the afternoon in bed.”
Elizabeth stopped herself from slapping the woman. “She is ill. I will do Jane’s chores.”
“If your father had not been such a foolish man and had invested his income better, the estate would be able to afford the servants commensurate with my station.”
She had heard the woe is me lie a hundred times. “The estate can support staff. You and Mr Collins prefer to divert the funds elsewhere. You are quite content with having Jane and I slave away like servants. Our father never would have allowed it.”
Adelaide’s cheeks reddened with temper. “Disrespect! Go, leave my sight at once.”
With pleasure. Elizabeth left and ascended to her bedroom, a single hand clenching her skirt into a wrinkled mess. Her stepmother had not always been so unpleasant. Elizabeth’s mother had died when she and Jane were young, and Mr Bennet remarried not a year later. Adelaide was the only mother the eldest Bennet girls had known and once upon a time they had been almost close—before the birth of Lydia, Kitty and Mary. But after his death, with the stress of the entail, with the fuss and worry over finding her three daughters husbands when their two elder half sisters were yet unwed. . .over the last two years the woman’s demeanour slowly curdled until living with her was now unbearable.
“Jane?” Elizabeth opened and closed their door quietly in case her sister was asleep.
But Jane sat at the window, a thick shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders. Her hair draped over her shoulder in a thick, golden braid, the color Adelaide’s envy. Elizabeth’s hand unclenched, calm washing away her ire.
Jane glanced at her and smiled. “Was stepmother terribly upset? Kitty said she was looking for you but I knew you had gone for one of your walks.”
“I went to gather your plants to make a fresh infusion. The supply is low.”
Jane sighed, blue eyes unhappy. “I make more work for you.”
Elizabeth removed the frazzled brown gown she had worn on her walk, replacing it with a grey and equally frazzled but clean gown.
“Nonsense. I enjoy keeping busy. We will find you a rich husband yet, and you shall have trips to Bath as often as you like.”
Jane smiled. “Such a pleasant lie.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Don’t be a cynic. We just have to try harder, is all.”
“It is not for lack of trying that I am unwed.”
Elizabeth grimaced. It was true. Jane had received suitors over the years—all subtly put off by their stepmother. Elizabeth could not tell if it was deliberate or simply the woman’s unpleasant nature. And once any man in his right mind realised he would be attached to such a grasping, unhappy woman and her three as yet unwed daughters forever. . .well.
“There is always hope while we yet live.”
Jane’s thin brow arched. “That is a happy way to look at it.”
Her sister rarely showed these flashes of cynicism, and only when tired. Elizabeth’s lips pursed. “I will make you a cup of tea and bring you something to eat. Tomorrow you will feel better.”
“We are running out of tomorrows, Lizzy,” Jane said softly. “I can see it in her eyes—she will convince Mr Collins to evict us soon.”
“I know. I know.” Elizabeth crossed the room and took Jane’s hand, squeezing it. “Believe me, I will allow nothing to happen to you. You will not be homeless. You have my solemn vow.”
Chapter Two
“Will you keep your promise to our mother, William?” Georgiana asked.
She stood at his side, taller than most young women her age, bearing flawless. This grey morning, she and several members of their household accompanied him to the royal plots that housed every Darcy in death. Though young, she bore her sorrow with a poise superior to many adults. But then, she was a princess of Derbyshire, current mistress of the seat of their family, Pemberley.
He did not pretend to forget which promise. “I have many years yet.”
Georgiana glanced at him, raising her gaze from their mother’s marble gravestone. “Father always said it is better to get heirs young to secure the stability of the principality.”
Their father had said many things and had also extracted a promise from Darcy.
Your mother desires you to marry for love. I wish you to marry to keep our realm secure. So be sure to fall in love with a woman with wealth and connections. A daughter of another principality would be ideal. Not a woman from one of those unaffiliated territories.
He did not burden his sister with this, though. Georgiana had suffered enough in her life. He would ensure that when she wed, it was to an honourable man who loved her. Or she would not wed.
“She was so young,” Georgiana said. She stared at the headstone, eyes wide and unblinking, voice shorn of emotion.
Young and beautiful. Darcy held out his arm, and she placed her hand atop his. His heart ached, a pain he kept hidden from the world. His people would see nothing but the prince and the princess. Strong, unflinching, a leader who diligently performed his duties with Georgiana the living embodiment of their line’s grace and ancient dignity.
It was why he must marry, even if he insisted to his sister that there was no reason for haste. He feared the burden on George’s shoulders unfair. There had been no time to properly grieve all those years ago before requiring she take up the duties required by her birth. Darcy tried to live up the memory of the late prince in every way. To have been raised by him was to respect him. It was time to wed, provide George with respite.
But before he could wed, he must retrieve their stolen family ring.
He took Georgiana’s hand and led her away from the graveyard, their people following behind. His seneschal approached, a grave man past his middle years who had been with the family since Darcy was a boy, and his uncle before him. The only other man who knew the truth—that a formerly trusted servant had stolen the ring.
“My prince,” Grayson said. “I have word on a particular matter.”
Georgiana interpreted their exchanged look and sighed. “Must it always be work, William? Even on this anniversary?”
He paused, then kissed her forehead before helping her into the liveried carriage. “I will join you for luncheon. Give me a few moments.”
She rolled her eyes, and her carriage pulled away. Darcy waited until most of their people save for a few men in his personal guard, a discreet distance from him and Grayson, had left.
He turned to the seneschal. “You tracked him.”
“Indeed. His regiment, rather.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed,
hands clasped behind his back. “So he did take the commission.”
“There was little choice.”
“I would have preferred an excuse to bring him to trial.”
“That would distress the princess, sir. Though no man would fault you for seeking justice or the return of what rightfully belongs to Pemberley.”
“No. You were, and are, correct, Grayson.” Always the voice of reason, allowed more leeway than anyone to speak his mind to the prince. “Where is his regiment?”
“Stationed in a town by the name of Meryton in Hertfordshire, sir.”
Darcy frowned. One of the unaffiliated regions his father had found distasteful. People who owed no allegiance to a lord. “Meryton. The name sounds familiar.”
“I believe Mr Charles Bingley may have spoken of it in recent correspondence.”
That caught his attention. “Are you screening my letters again, Grayson? We spoke about this.”
Grayson’s lip curled ever so slightly. “You did, indeed, speak about it. And I agreed that most of your correspondence need not be filtered.”
Darcy sighed. The seneschal didn’t like Bingley’s sister any more than he did. “How many letters from Caroline have you burned?”
“None, sir.”
Which only meant that Grayson had secreted them away somewhere. “I do not suppose you would care to give me the—”
“Sir.”
“I thought not.”
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