A Required Engagement

by Nora Kipling

  A Required Engagement Part One

  A Pride & Prejudice Variation

  Nora Kipling

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Nora Kipling

  Copyright © 2017 by Nora Kipling

  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.

  * * *

  For information contact;

  info@heartcandies.com

  www.heartcandies.com

  www.audreynoire.com

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  Book design by Heart Candies Publishing

  First Edition: February 2017

  For Sven, who loves a good villain.

  Chapter 1

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Pemberley, Derbyshire

  The sun was rising over Pemberley just as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s carriage crested the final hill that would bring him home. He pulled back the curtain, grateful he had decided to leave the last inn early in the morning, just as dawn broke. He had missed his home estate, and the people within it. He had not wanted to stay the night in Tardide, but the horses had been flagging and so had his footman. A sleep in the inn had not done wonders for his back, but a walk and a stretch would soon cure that.

  He planned on taking a good walk once he had greeted his sister, and his father. He’d brought a few gifts for Georgiana from London, and he looked forward to seeing her face when she received them.

  Across from him, his close friend and confidant, Mr. Bingley, slept, oblivious to how close they were to Pemberley. Mr. Darcy looked fondly upon his friend. They had grown quite close during the season in London. Two more opposite men could not exist in the entire world Mr. Darcy thought. Where he himself was quite quiet and reserved, Mr. Bingley found joy and laughter in almost everything he did. The only reason they had met in the first place was that Mr. Bingley was showing off his new sister freshly come out into London's society. Mr. Darcy was of course a target for all matchmaking mothers and the upper ladies of the con so Mr. Bingley had been introduced to him as a matter of course. Although Mr. Darcy had no interest in the Caroline Bingley Mr. Bingley sister, he had down fast and good friendship with Mr. Bingley himself. Perhaps the only reason he had been brave enough to come home to Pemberley have been the fact that Mr. Bingley would accompany him on the trip. Mr. Darcy was just grateful that his longtime friend would be would be by his side while he faced his father.

  Mr. Darcy knocked his boots against Mr. Bingley's foot. Mr. Bingley started awake with a grunt, peering at Mr. Darcy from between squinted blond lashes.

  “What is it?” Mr. Bingley asked, although the words were half-formed in his mouth. Mr. Darcy snorted a laugh, for Mr. Bingley was perhaps the only one he knew who was so hapless in sleep and in wakefulness both.

  “Don’t tell me you have no interest in seeing the great estate of Pemberley as we arrive,” Mr. Darcy drawled. Mr. Bingley sat up with a start and yanked back the curtains.

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, in full wakefulness, an attitude that inspired no small amount of jealousy in Mr. Darcy (he was hard pressed to find himself fully in his own mind without a good helping of strong tea first thing), “it is quite grand, as you said.”

  “As I said,” Mr. Darcy repeated, not able to help the smile on his face. Mr. Bingley had a boyish charm that infected everything around him, and it was impossible to be sour in his presence.

  “Yes, as you said. I was listening, Darcy. You always think I do not listen, but I insist that I do.” Mr. Bingley shot his friend a reproachful look, and then glanced out the carriage windows again. “I say, it looks like there’s good hunting in the forest over there.”

  “We’ll go, first thing, if you want,” Mr. Darcy said, stretching his legs out with a sigh. Even though the Darcy carriage they had commanded back to Pemberley was quite sizable and well sprung, he was tall enough that it made for some uncomfortable riding at times. “Good hunting, and we have excellent horses that will offer even you a challenge.”

  Mr. Bingley’s seat was well renowned to be exceptional, surpassed only by that of Mr. Darcy himself who acted as if he had rather been born in the saddle.

  “Mmm. And the local village,” Mr. Bingley stopped for a moment and then turned to Mr. Darcy, a sly look in his eyes. “What of the ladies in the local village.”

  “Cad,” Mr. Darcy said, and Mr. Bingley affected an expression of mock outrage. “Is your skirt-chasing no shame to you?”

  “I chase love, not skirt,” Mr. Bingley replied, pretending at offense. “I am looking for the lady of my heart, with whom I will spend the rest of my presumably happy days. Just because you insist on being a miserable, single sod and wild bachelor does not mean the rest of us are so set on our cold, quiet beds.”

  “The ladies of the local village do not possess the bloodlines to satisfy your sisters, so I do not think that you have any hope in pursuing affection there that is beyond the momentary,” Mr. Darcy said, and then recalling a particularly mortifying event from his youth, he fell silent. Mr. Bingley noticed but did not point out to his friend that he had gone utterly quiet and morose. Such things, with Mr. Darcy, were best left alone until the man had sorted his own emotions out.

  The carriage pulled to the gate, and the gatekeeper walked out, a man in fine livery given his position.

  “I say, your father does keep the staff well presented,” Mr. Bingley said as they passed on through after a cursory inspection that informed the gatekeeper that it was indeed Mr. Darcy returning home.

  “Yes, well, appearances,” Mr. Darcy said, feeling that familiar creep of dread gnawing at his stomach. “He does not wish for anyone to arrive and think that we are a less than for having a slovenly gate keeper as so many of the country houses do.”

  “Hmm,” was all Mr. Bingley said as the carriage rolled onwards. They had no sooner arrived and spilled out of the carriage but thirteen-year-old Georgiana launched herself at Mr. Darcy with a shriek better befitting a common barn owl than a young lady.

  Thankfully, Mr. Darcy observed with a quick look down the lines of servants that had come to greet him, their father had not turned up. He was likely in his study, enjoying a cigar and some brandy.

  Mr. Darcy was free to embrace his beloved young sister without fear of reproach.

  “You’re home, oh you’re home, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, pressing herself up against him and then shoving her face into his chest and inhaling his scent with a sigh.

  “Where, might I ask, is your governess? Does she know that her charge is out and about, throwing herself at strange men from the city?” Darcy asked, and Georgiana just giggled before pulling back.

  “Indeed, who is this fine young lady,” Mr. Bingley asked as Georgiana blushed and curtsied for him. He bowed low back to her with a playful wink and Darcy felt himself relax minutely. No matter how bad the reunion would be with his father, at least he had Bingley and Georgiana to temper any negative feelings. He looked up at the grand walls of Pemberley’s manse and felt his heart beat in his throat. He was home.

  Chapter 2


  Elizabeth Bennet

  Longbourn, Hertfordshire

  Many miles away, Elizabeth Bennet lay in a thicket, staring up at the night’s stars. Beside her, Jane Bennet was also prone, holding her hands up to the sky, watching the bright dots of lights through her fingers.

  “Do you not feel so small?” Elizabeth asked her sister, as they both breathed in the night’s air. They had snuck out into the gardens right behind the house, once their parents had both gone to their separate sleeping chambers. Jane had secreted a blanket, and Elizabeth had smuggled a few lone pastries left over from breakfast for them to snack upon. Their midnight meetings had been a tradition between them since they had been just twelve and fourteen, and now at eighteen and twenty, little had changed, excepting everything had. Both out in society, followed quickly by their sisters Mary and Kitty, they were feeling the strain of having not caught a husband yet. Not that there were many young men of the proper rank and elevation to deserve them in the local society, as far as their mother was concerned.

  “I feel rather insignificant,” Jane commented, cupping her hands together to see how many stars she might catch in the circle her fingers and thumbs made. “It is not an altogether unpleasant feeling, however, and I think it gives one a good perspective on problems, to feel small.”

  Elizabeth looked over at her sister. She knew what Jane was thinking. Just that very day they’d received a letter from their cousin, a Mr. Collins. Not directly to them, of course, that would have been improper in the height of things, but to their father. Mr. Collins was the one who was set to inherit Longbourn when Mr. Bennet died, a fact that caused stilted conversation and gentle skirting of the issue of his looming mortality.

  The reason for Mr. Collins’ having written though, had struct chords of discomfort in the hearts of both elder girls.

  Mr. Collins was in want of a wife, and soon. He was not an unfair man, he had written, and in fact was quite cognizant of the situation about to befall the Bennet family once their patriarch was gone. He had, then, decided quite generously that he would take a wife from amongst his female cousins in the Bennet family so that the estate would remain with them, and his gentle and tender feminine relatives might find comfort in their own home during the dark days after Mr. Bennet’s passing.

  “He writes as if I am in the grave already!” Mr. Bennet had barked when Mrs. Bennet had been perhaps a bit to gleeful and delighted at the news. Surely Mrs. Bennet had been the only one excited. Lydia had pouted, for at thirteen was too young, not out, and thus not an eligible potential spouse for Mr. Collins. That getting married for obligation rather than love was quite lost on young Lydia, although it was not missed by the elder of the Bennet sisters.

  Surely Mr. Collins would look to Jane, or Elizabeth, as the potential matches for himself first. Only if he found them intolerable would he move onto the bookish and quite serious Mary, and the giddy and almost-too-young Kitty.

  No, he would not find a partner in either Mary or Kitty, Elizabeth felt in her heart. He would think of Jane first, because Jane was so lovely it was heartbreaking. She set many a swain’s heart on fire as she passed through the fields on the way to Meryton. Elizabeth eyed her sister’s delicate profile, lit up by only the starlight, and sighed.

  They had both longed for love matches. Mr. Collins would be no such thing, and the tone of his letter gave the impression that he was at best foolish, at worst deliberately manipulative in the worst possible way. He had peppered his missive with double-faced compliments and insults, at once praising Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for the fortitude to have brought five daughters into the world and also the poor judgement to not have had any sons.

  As patient and lovely that Jane was, Elizabeth wasn’t sure that even her saintly sister would be able to tolerate a gentleman who lacked social graces to such an extreme.

  “Perhaps his carriage will overturn,” Jane said in the silence, and Elizabeth stared at her in shock.

  “Jane!” she hissed, for she had never heard her sister express a single word of malevolence towards anyone. Jane sighed and put her hand across her eyes.

  “That was unkind of me,” she mumbled and then reached out, grabbing Elizabeth’s hand. Their fingers twined together and squeezed. “I am afraid.”

  “I’m here,” Elizabeth answered, “and you need not accept his offer, if you find him… not to your liking.”

  “Mother will be distressed if I do not. She will shriek, and have vapors,” Jane protested, although there was a hint of hope in her voice.

  “Let her have vapors. She should have known better than to have girls,” Elizabeth said, and then they both laughed softly, sadly. Did their father look at them, and wish one of them was a boy? Certainly they were sure their mother did. Although Elizabeth knew that Jane and little Lydia were exempt from Mrs. Bennet’s hard and judging stare, the rest of them were not so lucky.

  While Mrs. Bennet had never out and out said that she had wished that Elizabeth was a boy, Lizzy oft wondered if her mother had indeed wished it. They did not find agreement in most subjects, and Mrs. Bennet took exception to Elizabeth’s constant wanderings out of doors, and insistence on learning to ride amongst other unladylike pursuits.

  “Maybe he will be handsome and kind,” Jane said with longing, letting her hands drop to her belly. Elizabeth stared up at the stars, and thought on that for a long moment.

  “For you, he had best be. You are the greatest of us, Jane, and deserve only a kind, handsome man for a husband. One who would return all that light you glow with. He must be perfectly incandescent, and capable of elevating you to the highest ranks of society you were born to walk in,” Elizabeth said, knowing her tone and words bordered on ridiculous. She did not care. Her sister, in her opinion, had no equal, and any man deserving of her hand had best measure up in looks, intelligence, wit, and kindness.

  “He’s of the cloth, at least, that must count for something,” Jane said, her tone wistful.

  “Perhaps, if he is not cut of the moth-eaten cloth,” Elizabeth said, and Jane burst into a fit of giggles.

  “Oh Lizzy, but think, if I married him, I would be here with you until you-“

  “Oy!” a clear, strident voice cut across the back garden of Longbourn. Both girls sat up with a gasp. As they turned, twisting in their seats, they saw the red face of Longbourn’s cook, a lantern in her hand, as she approached them. They’d been caught. Lizzy reached for Jane’s hand and squeezed it tight. At least they were together. Together, they could face anything, even being caught out of doors well past the hour of their retirement.

  Chapter 3

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Pemberley, Derbyshire

  The drawing room was just as he remembered it, old pianoforte in one corner where Georgiana sat, her fingers tracing over the ivory keys. Silence had reined in the room since George Darcy had entered, scowling at his returning son and ignoring Mr. Bingley after a cursory nod of his head that barely constituted a bow.

  For his part, Mr. Bingley was taking the slight with no visible offense, to which Mr. Darcy was immeasurably grateful. His good friend was an affable sort, but even the best of mean did not like to be treated no better than servants when visiting.

  It helped some, that George Darcy was already quite clearly inebriated. There was a measure of excusing his behavior.

  “You are quite the accomplished player of the pianoforte, Miss Darcy,” Bingley said as he stood over Georgiana, watching her stroke the keys. “Would you play a piece for me?” he asked gently. Darcy watched the two with a slight smile playing across his lips. Despite his father’s monstrous behavior, Bingley was acting admirably and was showing kindness and patience to his sister despite the fact she was a child. Well, Bingley had sisters as well. Perhaps he had some measure of sympathy for her. Georgiana certainly was uncomfortable with how drunk their father was, and how abominably he was behaving.

  He wished he had some way to chivvy George Darcy off to his rooms for the remainder of the evening,
but there was no polite way to do so. He would have to make do, and keep things distracting and moving along quickly enough that there would be minimal damage to his sister, and to Bingley’s impression of his family.

  As it was, he felt like a wire pulled tight, and he felt sure he would snap at any moment, his calm and cool demeanor breaking. It would be the ultimate shame if he did, and he wrested within himself to control his own temper. It did not help that his father spoke up so often, and with such vehemence, about the supposed deficiencies of Bingley’s family and his character.

  “So, Bingley,” George said, without a care to address him with the proper honorifics, “your wealth is from trade, is it not? And your sisters, are they married?”

  “Uh, one is, Mr. Darcy,” Bingley said, looking up from where he stood next to Georgiana’s pianoforte, about to turn the sheets for her so she might play. “The other has debuted, of course, and spent the Season in London with us.”

  “Difficult to find a husband for a woman who comes from trade, although some people may not have standards and lower themselves without a thought to their bloodline,” George mused, holding out his glass for Darcy to top it up. Darcy did so reluctantly, and with an apologetic look to his friend. Bingley did not deserve such base and unfair treatment. To his credit, Bingley kept an affable smile on his face, and a friendly manner about his person.

  “Yes, well, she is not without her own charms, that I think the manner of our family’s wealth might not be a barrier to all, I would hope,” Bingley commented lightly before looking down at Georgiana. “What will you play us, Miss Darcy. Your brother has spoken at such length of your abilities, if he is correct I believe you might outstrip even the greatest players in London.”