Snowbound with Darcy
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
Caitlin Marie Carrington
Copyright © 2018 by Caitlin Marie Carrington
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.
Contents
1. Elizabeth
2. Elizabeth
3. Elizabeth
4. Darcy
5. Elizabeth
6. Elizabeth
7. Darcy
8. Elizabeth
9. Darcy
10. Elizabeth
11. Elizabeth
12. Elizabeth
13. Darcy
14. Elizabeth
15. Darcy
16. Darcy
17. Elizabeth
18. Elizabeth
19. Elizabeth
Thank You for Reading
Also by Caitlin Marie Carrington
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About the Author
Elizabeth
Elizabeth Bennet had dressed with unusual care tonight, and not—she had to admit—solely because she was attending a grand ball at Netherfield. Though she had not shared the fact with her sisters, Lizzy had someone particular in mind when she allowed her mother to pinch her cheeks. She had thought of a man while she’d sat and let her eldest sister Jane remove the curling cloths all five Bennet daughters had worn to bed the night before (and all day besides).
Elizabeth had pictured his slow, leisurely smile as she had tried on a second dress, and then a third. She had imagined how well he might dance as she had followed her mother and father and Jane into their carriage, for the three-mile ride from Longbourn to the ball. And after they had arrived, she had enjoyed greeting their host Mr. Bingley (and suffered through addressing his two stately sisters), and then had rushed into the large foyer, her eyes sifting through all the red coats to try and find the one she wanted.
Her redcoat.
But Mr. Wickham was not there.
Elizabeth’s younger sister Lydia had asked his friend Mr. Denny where Mr. Wickham was. And though it was not explicitly stated that their new friend Wickham had avoided the ball because of a certain, stuffy, proud and horrible individual—Elizabeth knew why Wickham had stayed away.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth turned to face her dear friend Charlotte Lucas. While the rest of Meryton and their neighbors might consider Charlotte a bit on the shelf, Elizabeth thought that all the men who ignored Charlotte Lucas and chose not to ask her to dance were fools. Yes, Charlotte was twenty-seven, but how ridiculous the world was to consider her an old maid. She was lively and full of wry wit, and could make friends with just about anyone.
Even Mr. Darcy.
“I said, Mr. Darcy is approaching us.” Charlotte turned her head toward Lizzy as she spoke, so that the man in question would not know they gossiped about him.
“I cannot think why,” Elizabeth said. “Unless he is lost.” The girls were alone near the very back of Netherfield’s grand ballroom. Most of the young people were congregated closer to the dancing, or the tables of food on the opposite side of the large hall. Elizabeth and Charlotte’s nearest neighbors at present were three elderly Meryton inhabitants, seated in a row of chairs against the wall.
Elizabeth was hiding from her newly discovered cousin—and the Bennets’ houseguest—Mr. Collins. She had been forced to suffer through two dances with her clumsy kin. Lizzy and her dancing slippers had survived, though her carefully crafted shoe roses had not.
“Perhaps he wishes to ask you to dance?” Charlotte said.
Elizabeth laughed. “Have you forgotten the last ball?” Charlotte smiled ruefully and shrugged; both girls remembered the public ball when Elizabeth had first met the grand Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy’s friend Mr. Bingley had been taken with Jane Bennet—nothing unusual there, as Jane was not only the local beauty, but in Elizabeth’s opinion, one of the kindest and best young women in the world. But Mr. Darcy had refused to dance with anyone, and at a public ball where the male dancers were scarce.
And then he had, most specifically, listed his reasons why he would not dance with her, when Mr. Bingley had suggested Mr. Darcy dance with one of Jane Bennet’s sisters.
Elizabeth wished she had not overheard Mr. Darcy snub her. She had been sitting close enough to them that she could hear their every word, but far enough from the two men that they were ignorant of that fact. Still, she did not take herself terribly seriously—that was Mr. Darcy’s area of expertise. Elizabeth had crafted the insulting moment into a deliciously funny tale that she’d told Charlotte and all her sisters.
But secretly, how she hated the fact that she had memorized Mr. Darcy’s words, and that they still—so easily—ran round and round her mind.
She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.
Elizabeth glanced to her right. Improbably, Mr. Darcy was indeed walking directly toward them.
She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. And I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.
Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy’s tall figure cut through the crowd. She refused to blush. She absolutely refused to be cowed in any manner. Though how awkward: again she was at a ball with that infernal man, and because she was hiding near the wall, it would appear to Mr. Darcy that the only partner she could secure was her embarrassing cousin.
Elizabeth turned so that her back was to Mr. Darcy. “Charlotte, tell me he’s veering right to speak with Mr. Abernathy.”
Mr. Abernathy was a great-great-grandfather, and had lost the ability to hear at least five years ago.
“Tell me he is lost, and he is asking Mr. Abernathy for directions,” Lizzy whispered again.
“I do not believe the man lost. And I dare say, Lizzy, if you give him a chance, you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all—to find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate. Do not wish me such an evil.”
Charlotte’s dark eyes softened with pity for a moment, then grew wide.
Elizabeth suppressed a groan. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” she mouthed.
A deep, low baritone sounded from behind her. “Miss Lucas, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, praying for patience, a way out—perhaps a sudden flood would fill the ballroom and they would all be swept out to the woods beyond, and eventually to the sea? That would be preferable to having to speak to the man.
But nothing happened except Mr. Abernathy beginning to gently snore—the noise was reminiscent of what Elizabeth imagined waves hitting the shores would sound like—but beyond that: no sudden natural disasters. And so she turned around and was startled to be so very close, so very near, to the man she had vowed to detest for all of eternity.
And then Mr. Darcy bowed curtly and asked her to dance.
If Elizabeth’s anger at Mr. Darcy had been a small spark, the rich man’s request was a gust of air for said kindling. He stood there, handsome and perfect, with not a care in the world. And she saw that, though he framed the request for a dance as a question, it was already a foregone conclusion in his mind. What young lady in all of England would refuse Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?
Me, Elizabeth thought.
Her fury flamed to life, and she knew she could not dance with him. How could she spend a half-hour, pretending to enjoy his presence? And why did he wish to dance with her tonight—when before he found her so very lackin
g? Was he mocking her? Had he been forced into this duty by Jane and Bingley? Either way, she knew Mr. Darcy did not truly want to spend a long set forced into close proximity with her. And she had had enough of pompous men and bad dancing partners.
“How gracious of you to ask,” she said. At the edge of her vision, Lizzy could see Charlotte’s eyes grow even wider. Charlotte knew the steely tone Elizabeth was using; she knew it quite well. Charlotte shook her head slightly, probably knowing what was coming. “But I am sorry to report I have injured my ankle. I will not be dancing the rest of the night.”
Charlotte gripped Lizzy’s hand, the motion hidden by both of their skirts. Charlotte did not have to speak to deliver her message: What are you doing?!
Mr. Darcy stood there, silent, studying her. Elizabeth refused to shift or look away during his perusal. Instead, she forced herself to calmly meet his stare—but goodness, she had never noticed how very blue his eyes were. They were so, so…blue.
And he was tall, taller than anyone else here, really. Her neck began to ache, both from tension and from having to look almost straight up at him. His dark hair was cut shorter than the last time she had seen him, though it was still slightly mussed in the front, as if he had run his hands absentmindedly through it.
It was the only imperfect thing about him.
“I am sorry to hear that.” When he finally spoke, Mr. Darcy’s voice was low and rusty, as if he were unaccustomed to using it. “Was it the last dance that did you in, or your partner? I admit, I was worried for your health during those two dances.”
Charlotte gasped lightly at his words, but Elizabeth kept her face calm. He had…had he just insulted Mr. Collins? And in a rather dry, amusing manner, too? It was the first time she’d agreed with one of Mr. Darcy’s sentiments, but she refused to let him know that.
Also: he had been watching her? Throughout both dances?
“As you can see, I have survived.”
“Though her dancing shoes did not,” Charlotte added.
“Thank you, Charlotte.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her grinning friend, even as Mr. Darcy subtly glanced down at her dancing shoes. Of course, they were mostly hidden by her dress. His gaze traveled back up to Elizabeth’s face…slowly.
Much too slowly for comfort.
Elizabeth finally allowed herself to move, stepping back and taking a quick, calming breath. She was sure it was entirely her imagination, but Mr. Darcy’s deep blue eyes seemed to take entirely too long to return to her face.
He seemed to linger on her…bodice.
What is this insanity? she wondered. Elizabeth was not ignorant of how certain men looked at certain young ladies. Why, whenever she went to Meryton—or London, or anywhere—with Jane, she was accustomed to it. Jane’s presence on a street was akin to Moses parting the Red Sea. But instead of water, Jane’s steps cut a path through men, young and old. Elizabeth would watch as their eyes sought her sister, the men scanning her from the top of her bonnet, down to the toes of her boots. Their eyes would often linger on her beautiful face (which would blush, her eyes riveted straight ahead so that she could pretend none of this silent play was happening), but often on other aspects of her person.
Elizabeth, too, knew enough to note the quick, nervous glances young men from the militia gave her, especially when dancing, and most especially directed toward the bodice of her dress.
But this. This was different.
This was heated.
This felt…scandalous.
Elizabeth glanced at Charlotte, to see if her friend had noticed, but Charlotte’s eyes were focused on something across the room.
As Mr. Darcy stared at her, it was as if Elizabeth could feel his gaze. As if simply the power of his perusal touched her as physically as his hand. What madness was this? Her dress felt tight suddenly, and her mouth dry. Her cheeks heated and she was having trouble breathing, and when she dared to look into his eyes again, he was staring at her as if…as if he was in pain.
As if she caused him pain.
And then he scowled, shook his head, and looked at whatever Charlotte was staring at—goodness, now he appeared as if he hated her?
Elizabeth closed her eyes to center herself. It was just as well. She hated him, she reminded herself.
If only—if only her body didn’t feel quite so…spellbound.
He spoke then as if nothing had happened. But, Lizzy reminded herself, nothing had. This was all in her mind.
“But you are injured enough that you will not dance? It must be serious, as I had heard you were a great proponent of dancing.”
“I am,” Elizabeth said, her mind reeling. Why was Mr. Darcy still standing here, talking to them? And what in the world made him ask her to dance? It must have been Mr. Bingley, his friend and their host for the evening. Elizabeth sought out Mr. Bingley in the crowd; he was dancing with Jane. Joy and bliss, Lizzy thought, a small smile dancing across her face. Jane looked radiant, and Bingley looked…smitten.
If I am to be miserable all night, at least Jane shall be happy.
Elizabeth forced herself to return her attention to Mr. Darcy and Charlotte, only to discover that Mr. Collins had discovered them and was making his way to their side. So that was whom Charlotte had been staring at.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat. It was bad enough that her cousin had embarrassed her in front of all of Meryton. She could laugh at herself and accept that. But to have Mr. Collins display himself in front of Mr. Darcy seemed almost too much to bear. Elizabeth didn’t know why she felt so defensive around Mr. Darcy. Her pride had been pricked by his insulting words, but she should be able to move beyond such a petty thing.
Should she not?
Perhaps it’s because he is so very handsome, some impish inner voice said. And so very rich. And again…have we mentioned how strangely beautiful he is?
It was strange, how handsome Mr. Darcy was. If you were to take each individual component of his face, one would not think them the masculine ideal. His brows were a bit heavy and always frowning. His lips were…Elizabeth swallowed, suddenly feeling warm as she watched him. His lips were entirely too full, for what a man should be. Mr. Wickham had thin, sensible lips and an easy smile. Mr. Darcy seemed to always be on the verge of pouting, though he’d probably consider that act inelegant and would therefore refuse to do so, on principal.
His nose was slightly too long and Roman, and his cheekbones and chin slightly too prominent. But when you put them all together—and those eyes, those dark blue eyes, as deep and mysterious as the sea—when you put them all together, they were…
Elizabeth forced herself to breathe.
Breathtaking.
His hair was the only wild thing about him, full of thick, dark curls. Like a briarwood in the forest. Something you could get lost in.
“Mr. Collins intends to join us,” Charlotte said quietly.
Elizabeth squeezed Charlotte’s hand once more, before they released each other. Mr. Collins had been a guest at Longbourn for over a week now, and Elizabeth’s opinion of the man worsened every day, as Charlotte well knew. Mr. Collins was somehow both proud but petty, ignorant yet constantly giving sermons on one subject or another.
And worst of all: he had come to Longbourn to find a wife. He’d wanted Jane first, of course, but when their mother had made it clear Jane was not available—their new neighbor Mr. Bingley, with four or five thousand a year, was highly preferable to a man of God—Elizabeth had been thrust in his path.
And oh, how Mr. Darcy would judge him. And, by extension, her. Lizzy did not want to care what Mr. Darcy thought, but she could not deny it. She did care.
Only because of Jane, she consoled herself, feeling her cheeks begin to flame as Mr. Collins stepped toward their small circle. Mr. Collins will reflect badly on us Bennets. And then Mr. Darcy will judge us all—which might imperil Jane’s chances with Mr. Bingley.
It was obvious that Mr. Bingley worshipped his older friend, Mr. Darcy. When Jane had been ill and
stranded at Netherfield, Elizabeth had come to be with her and spent a few days with both men. If Mr. Darcy said he liked peach jam, Mr. Bingley would offer to invest in a peach orchard. If Mr. Darcy proclaimed the sky was green, Mr. Bingley would likely say, yes, yes, he’d never seen the Heavens looks as emerald as they did now…
And if Mr. Darcy didn’t like Jane.... Elizabeth’s eyes sought her sister. Jane and Bingley were now standing, speaking with Mr. Bennet and Charlotte’s father, Sir William Lucas. Mr. Bingley had moved to their neighborhood just before Michaelmas. He’d known Jane less than three months. Despite his obvious affection for her, did they truly have a deep, abiding connection?
One that Mr. Darcy’s ill opinion could not sever?
Elizabeth turned from her study of the young couple to find Mr. Darcy and his disturbing blue eyes studying her. She opened her mouth—to say what?—she did not know. But before another word could be spoken, Mr. Collins arrived, bowing too formally and then grinning too widely.
He was dressed in his habitual, severe black. Mr. Collins had explained, one day at lunch, that his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh believed black to be the ideal color for the clergy to wear, as it precluded vanity. Mrs. Bennet had agreed vehemently, praising the man for his good sense, and his patroness’ good sense, and listening as Mr. Collins had then spent twenty minutes detailing his purchase of a new set of black boots.
Mr. Collins’ hair was slicked back, though Elizabeth did not remember it looking quite so…wet…when their party had left Longbourn hours before. As he drew closer, she realized he must have exerted himself greatly on the dance floor, for he reeked as if he had been laboring on in the summer sun.
“My dear cousin! And Miss Lucas! Why are you over here, away from the dancing?” Mr. Collins looked behind them, at Mr. Abernathy gently snoring and Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long, gossiping behind their fans.
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