Mr. Darcy's Thunderous Passion, page 1
Mr. Darcy’s Thunderous Passion
A Steamy Pride and Prejudice Variation
Maria Dashwood
Pemberley Playground Press
Contents
About This Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Special Thanks
About the Author
About This Book
Peril. Passion. Promise.
After Elizabeth rejects Mr. Darcy’s proposal at Hunsford, he returns to Pemberley, heartbroken. But a dangerous rogue, violent storms, and a matchmaking horse may offer a second chance. Will Elizabeth accept the passion simmering between them?
Ride away for an intimate evening with Mr. Darcy in Mr. Darcy’s Thunderous Passion, a steamy Pride and Prejudice Variation of 16,000 words.
1
It was far easier for Miss Elizabeth Bennett to sneak out of the inn in Lambton than in their previous accommodations. For one, the room she and her aunt shared was large enough for separate beds. Mr. Gardner slept in an adjoining room to preserve Elizabeth’s modesty and because even through the closed door, his snores sawed a low counterpoint to the usual sighs and scrapes of a country morning.
Birdsong carried on the soft winds through the open window as Elizabeth performed her daily ablutions and donned her walking gown. Her aunt and uncle did not like the idea of Elizabeth being out alone, and Mr. Darcy — were he here — would see Elizabeth’s wandering as another sign of her family’s crude manners, but Elizabeth could not resist the lure of a walk. There was, in her mind, no better way to learn a new place than to feel it beneath her own feet. And she would return well before her aunt or uncle woke. Neither did the Gardiners keep country hours.
A maid of all work with rosy cheeks and a gray apron over her gown pointed Elizabeth to the kitchen, and Elizabeth took a light breakfast of fresh morning oat bread and cheese and berries. Thus fortified, she made her way cheerfully through the village.
The few villagers she passed greeted her with “Good day, Miss,” their manners respectful, if not friendly.
Elizabeth turned from the main thoroughfare and saw a young boy playing with a slingshot, shooting at birds in a nearby tree.
"Yaah!" the boy cheered as birds fluttered up on a swirl of feathers and wings.
"Quit that!" Elizabeth shouted. She disliked bullies, and it was clear the boy only wished to amuse himself through the birds' distress.
The boy looked up at her, stuck out his lower lip, and aimed his slingshot at her.
"Try it." Elizabeth glared. "I bite." she added, baring her teeth.
The boy's eyes widened, and he turned on his heel and ran.
Elizabeth stepped up her pace, anger making her hands shake. At the village’s edge, grazing lands stretched out in a shawl of rocky green dotted with bleating sheep. Thick clouds floated over the fields, and the soft breath of the morning breeze carried with it the scent of ozone, wool, and warm grass.
As Elizabeth walked, her thoughts drifted to Mr. Darcy. It was only to be expected. They were in Derbyshire, and Mr. Darcy's estate was also somewhere in Derbyshire. She had been far too blinded by prejudice against him to take his proposal at Rosings seriously. And even now, it felt like a betrayal to wonder how things might have been. Even ten thousand a year was not enough to counter a life of severity, awkwardness, and distance which had marked all their interactions to that point.
How had Mr. Darcy thought himself ardently in love with her?
And why did the remembered heat of their locked gazes start a fire in her, even now?
Elizabeth shook her head, hoping once again to banish these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings for good. Nothing would come of it. She never expected to see Mr. Darcy again.
The wind was picking up, Elizabeth realized. A flock in the distance seemed to hunker down against the rocks as the clouds above thickened and lowered like a grandfather’s angry brows. Quick moving summer storms were common to this area, her aunt had warned. Elizabeth, used to long walks, trusted her weather sense, but as a flicker of lightening danced over the horizon, she feared she might not have taken her aunt’s warnings seriously enough.
Elizabeth bit her lip and slowed her steps. It was a good twenty minutes back to the inn. Ten minutes back to the outskirts of the town. If she turned now, could at least seek shelter in one of the cottages she had passed. It would do her little service to return from her illicit walk drenched and covered in mud.
“Miss Bennet!”
The voice held some vague familiarity, and a chill swept over her as Elizabeth slowed her steps and looked over her left shoulder.
Mr. Everett Lambert, the second son of Sir Lambert with whose father, Sir Michael Lambert, Elizabeth, and the Gardiners, had dined the evening before. Sir Michael Lambert had been a handsome gentleman about Mr. Bennet’s age, though taller and more muscular in build. Mr. Michael Lambert shared his father’s wheat colored hair, blue eyes, and blunt features, though what had appeared amiable in the father had a decidedly more menacing air on the son.
Over dinner, they had shared a pleasant enough discourse, though his references to sport hunting had grown a touch macabre as he detailed his delight at not only shooting game but skinning and gutting it.
Elizabeth chided herself for her prejudice. Her own papa enjoyed hunting. And had not her beliefs about Mr. Darcy, born of a swift judgement from a single, overheard remark, been at least, to some degree, mistaken?
Forcing a smile, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Lambert! What a surprise?” She could not, even in politeness, deem the surprise pleasant, but he did not seem to notice her omission as he returned her smile.
A smile with too many teeth.
The hair on Elizabeth’s arms rose as the precariousness of her situation struck her. They were not in Town, where such an impropriety as crossing paths with a gentleman not of her family might lead to immediate ruin, but neither was she at home in Meryton, where they knew her habits. Here, she was a lady unchaperoned and quite alone.
“What brings you to the village, Mr. Lambert?” Elizabeth asked.
“Serendipity.” Mr. Lambert tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “But where are your aunt and uncle? Surely, they did not wish to bring you out here into the teeth of a storm?”
Mr. Lambert’s question could be simple concern, but Elizabeth did not like the way his gaze passed over her, lingering on her hips and the wind tossed skirts before he met her eyes. Forcing what she hoped was a lighthearted laugh, she said, “Oh, they must be close. But I fear I might have gotten a little lost. It is so beautiful here!” She laughed again.
Better she sounded like a ninny whose guardians were nearby rather than abed and unable to help her should she cry out.
Mr. Lambert said, “How fortunate I found you then. Come, this storm will be on us well before we can return to find shelter in the village. But there is a farmhouse ahead. It is where I was walking.” He stepped closer. “Take my arm.” He held it out.
Elizabeth's stomach churned. She had no desire to take his arm. And she certainly did not want to go anywhere with him. But it would not do to give him the cut direct, especially as they were alone, and he had done nothing beyond offering help. Elizabeth said, “Thank you, Mr. Lambert. But I should return to my aunt and uncle.”
“Nonsense!” he said, coming another step closer, until the distance between them was far less than proper. Or respectable. His pale lips were too close to her face, and he had a foul undercurrent to his breath. “I cannot, as a gentleman, allow you to wander the fields alone, not in the face of a storm. You might catch a chill, or worse.”
Again, Mr. Lambert's words sounded perfectly reasonable. But Elizabeth felt, with the same instincts that, except regarding Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham, had served her well, that Mr. Lambert offered far more peril to her than the rain.
“I cannot,” Elizabeth said. “I would not leave Mr. and Mrs. Gardner. Excuse me.”
Elizabeth took a step back, but Mr. Lambert reached out and grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip. “Do not be silly,” he said, his tone cold. “You will come with me.”
"Unhand me!" Elizabeth shouted, pulling with all her strength against him. But his grip tightened.
The fabric of his glove scraped into her skin as she struggled to wrench herself free. But he was larger, and far stronger than she could have guessed. With an almost careless motion, he pulled her closer. "Do not make this more difficult than it must be, Miss Bennet. We are well-suited, you and I. You are handsome and accomplished, and once I am married and dear Papa lets go the purse strings, I will be wealthy."
The back of Elizabeth's throat tasted sour as she swallowed down a wave of nausea. She could not imagine an arrangement she wanted less. She, who had sworn to wed for love, now faced marriage to a violent brute. Either that or ruination.
Tears rose in Elizabeth's eyes. But she would not cry. An image of his expression, the satisfaction of it, made her certain that, as with the boy with the slingshot, Mr. Lambert would enjoy her distress.
Large rain drops plopped staccato against the rocky fields around them. One hit the edge of Elizabeth's bonnet, dripping along the rim, and another tapped a wet kiss against her chin.
Mr. Lambert started to walk, his gloved fingers digging into her flesh as he dragged her along.
A massive crash of thunder sounded.
His grip faltered, and Elizabeth continued to drop, hitting the ground on her knees.
The rain fell harder now, beating against her bonnet and the path around her as Elizabeth struggled to her feet. Her muddy, damp skirts made movement awkward, but she hauled them up and ran. His fingers caught on the sleeve of her gown, ripping away a section of fabric, and then Elizabeth was free, running blindly into the thundering gray.
2
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy regretted setting out so early for Pemberley this morning. He had smelled rain on the air, but since his disastrous proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet at Rosings, a certain restlessness had infected his spirit. A restlessness born of regret. A gentleman of his station should not let his mind dwell upon a lady of little status who had most decidedly rejected him. And yet Darcy could not keep Miss Elizabeth long from his thoughts.
Darcy admired Elizabeth's spirit and her loyalty. Never had a lady met him quip for quip and barb for barb. Most were too aware of his fortune to give much attention to his character. And while he had acquitted himself poorly, he longed again to see her, if only to make certain she had read his letter and not let herself be ill-done by Wickham.
Cupid, the oddly named, stocky gelding Darcy had rented at the posting inn, flicked his ears back as lightning flickered through the clouds above, followed by the rumble of thunder.
This would be a dreadful storm, Darcy realized, again wishing he had done the sensible thing and stayed at the posting inn instead of leaving just after dawn. The situation was made all the worse because he was so close to Pemberley now. Cupid cantered along the grazing lands on the outskirts of Lambton, following a curving path of sorts the sheep and herders had beaten down alongside the valley, cradling the village proper. Another forty-five minutes at most, and Darcy would be back on his estate. Unfortunately, with the speed of this impending storm, he would be lucky to reach the village inn and enjoy a hot breakfast inside before he and the horse were drenched.
Another few minutes of riding, and the rain started. Large, heavy drops. More thunder, booming this time, made the gelding startle.
"Shhh," Darcy said, rubbing at the horse's neck to gentle him. "Soon you will be stabled with a nice oat mash." Horses understood tone better than words, but it helped Darcy to say the words aloud.
At least he could make up his mistakes to one creature, if not the object of his affections.
'Enough with the maudlin, Darcy,' Bingley would jest were he here and had Darcy told his friend of his foolish longings. 'What does it say of your affections that you compare Miss Elizabeth to a horse?'
And then someone, a lady in cream and blue patterned walking gown, burst out from a sharp turn ahead of him. Cupid let out a loud whinny and reared back. The lady was drenched and muddy, her bonnet askew as, seeing the horse, she skidded and threw herself to the side of the path into the higher grass to avoid the descending hooves.
Darcy pulled back hard on the reins, desperate to keep her from being kicked or trampled. A rogue, surely no gentleman, followed perhaps ten paces behind, yelling something Darcy could not understand over the rain.
The lady hit the open field, which sloped downwards, and rolled.
It took Darcy precious seconds to calm his mount enough to dismount.
At that point, the lady had pulled herself to her hands and knees, letting out a yelp of obvious pain as she tried to stand.
The rogue slowed, and his gaze flitted between Darcy and the soaked, injured lady with a certain calculation.
He was easily six feet tall, broad shouldered and sullen. Rain slicked his wheat-brown hair beneath his beaver hat. Glancing at his finely tailored tailcoat and breeches, his white gloves splotched with mud, Darcy reassessed the idea the man was a bandit or highwayman, though the term rogue might still apply.
He wore a finely trimmed moustache, and something in his features seemed familiar. Darcy tried to place him. Since his mother's death, his father had not inclined himself to have the local gentry over to socialize, and after Darcy the elder's passing and Wickham's betrayal of Georgiana, Darcy had been even less inclined to host gatherings of any sort. Or attend them, as the ladies, or at least their mothers, had designs on his assets. Darcy knew he would be compelled, one day, to marry for duty, but he refused to give himself over to a fortune hunter.
Even if Darcy had his pistol, which he had left in the carriage with Georgiana in case, by some ill luck, bandits accosted her carriage, the rain would have rendered it useless. And he had not the martial instincts of his cousin Richard, who never traveled without his sword.
Still, Darcy had boxed larger men in the ring. Speed and calculation could usually best pure size if one used his environment and his opponent's temper to secure the advantage.
"What business do you have with this lady?" Mr. Darcy shouted over the rising hammer of the storm.
Rain streamed over the rogue's face as he stared down at Darcy. "It is none of your concern." He squinted, and his shoulders tensed as his tone became more respectful. "A private matter, Mr. Darcy. A misunderstanding."
A misunderstanding which had sent a lady fleeing from him through a storm, Darcy mused, a thought that was immediately interrupted by the lady's shout, "D--. Mr. Darcy?"
Now it was Darcy's turn to freeze. The reins, held loosely in his right hand, slipped through his fingers as the lady's voice, a beloved voice he had never thought to hear again, sounded through the drenching rain.
It could not be.
Another clap of thunder made Cupid tense, his ears flitting forward and then back, one hoof stamping nervously. Darcy's tailcoat had soaked through the shoulders, back and wrists, the sleeves of his linen shirt beneath growing soggier with each passing minute he stood in the deluge.
"Miss Elizabeth?" Mr. Darcy said, his attention fixed now on the lady in the muddy walking gown. She had leapt aside too quickly for Darcy to get a good look at her before, but now, as she looked back over her shoulder, glaring daggers at the — Darcy supposed he had to acknowledge the rogue was a member of the local gentry — he could not mistake the dear shape of her face, cheeks now reddened with pain and rage.
"You and Miss Bennet are acquainted?" The rogue sounded both shocked and aggrieved, and Mr. Darcy's opinion of the man, already lower than the mud beneath his boots, sank further.
"Yes. Miss Elizabeth and I are well acquainted. I regard her highly and her welfare is quite dear to me."
"I meant no offense," the other man protested. "Miss Bennet had no chaperone. I only wished to see her to shelter."
"You wished to ruin me to secure your inheritance," Elizabeth cut in.
Darcy saw red. He had no doubts about Miss Elizabeth's honesty, having experienced the raw end of it himself. Letting go of the reins, he advanced on the rogue. This was a rogue and not a gentleman, no matter his finery. No gentleman worthy of the moniker would dare concoct such a scheme. And worse, this wretched excuse for a man had forced himself on Miss Elizabeth.
It was something Mr. Darcy would not tolerate.
"Leave," Mr. Darcy said, his fist clenching as he stepped into the rogue's space. He could not be too far from his own home, considering he had known the area well enough to at least pretend he knew a place nearby to shelter from the rain.
"It is a misunderstanding."
"I see." As Darcy sorted through his memory, a name surfaced. Lambert. Sir Lambert's eldest son, or perhaps his second, was about the right age. And this man shared a similar build. Though Sir Lambert himself had been innocuous enough.
"The lady gave no indication she--."
"Mr. Lambert," Darcy said, and the man's eyes widened. Darcy was close enough now to grab the offending gentleman's cravat. It was tempting, but Darcy feared he might throttle the man, and he did not wish to renew his acquaintanceship with Miss Elizabeth over a dead body. "Miss Elizabeth is under my protection. Leave. Now."
