This one-shot is dedicated to laurag1994, who asked for a Darcy POV of the first meeting in Virtue Once Lost. I am extremely excited that someone loved my story enough to ask for more of it, and wrote the entire thing today, as if the moment from Darcy's perspective had been hiding in my mind all along, just waiting to be set free on the keyboard.

Thank you Laura, and thank you everyone for reading this little story, and anyone who reads or has read Virtue Once Lost! I appreciate it so much, and it always inspires me to write more, which is never a bad thing. I love you all!

Fitzwilliam Darcy was on his way home. He had spent the last weeks with his friends, and his sister, and he enjoyed it, for the most part, but had grown weary. He had ridden on ahead of the party, anxious to return to Pemberley. It was the only place he felt truly at ease, and it had been far too long since he'd been home alone. He wished for a day of peace before his friends arrived and the walls were filled with laughter and the smell of wine; one evening, when he could go to sleep without being expected to be anywhere, or entertain anyone.

His horse reached the top of the hill, and he gazed over at his estate, a smile making its way onto his usually stoic face. The only other times he smiled were when talking to his sister, or when thinking upon the enigma of Miss Bennet. He shook his head – he needed to shift her from his consciousness. He had given her the letter, and had received no correspondence in return, not that he had been expecting any. He regretted now, more than ever, having written it in such a state of anger. If he ever saw Elizabeth Bennet again, he was sure her opinion would be set in stone, and she would refuse to entertain the possibility of even talking to him. He was not wholly certain that he would want her to; he himself still felt the efforts of his pride and anger when thinking of her. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, despite the lack of anyone at all in his surroundings to witness his embarrassment.

As he reached the lane up to the stables, he slid from his horse and walked alongside it. It was so much more desirable to take in his grounds slowly, relishing in the breeze coming off the lake, and the scents of various flowers drifting in the air. The greens of the trees were different to the greens in the grass, and the hedges, and the ivy decorating the servants' quarters, and he enjoyed every shade.

Faint voices stretched up the trail, and he glanced around to discover Mrs Reynolds guiding a couple towards the Rose Garden, past the stables. They had not yet noticed him, but it could only be a matter of time. He changed course, walking toward the lake instead, to stay out of the way and walk awhile longer without disturbance.

He meandered around the trees, shielded from the view of the guests, and was thoroughly enjoying the tranquillity, when he heard the unmistakable sound of crying.

"Hello there?" He called softly, but there was no indication that he had been heard, so he tied his horse to a tree on the bank, and peered around the trunk.

A familiar figure was on her knees at the edge of the water, sobs wracking her body, and Fitzwilliam Darcy felt as though the temperature had dropped.

"Surely it cannot be…" He muttered, but there she was. Elizabeth Bennet, concealed from the path, but directly in front of him, not two feet away. He felt he must be dreaming. Having thought of this moment for so long – the woman he loved standing in front of him, walking his estate – he was convinced that this must be some illusion. It was not, however, and her tears were quick to remind him of that. If this were his fantasy, Miss Bennet would not appear so distressed. He straightened.

"Miss Bennet?" He asked, but she seemed not to hear him. Her face was tucked into her knees, and her hands were gripping each other around her legs, seemingly holding herself together. He knelt down and touched her shoulder, "Miss Bennet?"

She flinched away from him, fear in her eyes, and he immediately forgot all ill will he had felt toward her. At that moment, Darcy would have done anything to wipe that terrified expression from her pretty face.

"Miss Bennet, are you all-right?" He asked softly.

She scrambled back slightly and pushed herself up, "Yes. I'm sorry, we should not have come if we thought you were here, we didn't mean…" She did not finish the excuse, however, as she put weight on one side and cried out in pain, dropping back to her knees.

Mr Darcy thought he understood now; Miss Bennet had injured herself while on a walk, and did not want her friends to worry, "Nonsense! You are clearly unwell; may I get you something? A glass of wine perhaps? I can get Agatha to fetch you something." He moved as if to call out, and without thinking, Elizabeth Bennet grabbed his arm. She could not have known the profound effect on him that it had, or the fear it inspired. Convinced, as he had been, that she still hated him, this simple gesture was enough to tell him that something must be very wrong.

"Please don't." she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. Her hand was tightly around his wrist, and he returned to his previous position, but she did not remove her grip. She appeared to be struggling with something, trying to decide if she wished to tell him whatever it was that she was so distressed about.

Mr Darcy regarded her with some degree of worry, "What is it Miss Bennet? I realise I have no right to pry into your life so if it is a personal matter, I will not make comment, but if you are ill I beg you tell me."

Elizabeth looked back in his direction, her eyes darting anywhere but his face, and he could see the panic and the pain, but there was something behind that expression. Something akin to… shame.

"I… I…" The tears started afresh and she closed her eyes, "I am ruined Mr Darcy. I know very well nothing can be done. My heart is broken and my virtue gone and it is all my own fault. I should have listened to you more readily. I should have accepted your hand when you offered it, for then maybe I would not be in so sordid a situation. I should have told someone what you told me of his previous indiscretions. I should not have trusted him to be a good man…" She found herself unable to continue and Darcy felt a horrible realisation creeping up his spine.

He thought back on all the conversations with his sister that were almost identical in nature to this. The evenings when he had chastised Georgiana for attempting to elope with Wickham, because she would, "Lose your virtue, Georgiana! You cannot trust George Wickham to be a good man!"

He shook his head, trying to shake the images that were taking home there, but they remained, and he knew in that instant what Elizabeth Bennet's shame was hiding from. He was no small degree of surprised that she had decided to share this pain with him, the man she claimed to hate unreservedly, but he could not think on that now. His heart in his mouth, he looked at her, willing her to look back, but she seemed unable to move, eyes glued shut against her sobs.

"Miss Bennet." He started softly, reaching out for her other hand, the one wrapped around her knee, "Miss Bennet… Did Wickham, do something to you?"

She didn't respond and he swallowed, taking her silence as a confirmation. He pulled his hand back, unsure how she would react to his touch, after what had occurred when he first happened upon her, and his new knowledge of her misfortune. However, her hand was still on his arm, fingers digging into his wrist, so he reached out slowly, carefully, and his hand reached her shoulder.

"Elizabeth?" Her Christian name fell from his lips with ease, and though it was the very first time he had said it to her, it was not the first time he had said it aloud. He frequently found himself enraptured by it, and its connection to the face of the woman he loved, the woman now sitting rigid before him.

She made no reply, but her body reacted to his touch, and his utterance, with almost frantic speed. She let go of him and pulled the tie on her bonnet, and as it fell back onto the grass, Darcy realised there was something not quite right about the colour of her skin. It was too dark, and the sun was shining far too brightly for it to be shadow. An undignified noise escaped his lips as he realised the extent of the bruises.

There were pronounced finger marks across her neck, and the unmistakable mark of teeth on her neck and chest. His fingers moved of their own accord, slipping from her shoulder across to pull back the collar of her dress. Her face was more visible with the bonnet removed, and he could see the small cut on her cheek where someone had hit it. There was dried blood on the back of her neck and he shuddered to think how hard she must have been hit to sustain such damage. She stared, unseeing, out at the lake while he brushed her hair back and touched her neck with as much care as he was able. He dared not reach below her collarbone, despite noting the marks there with intense rage.

He wondered that he hadn't noticed it sooner, but realised quickly that she had chosen her outfit with purpose: long sleeves, despite the spring air, a bonnet with an enormous bow in front of her throat, hair hanging in strategic ringlets about her face. He tried desperately not to imagine what injuries she sustained under the remainder of her clothing.

"Elizabeth." He breathed, agony in his voice and dread in his eyes. He must ask. He must ask the question that he full knows the answer to. His voice was shaking, but from what emotion he knew not. Here she was, this strong, brave, clever, interesting, beautiful, headstrong woman, her arms tightly wound about her frame, and her knees tucked to the side, trying to take up as little space as possible. He hated it, he despised what Wickham had done to her. He did not know that murder could be an emotion before that moment; he had felt rage, and despair, and pain, but with it all coming from one source, those feelings became murder in seconds. She could feel the fury in his manner, but she did not look afraid of him, she just looked unbearably inconsolable. The question that was burning behind his eyes forced itself into the space between them, "Elizabeth, what did he do?"

Elizabeth's face crumpled, tears splashing onto her crossed arms. She shook her head mutely, utterly wretched in her despair, and every fibre of his being wished to wash the pain from her frame. He moved closer and closed his palms gently around her cheeks, expecting her to be frightened, but she did not move. Her face was mere inches from his own, but unlike other occasions he had imagined being this close, he did not think of anything but her feelings. He wanted to be careful, to make her feel safe.

"Look at me, my love," he murmured, the endearment falling from his lips without pause, "Elizabeth, what did he do to you?"

Elizabeth finally tore her eyes from the grounds and when they met his for the first time since she had broken his heart he knew now more than ever that he could never love another person as well as he loved Elizabeth Bennet.

"Please don't make me say it." She choked, "I can't… I can't… Darcy please…"

He moved quickly, unable to stop himself. He scooped her into his arm, being as soft as he could, and turned back towards the house. Her arms draped about his shoulders, and she leaned purposefully into his neck, hiding her face, and enjoying the comfort it provided. Her weight proved no challenge, and he was at the door to the kitchen in nothing more than a minute. He had hoped to slip in unchallenged, but Mrs Reynolds happened to glance in their direction.

"Master!?" The housekeeper yelped and Mr and Mrs Gardiner turned around. Astonishment was abound in the party of three; Mrs Reynolds was shocked not only to see her master, but to see him looking with such concern and kindness at Miss Bennet, and the Gardiners were shocked and horrified to see their niece looking so unwell.

"Lizzie? Lizzie! Is she alright?" Mr Gardiner asked as the three of them hurried into the kitchen after Mr Darcy.

"Not in the slightest," he was trying not to be cold, Elizabeth would not approve of his being rude to her relatives, "Agatha, would you mind calling for a doctor please. Perhaps a specialist in injury over sickness." He commanded as he swept through to a room on the second floor, Mr and Mrs Gardiner in tow. The housekeeper dashed off to fetch someone to retrieve the doctor and Darcy arrived at a comfortable bedroom in the private sector of the household.

While he waited for Agatha to return, he became more aware of the weight of the woman in his arms, and the lengths she was going to keep her face from his view. Mrs Reynolds shuffled back into the room and when she pulled the bedcovers aside, he attempted to lay Elizabeth down beneath them, but when he let her go, she curled into a ball and hid her face in her hands. He gently pried her fingers from her face.

"Elizabeth, darling, lie down." That was five utterances of her Christian name, and two terms of endearment. He knew he must get his feelings in check, especially with her Aunt and Uncle hovering in the doorway behind him, but he was trying to calm her. If he was his usual rigid self, calling her 'Miss Bennet' and standing far from the bed to honour the accepted pieties of society, she could never be at ease. As it happened, she nodded, stretching her legs out just enough that the covers could be drawn over her.

Darcy guided her gently back towards the pillows but when her head touched the backboard she cried out it pain. He quickly pulled her back up and inspected the back of her head. When he pulled away there was blood on his sleeve and he swallowed his fury. He couldn't be any help to Elizabeth if he was angry. At least, no more angry than he already was. He felt his face grow hot, but otherwise did not move, as he usually did when agitated. Mr Gardiner saw the blood and tried to remove his wife before she glimpsed it but he was too late and Mrs Gardiner clasped her hands together in prayer.

He knew he should wait for the doctor, but he wanted her to be as comfortable as he could make her before his arrival, so he forged ahead. "Elizabeth, now this is going to sting a little, but I promise I'm not…" He trailed away, bile in his mouth at the thought.

"I would never hurt you," He said softly, "This is for your own good, I promise." He grabbed the damp cloth that Agatha Reynolds proffered and guided Elizabeth's head to his chest. Her hands were flat against his shoulders and he pulled her tighter so that he could see the wound clearly, his cheek brushing her temple as he did. Her forehead was pressed to his shirt, the top of it brushing his cravat, and he wished intensely that he was not holding her so for such a horrid reason. When she was resting fully against him, he placed the cloth against her hair firmly and she made a barely audible noise of pain, pressing further into his breast. He stroked her back with his free hand, hoping to communicate all that he could not say. He held her as she shuddered in pain until she finally became used to the sensation and quietened.

"Shh, shh, shh, it's alright now. The worst is over, I swear it. It's alright now." He realised with a start that her hands were gripping his lapels so tightly that the bones of her knuckles were almost visible through her skin, "Elizabeth. Do you think you could hold the cloth to your head for me? Do you believe you can do that?"

He was aware how he must sound, how embarrassed she must feel at being spoken to like a child, but he did not want to overwhelm her.

She nodded and reached behind her head, holding the damp material. He let go of it but pressed his hand quickly back over hers in comfort, keeping her head firmly against him and allowing him to press his lips to her ear, "I am so sorry. I'm so terribly, unspeakably sorry Elizabeth. This is my fault. I will accept the consequences of my own actions: this is all my fault."

She tried to say something, shake her head in protest, but he shook his head. She would have plenty of time to argue with him when she was mended.

He gently laid her down, securing her hand behind her head and bringing the covers to her chest. He allowed himself a liberty, to stroke her forehead calmingly, and she finally released his jacket and pulled her free hand up to find his. When her fingers wrapped around his own against her skin, he had the good sense to be embarrassed, thinking that she would remove his hand. She did not, however, and simply held him there so that she could speak without the Gardiners hearing.

"They do not know, Mr Darcy. Please, tell them. I am too ashamed to think of it," Her voice was quiet, and for the first time since he had made her acquaintance, Elizabeth Bennet sounded small.

He nodded and went to remove himself, but she brought his hand down to her throat, where the mark of George Wickham was almost radiating in contrast to her white skin. He could feel her pulse radiating from her neck into his fingers, and it reassured him somewhat, distracting him from how improper it was to be touching Miss Bennet in such a way. She was gazing at him with those large, emotional eyes, and his heart broke all over again when she spoke, "This… this is not your fault, Darcy. This is the fault of one man. One man, do you hear me? Promise me you will not blame yourself."

"I swear it, Miss Bennet." Darcy's tone changed, but it was not because he suddenly realised their position, as Elizabeth thought, but because he knew that he was lying to her. The last words she heard before she slipped into unconsciousness were lies, and he despised himself for it, but knew that it was better for her to sleep at ease.

He straightened to face her aunt and uncle.

"Mr Darcy! We demand an explanation! What on earth is going on?!" Mr Gardiner said as his wife sobbed the Lord's Prayer quietly beside him, "You said that her injury was your fault, how by the grace of god could you have injured her so? She was only out of our sight for but five minutes on your grounds!"

Darcy sighed, "She did not sustain her injuries on my grounds sir."

"Then what would permit you to accept blame for them?"

"A mistake I have made. A very grave mistake that has cost Miss Bennet dearly, and for that I am sorry. Now if you will come into the sitting room, I will explain everything, but we need Elizabeth to get her rest. The doctor is on his way. Now, if you please, Mr…?"

"Ah, Gardiner, sir." Mr Gardiner said as he and his wife were escorted out of the room and into the next, sitting on the nearest seats in order to get their bearings. Mr Darcy felt sorrow that he was meeting her relatives, people she clearly held in high esteem, at such a terrible time, in such horrid circumstances. He stood, and with no small degree of hesitation, told the Gardiners the story.