CHAPTER ONE

The moment that Miss Elizabeth Bennet laid eyes on Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, nothing especially remarkable happened. She noted to herself that he was a handsome man. He was tall and dark and had broad shoulders. His arms were rather thicker and more powerful than his companion Mr. Bingley's arms. If you liked that sort of thing in a man—powerful arms and broad shoulders, that is. If you liked that sort of thing in a man, then Mr. Darcy was altogether pleasing.

Elizabeth did like that sort of thing in a man, she had to admit. Not that it mattered, of course, because Darcy was part of the party from London that Mr. Bingley had brought to the ball in Meryton. Bingley himself was rather high above the station of Elizabeth and her sisters. Though Elizabeth's mother thought it possible, even likely, that Bingley would choose a bride among the Bennet sisters—of which there were five—Elizabeth did not harbor any such vain hopes.

Her desire for the evening was a bit of fun and diversion. She would like to dance and be merry. She would see her friend Miss Charlotte Lucas, and they would laugh together over the assembled gentlemen.

Elizabeth was not looking for a husband that night.

But she was struck by Mr. Darcy's gaze meeting hers across the room. Only a few moments after she laid eyes on him, he seemed to notice her. He held her gaze for a long, long moment, and then he coughed and looked away, and he did not catch her gaze again.

No matter to Elizabeth. By this time, she had begun to realize that nearly everyone in the room was taken with the appealing looks of Mr. Darcy. She resolved not to give him another thought.

When Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy laid eyes on Miss Elizabeth Bennet for the first time, he reacted rather violently, but he did his best not to let it show. Indeed, he was quite mortified by his reaction, which wasn't the least bit appropriate or proper, and he spent the next hour walking around the dreadful public ball, trying desperately to get himself under control.

Mr. Darcy found Miss Bennet attractive. He did not know her name yet. That would come later. For now, she was simply the pretty girl with bright eyes and a lively smile who had been staring openly at him when he looked up to see her. There had been a smile playing on her lips. It bespoke mischief and joy and delight.

And if it had been just that, it would have bearable. But he found himself noting other things about her. She was quite nicely put together, and she had long, delicate fingers, and fine features, and there was the matter of her bosom and her hips, which he couldn't see too clearly under her gown, but what he could see was delectable. One look at this girl, and Darcy's mind had immediately tunneled into carnal fantasy. He'd thought of unpinning her hair, of freeing her breasts from her—

He was horrified to be thinking such wanton thoughts.

And, well, aroused. Physically aroused. He was worried that it was obvious, that anyone who looked at him could see how he had reacted.

By all right, he should not have responded this way. It was horrid. It was most improper and entirely embarrassing, as if he were some adolescent boy who was still unschooled in the ways of the world. He wasn't the sort of man who got excited at the drop of a hat, or at least he hadn't been for some years now. And yet, here he was, at this dreadful public ball in Meryton, with Bingley and his sisters, walking him his hands clasped in front of his crotch, wishing that it would subside. He might as well have been in the ninth circle of hell as far as he was concerned.

Darcy tried to convince himself that no one could tell. No one was going to be staring at his crotch anyway, and if they did, it would be easily as embarrassing for them as it was for him. No person would dare to comment on such a thing. They'd pretend they hadn't noticed. So, in that respect, it was as if it wasn't happening.

When he gave off on reassuring himself, he immediately turned to any attempt possible to make the blasted thing go down. He thought of all sorts of boring and disgusting things—anything to get his mind off of it, but nothing worked, not even thoughts of his dead mother, which—by all rights—should have fixed everything.

He wondered vaguely if there was something wrong with him. Maybe he'd contracted some kind of awful illness that had affected him there. After all, there were all these soldiers here at the ball, and they were exposed to all manner of ailments. He supposed, as illnesses went, this one was at least not painful, well, not yet, anyway, although he supposed that things might well get there if he stood around for too long in this manner.

What if it never went away? Darcy tried to imagine going to a doctor and explaining that his clock was striking a perpetual twelve. He was mortified. He couldn't possibly.

But no, he would be spared the indignity, because this wasn't brought about by some sort of malady. This had come upon him after an appropriate stimulus, so it was likely not borne of some sort of illness. Likely, it would go away, eventually.

He was only puzzled at his reaction. It was hardly like him. He wasn't the sort of man who was generally taken away by the sight of a pretty woman. And certainly, he didn't tend to respond in such a base way at a social function like this.

Well, if one could really term this sad excuse for a ball a social function, he supposed. It was dreadful in every way. Crowded, full of dancing bodies, the music nearly drowned out at times by boisterous conversation.

Darcy was not the sort of man who enjoyed this sort of thing. He liked his activities to be ordered and neat and civilized. Everything in its place. And, for that matter, a ball was no place for vulgar thoughts or base physical reactions.

Darcy felt utterly out of control, and he wasn't happy about that either.

He gathered that the girl who had wrought this unfortunate circumstance upon him was the sister of the girl that Bingley kept dancing with. Oh, yes, Bingley seemed to be having a really good time. Darcy, hiding behind a chair, glowered at his friend.

There was nothing special about the girl. No reason that Darcy should see her and be seized in the throes of lust. She was pretty, even tempting, even entrancing—

He really needed to stop thinking about that girl.

Of course, he had spent the whole of the evening seeking her out with his eyes, and every time he caught sight of her, he thickened and stiffened and throbbed. He wanted to put his hands on her. He wanted to put his lips on her. He had never felt so violently attracted to a woman in his entire life.

He didn't even know a thing about her.

Mr. Hurst, the husband of one of Bingley's sisters, lay a hand on Darcy's shoulder.

Darcy jumped. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard the other man approach.

"You know what would improve this assembly?" said Hurst. "A game of whist."

Darcy smiled tightly at the man. "Indeed," he allowed. Hurst seemed only concerned with his card playing.

"Listen, Darcy," Hurst continued, "Mrs. Hurst is desirous of another dance, but I'm far too exhausted. Be a good man and dance this one with her in my place?"

"No," said Darcy. "I couldn't possibly."

"Why not?" said Hurst.

"Yes, why not indeed?" said Mrs. Hurst, giving him a cross look. "You haven't danced with anyone since arriving."

Darcy's jaw twitched. He looked back and forth between Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, hoping that a proper excuse would swim to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he thought of that girl with her eyes closed and her head thrown back and his mouth on her—

"Fine," said Darcy, moving stiffly around the chair. Mrs. Hurst can't tell, he assured himself.

Mrs. Hurst beamed. "Oh, thank you, Darcy."

Perhaps dancing with Mrs. Hurst would help, he thought. After all, he didn't find her attractive in the least. She was the more timid of Bingley's sisters, which was probably why she'd been married off so quickly when the other, Miss Caroline Bingley, was still hoping for an offer. But, truth be told, Darcy found neither of them the least bit attractive. Partly, he supposed, because he thought of them as Bingley's sisters, not as desirable women. Mrs. Hurst, of course, was taken. And Caroline was simpering and stupid. There couldn't be an original thought in her head. She was tiresome.

Dancing with Mrs. Hurst did not help in the least.

But he was consoled by the fact that she didn't seem to notice anything amiss. In fact, she hardly seemed to notice him at all. She chattered on about how she thought they should attempt to prevail upon her brother to quit Netherfield for town, even though the entire party had only lately arrived. Besides which, she was a married woman and could go wherever her husband wished, regardless of her brother's wishes. Darcy didn't say any of this, however.

It was nearly impossible to talk, because moving around the room—his drawers too tight against the straining, throbbing part of his body—was a special kind of agony that only worsened the situation.

At one point, the girl twirled past him in the arms of someone else. Her cheeks were pink and flushed and she was laughing.

Darcy wanted her so badly in that moment, he thought he wouldn't be able to continue standing.

But he managed to keep moving. And eventually, the dance was over. Unfortunately, afterward, Caroline Bingley wanted him to dance with her. Darcy was too addled at that point to know how to refuse her, so he danced with her as well.

But when that dance was over, he was adamant that he couldn't dance another dance, not even when Bingley left off with the sister of the siren and came back to try to convince him to dance.

Darcy said that he wouldn't. He used the strongest language he could. "It would be insupportable."

Bingley was having none of it. "I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom. Upon my honor I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty."

Darcy glared at his friend darkly. Oh, yes, pretty. Though pretty doesn't go quite far enough. Bewitching. Maddeningly enticing. But Bingley would leave him alone if he made his friend realize he wasn't interested. "You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room."

"Oh," and Bingley's voice changed, "she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld." He paused, simply staring at the girl he had been dancing with. "But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I daresay very agreeable."

Darcy didn't have to turn his head to know who it was Bingley was talking about. It was the girl who had made him lose his head, who had put him in this embarrassing situation to begin with. Darcy thought about telling Bingley the truth. I won't dance with her because looking at her has made me rise to the occasion in the most dreadful of fashions, and I want the floor to open and up and swallow me whole. Instead, he said, "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. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

Something in his manner must have convinced Bingley, for he didn't pursue the matter any further, but left Darcy alone.

There was no more dancing that night for Darcy, and for that, he was pleased. However, he could not help but surreptitiously steal glances at the girl for the rest of the evening.