Anatomy of A Gentleman's Seduction, a pride and prejudice fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own the world or characters of Pride and Prejudice, much as it pains me...

Author's Notes: This is so very, very bad. I have never written P&P before, so it is rather understandable if I suck rather badly, isn't it? But it was fun! So, onward to my cheerful mutilation of the eminently desirable Mr Darcy.

Author's Second Notes: In case you hadn't notice, this became a series in my mind. (See Excuse For A Gentleman's Abduction.) So expect more Austenisms from me. :D

o.o.o.o

Fitzwilliam Darcy was, to the very core of his being, a gentleman; first a gentleman, foremost a gentleman, at the end of all else a gentleman. And there were certain things that a gentleman would not, could not and did not do, for it was the very lack of those things that shaped them, that made them. One of those rules, that governed the forbidden things, was that a gentleman never took advantage of a woman, whatever her station. He did not mistreat her, he did not assault her, and he never callously used her for his own pleasure -- the last, perhaps, being negotiable to most gentlemen of his acquaintance, but never to him. And yet, it was this particular code of behavior with which he had the most difficulty.

He had decided, after much consideration, that whoever had come up with the unspoken rules of a gentleman had not counted on Elizabeth Bennet.

The first instance that his ungentlemanly desire for her betrayed itself was perhaps the worst, because of its coming seemingly from nowhere, and taking him utterly by surprise. It was during her sister's illness and her subsequent stay at Netherfield Park; Miss Bingley had been playing a Scotch air on the piano-forte, and he had approached Elizabeth, wishing only a dance. The sweetness of her slightly mocking smile and the archness of her manner as she turned him down were tempting, but it was the bemused expression in her eyes at his ensuing gallantry that unmanned him. In truth it was only his shock over the urge to kiss her that saved him from a truly unpardonable indiscretion. The latter was a fleeting feeling, but the former an emotion that stayed with him for the rest of her stay at Netherfield; indeed, it was this he used as his chief defense during the half an hour they were left alone together on her last day there. He had expended great energy to appear completely absorbed in his book, and though he did not look at her, he knew she thought him to be ignoring her presence. This impression was inaccurate; the truth of the matter was that he watched her the entire period out the corner of his eye, to help himself preserve the shock of wanting her every time he saw her.

Elizabeth Bennet could have no way of knowing that she owed so much of her virtue to his surprise over the emotion.

Then not long after, he'd seen her standing with her sisters, and him, the one man he truly hated: George Wickham. He hadn't really wanted to kiss her at that moment, it was true, but he had wanted to yank her up across his saddle and gallop off until they were both very, very, very far away from Wickham. He didn't think that was particularly gentlemanly, either, but given the nature of the other man involved, he felt he had something of an excuse for his selfishness. Still, he'd had to ride on without speaking to them, simply to resist the inclination.

Bingley's dance at Netherfield had been a stretch of existence so full of temptation that it had left him little time for other, more natural feelings until it had ended. Before the party from Longbourne finally left, he could do nothing but be filled with admiration for her unusually fine looks, and the sparkle in her eye as she challenged him during their dance. It scarcely mattered to him that they were in a crowded ballroom, but had they not been, he certainly would have been overcome.

During his stay at Rosings, and hers at the Hunsford vicarage, he suffered through a combination of feelings and motivations that he considered to be, without question, the most ungentlemanly of his life. It all sprang, he was positive, from watching his cousin flirt with Elizabeth. Every time they exchanged a smile, or a quietly voiced comment, he wanted desperately to storm over to them and kiss her, claim her, show his cousin to whom she belonged. She was his, blast it all, and every time her face brightened upon seeing his cousin it made his body ache with restrained rage. Half of his fury was directed at himself, because he did not want to kiss her so much out of desire as simply a blinding need to brand her as his own, but the rest was divided between his cousin and Elizabeth.

Her fine eyes had blazed and she had reprimanded him with a vigorous anger that any other woman would have struggled not to show -- yet she had let it out, and been more beautiful to him for it. He had been furious with her, for insulting him and rejecting him, but all the while he had been fighting with himself not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until his fervor melted all of her resistance, and her struggles turned to caresses.

Then, of course, she had said the most cutting of all admonishments, the one thing he lived in fear of hearing. It could not have come at a moment when he was more vulnerable to its truth, for she had said it just as his baser nature had overcome the last of his objections-- had she waited even half an instant to strike with her words, she would not have been capable of speaking at all.

"... had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

Its truth at that moment could not be argued with, could not be defended, and he did not try.

The second he had given her his letter of excuses and paltry apologies, he had been so very nearly overcome with emotion that he'd had to leave her where she was, by that little gate. She had looked so becomingly superior, so sure of herself, that he had almost taken back the letter and done what he had said in the very first paragraph that he would not do -- but proposing to her a second time when she still hated him was something he could not do, for his pride could not have taken it. Still, he could hardly help the fact that her pertly pursed lips seemed to positively beg for his kisses...

He had left Rosings, and Kent, and the siren at the Hunsford parsonage absolutely as soon as he could manage it, without making it to seem as if he were running away, even though he was. She terrified him, he could admit to himself, and reduced all of his carefully wrested self-control into nothing.

The next time he had seen her, so unexpectedly, at Pemberley, for a moment all he had been able to think was that she was there and he must certainly make the most of the opportunity. He had been halfway across the distance that separated them, had already committed himself to some form of action, before he realized that he intended to embrace her, and then it was the work of only a moment to ascertain that she was not quite as alone as he had thought; his gardener, at least, was with her. He would perhaps have noticed the other two persons more quickly, if he had been capable of looking away from her for more than a heartbeat. As it was, he knew not what he said when he spoke to her, beyond pronouncing himself surprised at her presence and inquiring of her family.

When he recollected his own discomposure and ill-presented appearance and finally departed, it was with every intention of regaining himself and returning immediately thereafter to her side.

It seemed only a few moments before he was with her again, and the sight of her, the solid proof that she was indeed there, on his very grounds, produced such a great joy that it was nearly impossible to prevent himself from whisking her into his arms and pressing a kiss of relief and desire to that bemused twist of her lips.

He was pleased with his sister's presence at their next several meetings, because for some reason the reminder of Georgiana's presence turned his base, ungentlemanly desire into nothing more than the fervent wish that she would marry him, and be always sitting in his summer parlor, smiling at him exactly as she was then.

She had been in tears a few days later, when he had happened to find her alone at the inn, and had it not been for her distress he would surely have either proposed or compromised her -- both of which would have served his purposes adequately, but the more likely, that he would force himself upon her, was so against his nature that he had been almost glad to find her upset. When he had heard the cause of her despair, a slow, burning anger that nullified most of his physical capabilities had saved him from taking advantage of her. The thought of her distress was one that he could not abide, and so he left the next morning at dawn, bound for London, determined to save her sister.

Then, oh God, when he had seen her again at Longbourne, while he was attempting to convince himself of her sister's regard for Bingley! She had seemed so confused, and shy, and every emotion contrary to her nature, that his heart had melted all over again, and he had longed to sweep her into his arms and never let her go. Even at her mother's dinner party, where they had barely been allowed to speak, he had felt her eyes on him for most of the evening, and the tingle that raised the hair on the back of his neck had set his blood to boiling. He had been glad to escape once again to London, after that day of torture.

The report of her response to his Aunt's visit had left him... ecstatic, he supposed, for there was no other word for his feelings. And when he had seen her again, just a few short days later, his euphoria had not dissipated. Indeed, he could say with absolute fairness that it had only increased, for with a soft, hesitant smile, she had assured him that she did now care -- care greatly -- for him, and nothing would please her more than to marry him.

He thought he might have kissed her then, but in truth he could not be entirely certain, for he might only have wanted to so badly that his mind had conjured an image of what would have happened.

The days follow that glorious one where she had at last consented to be his wife were full of such temptation and longing and utterly ungentlemanly urges that it was quite useless attempting to catalogue them separately. Who could doubt, after all, that his desire would not slacken after having obtained certain knowledge that in the not too distant future he would be legally and morally given free rein to sate it?

He was completely unsure how he had survived those three months between proposal and wedding.

But now they were married, though they had only been so for a few hours, and he might kiss her whenever he pleased, without offending any of his higher sensibilities. It was a fortunate circumstance, as he was fairly convinced that he should not have lasted even another moment past the one where he was allowed, at long last, to gently draw his dearest, loveliest Elizabeth into the adoring circle of his arms and finally, finally lower his mouth until it met her own eager one.

Truly, Fitzwilliam thanked God for preserving at least this much of his dignity for so long.

There were some things he would never admit to anyone, and the number of times he had almost kissed Elizabeth Bennet was one of those things. The knowledge would completely un-gentleman him in the eyes of any of his acquaintance. Except, perhaps, his wife.