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A Perfectly (Un)timely Proposal, Chapter 1

April 9, 1812~Rosings Park, Kent

Fitzwilliam Darcy cleared his throat and regarded his reflection in the mirror. Lifting his chin, his posture exuding supreme confidence (but which had maddeningly failed to mollify his nerves since his arrival at Rosings), he practiced once again. “I trust your family is in good health?”

He frowned at the waver in his tone. That would not do. Shaking his hands and stretching his neck from side to side, he forced his shoulders down and attempted a smile. “The weather has been favorable for walking.”

Darcy grimaced at the popinjay looking back at him. Chalmers had tied his cravat in a fussy, frillish waterfall of folds Darcy had never before consented to, his own taste being more restrained than that of the dandies of the ton… or, as it would seem, his own valet.

His cravat, however, was the least of Darcy’s difficulties. Trivial talk had always been difficult for him, but Miss Elizabeth expected it of him. She had told him to practice.

So here he was, standing in front of the looking glass in the middle of his room in his best attire, combed and coaxed into the latest fashion, talking to himself. He was a fool.

Shaking his hands again, he wiped his sweaty palms against his brushed breeches and tried once more to relax when his stomach was tied in knots and his tongue tasted of bilious acid. Taking a deep breath, he smiled, but his increasing nerves either made the expression too large or too small. This misery was unbearable.

Chalmers slipped inside the room. “The Collinses have arrived.”

Darcy inhaled sharply. This was the moment he had anticipated and dreaded since he had made his decision. He pulled out the ruby pin holding his cravat in place, pretending not to see Chalmers’ disappointment. “A simple knot will do.” Darcy could not propose to the woman he loved resembling a fop… regardless of his valet’s droopy eyes and audible sighs.

Miss Elizabeth was the only woman with whom Darcy could imagine spending the rest of his life. He had gone over and over all the objections. They were the same obstacles he had enumerated to his friend Bingley—the very challenges which had ultimately convinced Bingley to separate himself from Miss Elizabeth’s eldest sister while proving to Darcy the ardor of his own affection.

He could never abandon Elizabeth as Bingley had Miss Bennet. Then again, Elizabeth was not indifferent to him as Miss Bennet was to Bingley. Such fire in her eyes! Such passion in her speech! Theirs would be a lively union replete with stimulating debates, provocative conversation and, Darcy hoped, hot-blooded affection. He loved Elizabeth. Not even her atrocious family, low station, and lack of connections or dowry could dissuade his heart. He had to have her at his side.

She was the one.

Nodding appreciatively to the offended Chalmers, Darcy swiped a rebellious lock of hair off his forehead, willing the defiant curls to stay in place or at least have the grace not to sprout out from his head. After one final glance at his reflection, he clasped his hands with determination and stepped to the armoire where his brushed coat hung.

Chalmers raised his hand. “They have arrived,” he repeated, the next words coming apologetically, “…without Miss Bennet.”

It took a moment for understanding to halt Darcy’s step. “Miss Elizabeth is not here?”

“Evidently she remained at the parsonage, sir.” Chalmers’ voice was heavy with regret.

“Why could you not tell me sooner?”

“You asked me to attend to your cravat.”

And a man could not speak while tying a knot? Darcy was fairly certain Chalmers knew his mind well enough to read his thought. Proving the depth of his insight, his man pinched his lips and arched his brow. As he could not know how grievously this news altered his employer’s plans, Darcy chose to forgive him.

The master of Pemberley had been practicing all day, working himself into a mass of nerves he had never experienced before and wished never to feel again. The only way to dispel his anxiety was to ask the question he had repeated in every mirror and window pane he passed in his aunt’s house. How could he woo a lady who was not present?

“Apparently Miss Elizabeth is unwell.”

Disappointment warred with concern for his intended. “I hope it is nothing serious?”

Chalmers leaned in—loyal eavesdropping spy that he was. “The maid informed me that Mrs. Collins mentioned a headache.”

The breath whooshed out of Darcy’s lungs. A headache was a minor ailment, easily provoked (above five minutes in Mr. Collins’ or his aunt’s company had the same effect on him) and just as easily cured (by removing himself from said pain-producing company). Miss Elizabeth was clever to so smoothly avoid them. Darcy was tempted to claim illness too. The prospect of enduring the next few hours at his aunt’s table without the relief of Elizabeth’s presence was enough to initiate a dull pounding at the base of his skull. “Thank you, Chalmers.”

His valet of over a decade nodded, the crinkle at the edge of his eyes the only sign of pleasure as he helped him into his best coat—the same color of the gown Elizabeth had worn at the Meryton Assembly the day they had first met.

Did she think upon that evening as often as he did? He had been in a boorish mood worsened by the villagers’ vulgar talk of his wealth and the ladies shoved before him for inspection like mares at Tattersalls—except Elizabeth. He had thought she avoided him, laughing and dancing and sparing him nary so much as a glance… until he caught her eye as he departed. He had never experienced so much sentiment in one look. It had been the beginning of the end for him. And now, he would have to endure another evening without her company.

Disinclined to join the party in his aunt’s drawing room a moment before necessary, Darcy went to Richard’s rooms. His cousin’s batman was brushing off the shoulders of his coat, so neither turned when Darcy entered.

“Miss Bennet is ill with a headache,” Darcy announced, leaning against the wall opposite Richard.

“Really?” Richard’s eyebrows popped up. “She seemed well earlier.”

Darcy nudged away from the papered partition and crossed his arms. “You called on her?” Why would Richard call at the parsonage without him?

“Do not get in a huff, Darcy. I chanced across Miss Bennet’s path during my walk over the park. We had a lively conversation which ended on a pleasant note when I deposited her safely at the door of the parsonage.”

Darcy scowled. He regretted the afternoon wasted with Aunt Catherine’s steward. The poor man had no power to effect any of the changes Darcy suggested because his stubborn aunt insisted on doing everything her own way.

Richard rolled his eyes. “Have you gone to the kennels today? Mansell has more puppies than he knows what to do with. Ten Great Danes in one litter and big enough now to get into mischief.”

The mere mention of the loathsome breed made Darcy break into a cold sweat.

Richard yammered on. “Only two months old and already the biggest weighs in at thirty pounds! If I had a property of my own, I would be tempted to take one home. Mansell would be grateful. The gamekeeper has been breathing down his neck to cull out the litter. Aunt already has enough to check the wild boar population. Keeping all of them seems excessive.”

Darcy had no desire to talk about the kennel keeper’s devils when his thoughts were across the lawn at the Hunsford parsonage with Elizabeth.

Richard looked suggestively at Darcy. “You know, Pemberley is large—”

“Absolutely not!” Darcy snapped.

“Come on, Darce. A Great Dane!”

“There is nothing great about them.”

Richard narrowed his eyes and grinned. “You are not still afraid—”

“No.” Darcy’s tone brooked no argument, although his heart raced as though it were attempting to outrun a snarling pack of the vile, mangy curs.

“It is hardly fair for you to allow one minor incident to ruin your opinion of the noble breed.”

“They are vicious savages, and I will not allow them on Pemberley property.”

Richard shook his head and clucked like a chicken. “You hold a grudge on an entire race because of the poor reaction of one dog?”

“It ran me down and tore into me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“You did not feel its teeth.”

Richard shrugged. “You were in his territory. You should have known better.”

Darcy glared at his cousin, the pounding in his skull spreading down his neck and knotting in his shoulders. There was more to the story than that, and Richard knew it. “It was a tenant’s home on Pemberley land. I had every right to be where I was.”

“You expect the dog to know the distinction? Really, Darcy, with such high expectations, it is a wonder you have any friends at all.”

Gritting his teeth and rubbing his temples, Darcy seethed, “He tore into my… flesh.” He observed the grin creeping up Richard’s face and knew he had swallowed his cousin’s bait. Blast the infernal man.

“And you still have the scar, I presume, to prove it!” Richard guffawed like a ninnyhammer. “Pray do not show me, I beg you.”

As if Darcy would.

“Perhaps I shall mention the incident at dinner. See how Mr. Collins pontificates on the merits of turning the other cheek.”

Darcy refused to listen to another word. He now had a genuine, full-blown headache of his own. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, “I am going for a walk.”

“Come, Darcy, you take yourself too seriously. You have been anxious lately, and I only meant to lighten your mood.”

Darcy crossed the room to the sound of his cousin’s endless chatter.

“The hour is late. It is dark. Dinner awaits.”

Ignoring him, Darcy opened the door.

More urgently, Richard called after him. “Aunt Catherine shall be cross.”

Darcy spun around with a sigh. “Better at me than at you.”

He left Richard grumbling in his bedchamber, the satisfaction Darcy took in turning the table on his cousin lessening the ache in his head. His relief, however, was temporary. Once out of doors, the calm night he had hoped for was marred with throaty barks and shouts.

Darcy looked down the gentle slope at the side of his aunt’s formidable abode in the direction of the kennels, his heart jumping into his throat at every shadow. He reminded himself that the snarling overgrown beasts were kept in the kennel and supervised by a capable man who had not once, over the years, had one of his keeps escape during Darcy’s visits.

Walking across the lawn away from the noise, Darcy took several deep breaths. It was only when he reached the lane at the edge of the park and spotted one window glowing like a beacon summoning him to Mr. Collins’ cottage that he realized what he must do.

He would continue as he had planned. He would walk to the parsonage and ask Elizabeth for her hand in marriage. The decision filled Darcy with resolve, and it was with a firm step and a single-minded heart that he passed through the garden gate and rang the bell.

He breezed by the maid to find Elizabeth sitting with a candle at the table, a pile of letters clutched in her hands.

She startled when she saw him.

He doffed his hat, feeling like a dolt for forgetting to hand it to the maid. Thankfully, the lines he had so diligently practiced earlier came to him. “Miss Elizabeth, I trust you are in good health?”

“I have a headache,” she responded weakly.

Her eyes did look a bit feverish. Darcy nodded, not knowing how to proceed. Should he send for the apothecary? “I—I had hoped to find you recovered.” He bit his stammering lips together and mustered his composure. “I am sorry to hear otherwise.” He managed a small smile at her, which she was too ill to return.

Wishing to ease her discomfort, he added, “My aunt’s housekeeper keeps a well-stocked still room. I shall ask her to send a tonic for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s tone was cool, civil. Her pain must be great indeed.

It occurred to him that now might not be the best time to make an offer. However, there was also the very real possibility that his proposal would be just the thing to ease Elizabeth’s concerns and cure her ills. Who would not wish to distance themself from such a scandalous family as the Bennets? Live a life of luxury free of concerns?

The silence in the room grew awkward. Darcy shuffled his hat in his hands. Behind him, he heard the maid open the outer door, and he elected to seize the moment of privacy.

Clutching his hat, he closed the distance to stand directly in front of Elizabeth. With trembling hands and shaking voice, he began, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do.”

A stifled scream interrupted him, and the sound of nails scrambling over carpetless floors erased the rehearsed words from his memory.

He turned to see a white dog charging him. Panic turned to agitation at the oafish puppy—tongue lolling, ears too big for its body, disproportionate paws clawing at the wood floors. He shouted for the undisciplined pup to heel, but the animal paid him no heed. The creature jumped on Darcy, pawing at his pressed cream breeches with muddy feet… and thoroughly ruining his proposal.

Can an adorable puppy encourage Mr. Darcy to conquer his pride? What do you think?

Release Day is February 10!

PREORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!

US; https://amzn.to/3GhYMZ7

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09RKLY7LS

Everywhere Else: mybook.to/PerfectlyUntimely

A New Story is on the Way!

I’ve been craving low-angst stories lately. Ones with a feel-good charm, sweet romance, teasing banter, good friends, puppies, and laughter. Sound good to you too?

I sure hope so because I wrote one!

It all started with this question: What if Mr. Darcy’s infamous Rosings proposal was interrupted… by a puppy? And what if, over the course of the novel, every one of Mr. Darcy’s attempts is frustrated until he’s finally able to give Elizabeth a worthy proposal?

Fitzwilliam Darcy has found his perfect match in Elizabeth Bennet. Her spirited conversation, their frequent encounters at Rosings Park, and the fire in her eyes when she looks at him encourage Darcy to ask the question burning in his heart.

His words are well-rehearsed, and the moment is perfect… until a Great Dane puppy escapes from the kennel and plants her muddy paws on his brushed breeches, ruining his plans and gaining the attention of the lady he wishes to make Mrs. Darcy.

Elizabeth Bennet is grateful for the interruption. There is nothing Mr. Darcy can say that she would wish to hear.

But when he adopts the rambunctious puppy, she sees a kindness in him that challenges her opinion of the gentleman.

Will Elizabeth’s dislike change by the time Darcy can finally propose? Or will their friends’ well-meant interference and a Great Dane pup ruin their chance of finding love?

A Perfectly (Un)timely Proposal is a feel-good, low-angst, sweet Regency romantic comedy inspired by Jane Austen’s timeless classic, Pride and Prejudice.

Release Day is February 10!

PREORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3GhYMZ7

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09RKLY7LS

Everywhere Else: mybook.to/PerfectlyUntimely

Flash Sale!

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Do books give you the warm fuzzies? Make your day brighter?

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So, from December 26-28, here’s a feel-good, cozy gift from me to you! Let’s send of 2021 with a bang… of books!

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A Sneak Peek at Fitzwilliam Darcy, Man of Fortune

Are you ready for a rip-roarin’ adventure where Mr. Darcy is a swashbuckling hero? Where Miss Elizabeth isn’t a damsel in distress but a competent woman who can defend herself?

Well, then, I have something special for you. Read on…

CHAPTER ONE

London
August 30, 1812

Spilled ale and urine assaulted Fitzwilliam Darcy’s senses. The soles of his boots squished against the floor of The Devil’s Tavern. Adding insult to injury, the putrid water of the Thames lurked a stone’s throw away.
Wishing he could breathe without smelling, Darcy squinted at Wickham in the dim, smoky room and wondered how his old friend had fallen so low. To think he had once considered Wickham as close as a brother.
Darcy never would have found this place had he not coerced Mrs. Younge to reveal Wickham’s whereabouts. How could the profligate bring Miss Lydia to a place like this? Darcy would never expose a young lady he claimed to love to this thieves’ den near the waterways—a tavern inn in the worst part of the east end of town where a man’s coat was valued more than his life.
Darcy had dressed accordingly, careful not to draw attention to himself. He could neither afford to be mistaken as wealthy (a tempting target for thieves), or a seafaring man (a target for the press gangs desperate to fill the Navy’s demand for able-bodied men). Even so, Darcy could not bring himself to sit or touch anything in the establishment. Already, his skin crawled.
In contrast, Wickham lounged against the soot-smeared wall, the rough bench creaking under his weight. Even in his red regimental coat and polished boots, he gave the air of a gentleman on the rocks. Pickpockets would not bother with him.
Leaning forward, Wickham clasped his hands together on top of the turned barrel that served as a table between them. “I have no intention of marrying Lydia when I have an heiress ripe for the taking under my influence. Nothing you can say shall change my mind. I would rather attach myself to a rich, toothless harpy than saddle myself with Lydia Bennet.”
Darcy clenched his fingers into a fist, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Wickham did not have a sixpence to scratch with; nevertheless, he presumed to negotiate. Not for the first time, Darcy was tempted to bash the smirk from his face.
But he was a Darcy. Darcys did not give in to their base desires or impulses.
He controlled his rage and continued with his plan. He would not leave that vile room until the Bennets’ reputation was salvaged.
It was the least he could do for Elizabeth, though she must never know of his interference. She would think he was attempting to buy her affection. He could not bear for her to think worse of him than she already did. Or worse still, to prove her right.
No, he would right his wrongs and live alone with the consequences of his infernal pride that had built a haughty, reticent image of him in Elizabeth’s mind.
Even from afar—in distance and time, even after her impassioned refusal—Darcy loved her. He had thought perhaps there might be hope.
Until Wickham.
Darcy had believed himself free of him, and now Darcy would pay for his error in judgment the rest of his days. He had tried to protect the Bennets from Wickham, but his warning had been too weak, too late. He had failed Elizabeth.
And now he would spare her.
One irrevocable act to appease his conscience. One final interference to ensure she would have a chance of being as happy as he wished her to be.
His one path to redemption was right now, in this moment, and he would not let it slip. For Elizabeth, Darcy would bribe a man he despised and yet to whom he would make himself a brother. “I shall make it worth your while to marry Lydia Bennet on the morrow.”
Wickham chuckled and leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him.
Darcy was not joking, nor would he negotiate his terms. The marriage license was secured, as was the clergyman in Wickham’s parish who, with a few extra coins, was willing to perform the service at such short notice. Darcy would give Wickham no time to think or renege once he agreed. He would accept now or get nothing.
Pulling a thick parchment out of his pocket, Darcy pushed it across the barrel to Wickham.
Wickham jolted forward, grabbing the paper greedily. “A commission in the regulars. How did you secure this?”
“That is of no concern to you.” His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had called in several favors, and Darcy had paid a premium to obtain the commission as quickly as they could arrange it. The parchment in Wickham’s grubby hands offered not only a reliable living with room to advance, but it also represented the prestige he so craved.
Not giving Wickham time to consider, Darcy pulled a stash of receipts out of his other pocket. He retained every bill he had covered for the leech over the years for protection should Wickham attempt to blackmail him or Georgiana. Never could he have dreamed that his caution would benefit Elizabeth. Dropping the receipts, he let them smack against the table and spread. “Your debts, paid in full.”
Wickham thumbed through the pile, the sum of which was over one thousand pounds.
“Is that all of them?” Darcy demanded.
Struggling to maintain his nonchalance when he knew he had been bought, Wickham sneered, “Your man is thorough.”
As he should be. Darcy remunerated Hastings well for his exertions.
Darcy moved on to the next enticement. “In addition to the commission and paid debts, I shall settle one thousand pounds on Lydia to be paid once you sign the wedding register on the morrow, witnessed by myself and Mr. Gardiner, who shall act as Miss Lydia’s guardian in lieu of Mr. Bennet.”
Mr. Gardiner was as eager as Darcy to see his niece married. He had agreed to hide Darcy’s role from Mr. Bennet, who should not be greatly inconvenienced with the paltry one hundred pounds per annum plus the settlement of Wickham’s debts in Meryton. Darcy would have been happy to spare Elizabeth’s father that expense as well, but he had to lend some credibility to Wickham’s sudden marriage to the gentleman’s most undesirable daughter. Mr. Bennet was too clever by half, as was Elizabeth. They would suspect another’s involvement if it was too easy.
While Wickham considered the offer, Darcy pressed his advantage. “Hastings will ensure your travel costs to Newcastle are covered. Additionally, he will secure suitable accommodations for you and Mrs. Wickham that shall be ready after you have been seen as a properly wed couple and have allowed your wife to bid her adieus to her family. I think a fortnight should suffice.”
Wickham scoffed but held onto the commission firmly, obviously aware that it promised instant relief. “You have thought of everything, as you always do. However, I could really use that thousand pounds tonight. I owe some unsavory men—”
Darcy shook his head firmly. He would not budge. “Once I witness your signature in the register—and only then—shall I pay. That is my final word on the subject.”
And now, the ultimate incentive. Collecting the pile of receipts, Darcy tucked them inside his pocket. “If you do not accept my conditions, I shall call in your debts.”
That had Wickham’s full attention.
“The commission does you no good if you are in debtor’s prison.” If looks could kill, Wickham would have impaled Darcy with his eyes. “Marry Miss Lydia, and you may leave for your new commission free of debts, reclaim your dignity, and be a thousand pounds richer.”
Wickham clenched his jaw and slammed his fist against the barrel. Darcy had won, and Wickham knew it. “Devil take you, Darcy. I am not in a position to refuse,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“Do we have an agreement?” Darcy folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Wickham.
Bowing his head, Wickham snarled, “You have my word. I shall marry Lydia.”
Darcy turned toward the door. Breaking glass, bawdy laughter, and angry, drunken shouts awaited him on the other side of the street. It was only a matter of time before shots were fired. Uncrossing his arms, he said, “Meet me at St. Clement’s at ten o’clock on the morrow.”
Without further leave, he departed, shoving his way through the odorous bodies, trays of rancid beef, and raised tankards. As wretched as the Thames smelled, it was a relief to breathe the night air outside the tavern.
He would order a bath the moment he returned to Darcy House. A couple of glasses of his finest brandy ought to dispel the remnants of the tavern.
Glancing cautiously about, Darcy walked swiftly to the corner, his gaze roving for a hackney to convey him far away from this unsavory neighborhood. He wished he could have brought his own carriage, but a gang of ruffians would have harmed his men and stolen his conveyance.
He rounded a corner, raising his hand when a hackney came into view, his voice catching in his throat when he heard a scuffle behind him.
Nerves on point, he turned. There was a blur of motion, then his hat flew off his head. At the same time, he heard glass shatter and felt his head part. Blurry and unbalanced, he flung out, catching his assailant with his fist.
“Pretendin’ to be a gent. Almost didn’t recognize him,” he heard in a strange man’s voice.
He felt another hand—a rough one that scratched against Darcy’s shaved cheeks—pressing something against his mouth and nose, smothering him. “Don’t forget how dangerous he be. Stay alert ‘til he sleeps.”
“Busted yer nose proper, didn’t he,” chuckled the other.
Two men. Darcy struggled, but the cloth smelled sweet, and his limbs grew heavy. He felt himself fading into the night.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered before he succumbed to the black void.

Darcy woke hours later—days later. He did not know.
His head swam and throbbed. Careful not to make any abrupt movements, he tested the strength of his limbs, discouraged when his body did not react as he needed it to.
Unable to do much more, he observed his surroundings. Curtains billowed at the small, round windows. Ruffles and frills adorning bright silks and shimmery fabrics were draped over the open door of a closet. A woman’s room.
The ground swayed beneath him, and Darcy groaned. If this was a dream, he wished he would wake.
He thought back, remembering his assault. There had been two men. They had rough accents—Devonshire men. Seafaring men, no doubt. Press gangers? No, Darcy thought as he recalled bits of their conversation. They had spoken like they knew him. But how could that be? He had few friends in Devonshire, and certainly nobody of their sort. Where had they brought him? And why did it look like the inside of a mantua maker’s shop?
They had claimed he was dangerous, pretending to be a gentleman. Clearly, they had mistaken him for someone else, but for whom? This was a horrible misunderstanding. He had to get out of there so he could make it to the church on time.
Had he already missed the wedding? Would Wickham marry Lydia if Darcy was not there to make him? Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach churned.
Darcy tried to sit up. He needed to find someone and tell them of their mistake.
From the shadows, a woman appeared. “Ye always had a hard head.” She reached down her side and pulled a dagger from her boot. “I’m not ready for ye yet,” she sneered, her voice full of venom as she flung the dagger at him.
He tried to move, but she was faster. He heard the crack of the blunt end of the weapon against his skull before he felt it. Once again, Darcy slipped into oblivion.

CHAPTER TWO

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam paced outside St. Clement Church, stopping only to glance at his pocket watch, then up and down the lengths of the street at increasingly frequent intervals. Still no Darcy.
Wickham had been unwilling to begin the ceremony until Darcy’s arrival, and Richard could not remain under the same roof with the man without doing him bodily harm. The scoundrel was more interested in the thousand pounds promised to him than in salvaging the foolish girl’s reputation he had so thoughtlessly ruined. The vicar had allowed an extra quarter of an hour, but more than that he could not spare.
Richard glanced at his pocket watch again. One minute remained.
It was not like Darcy to be late.
Counting the seconds down in his mind, Richard continued watching, peering inside every passing carriage and observing every passerby and rider. Three, two, one. He peeked at his watch to confirm. Time had run out.
Darcy was not here.
There would be no wedding today.
Heaving a sigh, Richard returned inside to see what he could salvage from the wreckage.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner stood on either side of their niece. Miss Lydia’s bottom lip pouted and quivered, and she crossed her arms tightly in front of her as if she could not decide whether she would rather burst into tears or throw a spectacular tantrum.
He shook his head at Mr. Gardiner, then at the vicar. But though Darcy had failed to make an appearance, he had charged Richard to be there, and Richard would see his cousin’s plans through in his absence. As insistent as Darcy had been, Richard feared something dreadful had happened. Why had he not called at Darcy House the night before? He should have called. What could have happened to Darcy—and when? Last night? This morning?
Darcy had been out of sorts lately, staying up all hours, sleeping at his club, and riding before daybreak. Richard had never seen him so restless. He had stayed with his agitated cousin as much as he could, but a soldier took advantage of rest when he had the opportunity. Now Richard felt guilty for sleeping soundly when he might have helped his cousin.
Shaking the worry that churned in his mind, Richard marched until he stood toe-to-toe with Wickham. In the same tone he used with the men under his command, Richard said, “I will witness the signature with Mr. Gardiner. We may proceed.”
Wickham held up a hand, taking a step away from Richard. “Darcy was clear. I will not get a penny from him unless he personally witnesses my signature. Therefore, I will not marry if he is not here to witness it.”
Gritting his teeth, Richard reminded himself that he was inside a church. Taking a deep breath, he forced his shoulders down and his fists to relax. When he found himself in a boxer’s stance, he crossed his arms over his chest and, once again, reminded himself where he stood. His father would understand his predicament—he despised Wickham as much as Darcy and Richard—but his mother would not excuse him for a lapse of control. Not even when Wickham was on the receiving end of his knuckles.
Miss Lydia let out a wail that echoed off the walls and pierced his eardrums. Mrs. Gardiner shushed her with the help of the vicar, but Miss Lydia would make her displeasure known (albeit at a more respectable volume). Glaring at her betrothed, she whimpered, “He said he loved me.”
If any good was to come of this situation, Richard needed to act. And fast. He asked the vicar, “May we return on the morrow?”
“I have no additional time to spare until Friday. I am sorry. However, should my obligations allow for an earlier time, I promise to inform you of it.”
Richard groaned. “That is well enough. Thank you for your patience.” That did not suit at all, but it would have to do. Addressing the rest, he said, “I will consult immediately with Hastings to see what arrangement might be made. If the settlement was to be paid in ready money, then there is no reason why I cannot act as a witness in Darcy’s stead.”
Perhaps Hastings would know where Darcy might be. It was unlike Darcy to disappear without a word. Over the past week, he had been like a man possessed, working night and day to arrange this patched-over affair in order to give the Bennets some semblance of respectability after their youngest daughter’s reckless behavior.
Richard knew Darcy would want him to see the wedding through. To help the Bennets. To save Elizabeth. He had been adamant. Richard would not give up.
His own conscience would not be at ease until he had done his part to put things right, especially since he had been the one to drive a wedge between his cousin and the lady he loved. Not that Darcy had not done a sufficiently thorough job of offending the lady on his own, but Richard owned that he certainly had not helped when he had let it slip that Darcy had “saved Mr. Bingley from the inconvenience of a most imprudent marriage.” Merely recalling the words made him wince. How was he to know that the lady about whom Darcy had expressed strong objections—to a man of deep passions like Darcy, nothing would be worse than his lady’s indifference—was none other than Miss Elizabeth’s sister?
Darcy held little hope of a reconciliation, but Richard hoped where his cousin dared not.
Which made Darcy’s disappearance dashed inconvenient … and suspicious.
Richard watched Wickham. Did he benefit more from Darcy’s disappearance than he stood to gain by marrying Miss Lydia? Richard had never known Wickham to be truly evil, merely opportunistic (which was bad enough). Still…
He steeled his voice and dropped his chin to his chest. “Do not leave town. Stay at the inn where I can find you.”
Wickham’s eyes widened. Be afraid, you no-good blackguard. Be very afraid.
Richard continued, his voice low, threatening, “If I find out you had anything to do with Darcy’s delay, I shall not be as lenient as I have been in the past. You shall pay. Dearly. Nobody will hold me back.” Not like last time.
Wickham swallowed hard, holding his hands in front of him. Squirming coward. “I had nothing to do with Darcy’s failure to appear today. It is blasted—”
The vicar cleared his throat noisily, his displeasure plain.
Another hard swallow. “The delay is a grave inconvenience to me. My circumstances demand immediate payment. I am quite destitute.”
Richard had no pity left for the likes of Wickham.
Miss Lydia emitted another wail, which softened from a scream to a harsh but level tone. “You promised me a fashionable apartment on Bond Street!” She turned to her aunt and uncle, pointing her finger crudely at her betrothed. “I do not want to marry him. He has deceived me, and I will not marry him.” She jutted out her chin and huffed.
If ever there existed two individuals who stood to benefit from a good thrashing, it was this unwillingly pair. Richard tightened his arms over his chest.
Mrs. Gardiner raised her eyes heavenward, no doubt supplicating for forbearance.
Mr. Gardiner spoke firmly. “If you wanted our sympathy, you ought to have acted in a way befitting our compassion. As it is, I cannot pity you. What is more, I shall not permit your sisters to suffer the burden of your foolishness. Your selfishness would ruin them. Do you not see that you have already made your choice? You must marry Mr. Wickham.”
Her face burned red, but she shed no tear. Tantrum it was, then.
“We will have no more outbursts, Lydia.” Mrs. Gardiner patted her niece’s shoulder, but her words were as firm as her husband’s. “Every action has a consequence, and you shall reap what you have sown. This is the only way for you to save your reputation and that of your sisters. Surely you do not wish to drag them down with you?”
With each passing minute, Richard admired the Gardiners more. A firm hand was needed at this moment. They would ensure Miss Lydia’s compliance. As for him, Richard would drag Wickham back to the church by the ear if need be, but he would see the louse hold up his end of Darcy’s bargain. “I will seek out Hastings immediately,” he said, bowing to take his leave.
He hoped Wickham was as desperate as he claimed, or the reprobate would surely ditch Miss Lydia and run. The sooner Richard fixed this mess, the better.
The Gardiners had little choice but to take their niece home with them, where she would likely remain until she wed.
Mr. Gardiner fell in beside him. He asked softly, “Do you really believe Wickham responsible for Mr. Darcy’s delay? I see the necessity of Lydia marrying the man, but I will not attach her to a monster capable of harming another.”
Richard pulled him aside, away from Wickham and the ladies. “Wickham is an irresponsible epicurean, but I have never known him to be cruel or violent. Darcy never would have arranged for your niece to wed him otherwise.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded, his sigh audible. “Thank you, Colonel. I hold no delusion that theirs shall be a happy union. However, it is my hope they will at least learn to endure each other’s company and make the most of it, as I know Lydia has been taught to do.” Standing taller, he added, “We had better let you go. I, too, have an urgent message to send to my brother-in-law.” He bunched his cheeks, the pained look in his eye revealing how little he looked forward to writing that letter. Richard could hardly blame the man.
They ushered Miss Lydia out of the church and into their carriage.
With one final reassurance of further communication with the vicar, Richard once again turned to leave, keeping Wickham in his sight and out of arm’s reach. A man could only endure so much temptation.
Wickham turned to him with a sneer, but Richard cut him off before he could speak. “Stay where I can easily find you, or, I assure you, you shall have the Devil to pay.” He turned, walking away at a brisk pace.
The sooner he could arrange to have the man shadowed, the better. He could not do it himself. The temptation to bend that perfect, straight nose or run the scoundrel through with his saber was too great, and that simply would not do … at least not until after the wedding.
Richard’s murderous thoughts perversely lightened his heart. He was not so stupid as to ruin a brilliant military career over a ne’er-do-well like Wickham, but he took comfort in the possibility of the vile Don Juan vanishing.
As Darcy had vanished.
Richard hurried to the mews, his footsteps echoing in rhythm to his thoughts, his purpose: Save Miss Elizabeth. Find Darcy.

CHAPTER THREE

Elizabeth Bennet watched her sister Mary sit down at the pianoforte, knowing nothing good would come of it. Nothing could repair the day. Not the fine summer afternoon. Not the scent of roses wafting inside from the garden. And certainly not Mary’s musical attempts.
Lydia was to marry—had doubtlessly already exchanged vows by now—that scoundrel Wickham. Uncle’s message had reached them the evening prior, and nobody besides their mother spoke openly about it.
Mary played a dirge. Of the four Bennet daughters remaining at Longbourn, Lydia’s sin fell heaviest on Mary, who seemed to think the other members of her family ought to atone for her errant sister’s poor choices by afflicting their ears with mournful hymns.
Mama groaned. “Please, Mary, could you not play a happier tune? It is, after all, the day of Lydia’s wedding. Oh, how I wish they could have delayed a day or two so we could join them in London for the festivities.”
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane, her eldest sister. While she was relieved to have their reputations spared, Elizabeth could not celebrate Lydia’s union to such a man.
Mary obliged Mama with a heavy sigh, making it plain that she did so against her better judgment and only to appease the mother she was Scripture-bound to respect.
By now, Lydia was Mrs. Wickham. There would be no wedding feast. No cause for rejoicing, contrary to what Mama thought. And although Lydia was too foolish to know it, her happiness was certain to be short-lived.
Kitty pouted on the settee she usually sat on with Lydia, whose empty space Jane attempted to fill with her soft encouragement and gentle attentiveness. “Papa will not let me do anything or go anywhere,” Kitty complained.
Jane smoothed Kitty’s hair away from her face. “You can hardly blame him after what has happened. He loves you a great deal and seeks to protect you.”
“But it is not fair! Lydia got to do everything, and now I am stuck here.”
Mary stopped playing and turned to Kitty, showing more emotion than usual. “How do you not see how close Lydia came to ruining us all? She shall reap what she has sown, and the fruit shall be bitter. Do not wish the same for yourself, Kitty, when it is only thanks to Uncle’s generosity that we have the chance, no matter how slight, of marrying men less self-serving than Mr. Wickham.”
Mama snapped her fan open. “Mary! I will not have you speaking so poorly of your brother; such a fine, dashing soldier! You would do well to make such a catch.”
Elizabeth could not think of a more depressing prospect, and she could not excuse her mother’s willful blindness no matter how well-meant her motive. Mama did not see—or she refused to acknowledge—how the connection to such a man, as well as the circumstances forcing his union to Lydia, would affect her unmarried daughters.
Mama resumed her speech, extolling Lydia’s good fortune. Before she could expound on Mr. Wickham’s merits, Elizabeth stood to leave. She could hear no more.
Mary resumed her dirge, and Elizabeth did her best to ignore her surroundings until she closed herself behind the solid oak door of her father’s book room. It was quieter in there—the quietest room in the house due to its location behind the stairs.
She sat on her usual perch by the window overlooking the rose garden, doing her best to be quiet lest she disturb her father’s reading. She did her best to ignore Mary’s playing, Mama’s voice, and Kitty’s complaining, but the soft rustle of her father turning pages could hardly compete.
Eventually, her mind did wander, and she was back at Hunsford Cottage. Mr. Darcy stood before her, his heart exposed. In these dreams, she always answered more kindly. She would not have accepted him—she could not accept the offer of a man who had interfered with the happiness of her most beloved sister—but she might have asked for an explanation. He might have recognized his error and made amends. Understanding his character as she did now, she suspected he would own to his misunderstanding and make the necessary reparations. Mr. Darcy was everything dutiful and responsible.
And Elizabeth loved him for it.
Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she squeezed her burning eyes shut. Not only had she spitefully refused the only man she could ever love, thus severing all hope of reconciliation, but her sister was now married to Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy would never agree to attach himself to the vile man who had abused his friendship and that of his innocent sister.
Elizabeth would not receive another offer from him.
She did not know how long she had been woolgathering, but she noticed when the papers at her father’s desk ceased to rustle. He watched her, a pensive look on his face.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked.
He bunched his lips as though he had something unpleasant to say. “You were right, Lizzy. I would have been wise to heed your warning.”
She shook her head. “I take no pleasure in it when I would rather have Lydia home with us, protected from the likes of Mr. Wickham.”
“As would I,” he mumbled, clasping his hands together on top of his desk and leaning against his forearms. “I hate to think how much your uncle must have laid on that wretch. I shall never be able to repay him, nor do I consider myself worthy of his kindness.” His voice trembled with shame.
“Mama and Kitty do not understand how fortunate we are that Uncle found them and arranged for them to marry.” Elizabeth watched her father’s reaction, praying he would continue to withstand their complaints when they threatened his cherished peace and time dimmed his regret.
He took off his spectacles, wiping them slowly and meticulously with his handkerchief. “Your mother is of a mind that marriage rights all wrongs—a view I might have helped dispel had I not been too indolent to correct her. Kitty knows no better.” Settling his spectacles on his nose, he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “I shall not fail my other daughters as I failed Lydia. Do not fear that their demands will be met, no matter how tiring they become.”
Elizabeth hoped with all of her heart that he meant it.
Galloping hooves and flying gravel interrupted their conversation, followed shortly by a knock on the door. Mary ceased playing, and even Mama went quiet. Mr. Hill’s heavy footsteps grew louder as he traveled from the entrance to the book room door. Holding out an envelope, he said, “Brought by messenger.”
Papa stood. “I shall see to him immediately.”
Mr. Hill shook his head. “He has already gone.”
Elizabeth glanced at the envelope as it passed between Mr. Hill and her father. It was Uncle’s handwriting. Furthermore, Uncle had seen to the expense of sending a message. This was not good news. Had the wedding not taken place after all his trouble?
Panic whipped her heartbeat into a frantic pace, echoing in her ears. Ruin ruin ruin.
Papa opened the letter, his eyes fixed on the page as he groped for his chair. Pale, he fell into it.
It was true, then. Their worst fear. They were ruined.
The door behind them creaked open, and Elizabeth looked to see Jane standing in the doorway, her features etched with concern.
The page slipped from Papa’s fingers to his desk. With teary eyes, he pushed the letter to Elizabeth and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so sorry. Oh, my poor, dear girls.” His voice cracked. “The fault is mine to bear, and yet you shall be the ones to pay.”
Elizabeth took the letter, her eyes catching on the last name she had expected to see her uncle pen.
Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy? She devoured the contents of the page, her heart plummeting and her stomach churning as she read how Mr. Darcy had been the one to find Mr. Wickham and Lydia, how he had arranged for the wedding, paying for Wickham’s commission and settling an additional enticement of one thousand pounds on Lydia. All of it had been arranged, not by Uncle, but by Mr. Darcy.
And now, Mr. Darcy had gone missing and Wickham would not marry Lydia without promise of full payment.
The next paragraph was devoted to Uncle’s concern at this sudden turn of events. Never a steadier gentleman had he known than Mr. Darcy. He had managed the affair with a thoroughness and expediency Uncle praised enthusiastically. Mr. Darcy had even seen to the detail of Lydia’s trousseau, small though it must be, thus adding to the image of a planned union rather than the forced one it was. That he should fail to appear at the wedding was inconceivable.
Uncle ended with some assurance, though it did little to minimize the disaster such a delay created. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was doing everything he could to step into his cousin’s place, but Lydia was inconsolable and swore she would rather die than marry a man who had to be paid to marry her. Uncle did not say as much directly, but Elizabeth knew Lydia was too much for him and Aunt Gardiner to manage when they had their own children and obligations. He begged Father’s immediate presence in London, whereupon he hoped Papa might persuade Lydia beyond her histrionics to see reason.
Elizabeth’s throat was too tight to read aloud or give a summary to Jane. She handed the letter to her sister.
Papa raised his head. “I trust both of you to keep the details to yourself. Mr. Darcy has shown me more consideration and respect than I deserve, and I shall not be the one to make known what he took great pains to conceal. Your uncle’s concern must be grave, indeed, for him to write as he did.”
Why did Mr. Darcy do it? A small part of Elizabeth dearly wanted to believe he had done it for her, but that was a vain delusion. She had made her opinion of him clear—painfully and articulately clear. Not even the pleasant time she had briefly spent in his company at Pemberley with her aunt and uncle could erase that.
Jane handed the letter back to Papa, her eyes wide, one hand covering her mouth. Tucking it inside his pocket, he said, “I shall have to tell your mother that the wedding did not occur. Otherwise, she shall spread the news all over Meryton.”
Elizabeth groaned. It had taken all of her ingenuity and Jane’s persuasion to keep their mother from calling on Lady Lucas that same day so that she might brag of her success. If Papa left so suddenly for London, Mama would not understand why they could not accompany him in the hope of seeing the newly wed couple.
Uncle and Aunt had already done much more than any relative should be asked to do. They did not need another fitful female given to vexation and nerves to add to their burden.
Elizabeth caught her sister’s eye, and she saw her own concerns mirrored in her gaze. Jane held her look for a moment, then nodded. Good. They were in agreement.
Taking a deep breath, Jane smoothed her skirts and clasped her hands together. “I shall stay with Mama.”
Elizabeth added for their father’s benefit, “And I shall go with you to London.”
He nodded.
They departed from Longbourn one hour later, leaving Kitty stunned, Mary more self-righteous than ever, and Mama wailing. Jane and Mrs. Hill had their hands full, and Elizabeth knew her turn was soon to come with Lydia.
However, the farther away they drove from Longbourn, the less Elizabeth dwelt on her family’s concerns and the more her worry for Mr. Darcy grew. A man like him would not disappear without finishing what he had started.
Where had he gone?
She held on to the expectation that he would resurface by the time they arrived at Gracechurch Street, and that all would be settled before she and her father reached the outskirts of London. Wickham and Lydia would marry on the morrow, and Elizabeth would properly express her gratitude to Mr. Darcy for salvaging her family’s reputation.
They arrived at nightfall. And still, Mr. Darcy was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

Darcy opened his eyes and waited for his vision to clear. It was dark. He lay on a soft surface. It swayed. Everything swayed.
He did not know where he was, nor did he know the day or the hour. He knew, however, with a certainty that made his stomach knot, that he had missed Wickham’s wedding. Would the ingrate go through with it if Darcy was not there to give him the promised bribe? What kind of a man sold himself for a thousand pounds and a commission?
Darcy’s disgust turned again to frustration. Why had he insisted on being the one to witness the signatures? He could easily have included Richard. The fact of the matter was that the idea had not even occurred to Darcy until that moment. Was he so proud that he believed others incapable? Even Richard—a man who had repeatedly proven his strength of character and proficiency? Darcy shook his head, and instantly regretted it when the throbbing there increased.
Gritting his teeth and holding his head still, he tried to find solace in Richard’s reliability. Richard was competent. He would lose no time making the needed adjustments with Hastings. Richard knew how important this was; he would not fail.
Slowly, gingerly touching the bump on the back of his skull and the swollen protuberance on his forehead, Darcy sat upright.
Moonlight shone into the room through a round window—a porthole. His stomach bottomed out at the implication. He was on a boat, on the water, sailing away to Lord-knew-where.
Spinning around so that his feet touched the smooth wooden planks, he found his boots by the bunk, wiggled his feet inside, and then looked for the door. His examination of his surroundings came to an abrupt halt when he saw a shadow.
He was not alone in the cabin.
A large man with skin the color of the night blocked Darcy’s escape. The ship dipped, casting the moon’s rays over the stranger. A leather vest covered his muscled chest. Canvas trousers frayed above his ankles. The curved scimitar at his side discouraged Darcy from attempting to wrestle his way through. Besides, there was a good chance that more men like him were on the other side of the door. Darcy would not get far.
The man uncrossed his arms, dropping his chin to his chest. “You, stay.” With that, he left the room, securing the door behind him.
Darcy listened for footsteps. Were there guards outside the door? Where was he? What kind of ship was this?
He stood, trying to gain his balance, and looked about the cabin for clues: the gowns draped over closet doors, the ruffles on the curtains, the faint smell of perfume. A woman’s quarters.
Strange. Sailors were a suspicious lot, and most would agree that a female aboard a ship was asking for trouble. Naval ships did not allow women on board. Most pirate ships avoided them, although every Englishman knew the stories of Lady Killigrew, Anne Bonny, and Mary Read. It could not be Ching Shih, could it? Darcy swallowed hard. The fearsome Queen of the South China Sea had been granted amnesty two years before, but with a fleet numbering into the thousands, she had many who would be willing to expand her floating empire in her stead. Or had she joined forces with the Navy?
A penknife on a desk built against the opposite wall offered a small but effective weapon. Darcy grabbed it, losing his balance on the way and knocking his shins against a chest.
Before he could see if the chest contained a better weapon—what he would give for a sword!—the door opened.
Concealing the penknife in his palm, Darcy fingered the weapon up his sleeve as the big guard crossed the room and patted him down.
He tried to hide the knife, but the man found it. Pulling it out from its hiding place, he held it in front of Darcy’s face. “If you lay a finger on her, I shall cut you from navel to nose.”
Darcy did not doubt he could do it, but he risked the guard’s ire. He needed information. “Who is she? Why am I here? Where are we?”
The man ignored him, shoving Darcy in front of him and jabbing the knife against his back, reminding Darcy of his disadvantage. Up a set of stairs he prodded Darcy, who bounced against the railings like the landlubber he was, until they reached the helm.
A woman stood at the wheel, her long, black hair braided down her back. She wore a loose shirt spilling with lace frills down the front tucked into dark breeches, high boots, and a bejeweled dagger gleaming at her thigh. She did not appear to be Chinese.
She shouted an order—she did not sound Chinese either—and two men immediately scrambled up the masts like monkeys to tie up the sails, shouting, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Captain?
She turned to him, stance wide, chin high—a woman confident of her command.
Darcy felt his chest puff, and he drew himself to his full height. She might be the captain of this ship, but he would not allow her to command him.
The goon behind him pushed him forward, sending Darcy sprawling toward her as the boat underneath him rolled. He righted himself, doing his best to appear dignified when his legs were as steady on the water as a newborn foal’s. Knowing full well that the strength of his intimidation was in his glare, he leveled his eyes at her and communicated the depth of his displeasure with a firm stare.
Freckles dotted her nose—darker and more plentiful than the light spattering over Elizabeth’s nose and cheeks. Blue-gray eyes, harsh and steely like the edge of a blade, inspected him in turn. Like Elizabeth, this woman was not easily intimidated.
The scimitar-wielding man slipped by Darcy and whispered into her ear, then took his place between them, his hand poised over his curved sword.
“Jaffa says me men must’ve knocked out yer senses, Nicholas,” she said.
Darcy bunched his forehead, trying to perceive her meaning. “Why do you call me Nicholas?”
She nodded at Jaffa. “I see what ye mean. He’s even talkin’ funny.”
Darcy did not know what she was talking about, but if she had mistaken him for another man, then there was no reason for her to hold him on her ship. “My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire.”
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze raking over him from head to toe.
He was grateful he had dressed in more simple attire. Glancing at the cutthroats crowding the lower decks, any one of them would have killed him for the diamond he usually wore in his cravat. He would prefer to leave the ship alive and in one piece, thus his omission of Pemberley. He would only use his wealth if he could use it to purchase his freedom.
The woman captain swaggered up to him, her finger tracing up his arm and over his chest. “Ye sound like Nicholas. Ye always was good with accents.” She trailed her finger up the center of his neck, her nail scratching a thin line up to his chin.
Darcy sensed her danger to him, but it was not in his nature to back down. He met her gaze boldly, planting his feet wide and steady. “I assure you, I am not whom you claim me to be.”
“Yer glare tells me otherwise.”
“I do not lie.”
She crossed her arms, and watched him warily. “Every man lies. I’ll get the truth from ye … one way or ‘nother.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. Blast, she was stubborn.
Slowly, her look boring through him, she asked, “Does the name Alexandra Lafitte mean anything to ye?”
Darcy breathed in slowly, restraining every part of his body to hide his alarm. He had read the stories, heard her incredible adventures read at the broadsides and shouted in the streets. A female pirate so fierce, she was claimed to have ripped the hearts of her victims out of their chests while they yet breathed. Not to mention her brothers, Jean and Pierre Lafitte, the plagues of the southern colonies. A pirate dynasty.
And Darcy was on La Femme Lafitte’s ship, where her word was law and his life was dispensable. He felt the blood drain from his face, and he praised the heavens for the darkness concealing his discomposure. “La Femme Lafitte,” he repeated the name given to her in the papers and pamphlets.
Her eyes hardened. “Call me Alex. Unless ye make yerself difficult, then ye’ll call me Cap’n.” She walked around him, continuing her inspection. “I don’t believe ye’re not Nicholas. I know yer voice. Yer face.” She twirled around him, trailing her finger around his shoulders. “Yer body.”
Darcy struggled to keep his limbs loose when every nerve stretched taut.
She tilted her head. “Do ye have family? A brother?”
“No. It is only me.” Whatever the lady pirate’s plan was, he would not involve his family. He would rather die than put Georgiana in danger.
She tsked, her raised eyebrows settling into a smirk. “No secret, twin brother?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind havin’ two of ye at me beck and call.” Her breathy voice turned sharp, and she jabbed her nail into his chest. “There’s only one way to settle this. Take off yer shirt.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Man of Fortune goes live October 21!

Grab your copy today, and let the adventure begin!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3lVLIBX

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Everywhere Else: mybook.to/ManofFortune

How Much Research Goes Into A Historical Novel?

Isn’t history fascinating? I relish the opportunity to delve into the everyday details of the Regency period, and if you enjoy my books, you probably do too. If you’d like a glimpse into some of the research that goes into a novel, please read on.

Note: These are by no means all of my sources. I picked the links I thought you would enjoy the most, being both informative and entertaining.

Lady Lucas’ pug thinks some of that meringue would make a lovely treat for such a good girl.
Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

Are you curious about the recipe that won Mr. Darcy’s heart? Click here to see the inspiration for Mr. Darcy’s favorite plum cake. Please let me know if you give this a try! I chickened out (pun intended!) when I saw how many eggs this recipe required. Hint: It’s A LOT.

So, of all the eggs…why a duck egg? To make a greater splat, of course! Do you want to see the difference in size between a chicken and a duck egg? Click here for a picture comparison, as well as a peek into the Austen’s garden where they would have kept poultry.

Speaking of eggs…

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match had several Easter eggs. Did you find them?

Did you catch a song title by The Clash? It’s hard to imagine a British punk rock title fitting in a Regency era story, but it worked so well, I snuck it in and left it there for my eagle-eyed rock fan readers to find. 

Here’s another one: Several nods were given to All God’s Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. Mrs. Hurst was inspired by one of his characters. And you might have recognized his name as the Meryton farrier. Here’s what I learned about the important role farriers played in the development of veterinary medicine!

Here’s a lovely picture of Princess Charlotte with her beloved Maltese, Lioni.

And finally, here’s a glimpse into the Regency parlor game Miss Bingley suggested—and which backfired in her face. Speaking of games…did you recognize Spillikins as Pick-Up Sticks? 

If you have no idea why I’m sharing these links with you, then click here to grab your copy of A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match! Colonel Fitzwilliam bets a guinea that you’ll chuckle at least once. 

So Many Eggs…

Isn’t history fascinating? I relish the opportunity to delve into the everyday details of the Regency period, and if you enjoy my books, you probably do too. If you’d like a glimpse into some of the research that goes into a novel, please read on.

Note: These are by no means all of my sources. I picked the links I thought you would enjoy the most, being both informative and entertaining.

Lady Lucas’ pug thinks some of that meringue would make a lovely treat for such a good girl.
Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

Are you curious about the recipe that won Mr. Darcy’s heart? Click here to see the inspiration for Mr. Darcy’s favorite plum cake. Please let me know if you give this a try! I chickened out (pun intended!) when I saw how many eggs this recipe required. Hint: It’s A LOT.

So, of all the eggs…why a duck egg? To make a greater splat, of course! Do you want to see the difference in size between a chicken and a duck egg? Click here for a picture comparison, as well as a peek into the Austen’s garden where they would have kept poultry.

Speaking of eggs…

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match had several Easter eggs. Did you find them?

Did you catch a song title by The Clash? It’s hard to imagine a British punk rock title fitting in a Regency era story, but it worked so well, I snuck it in and left it there for my eagle-eyed rock fan readers to find. 

Here’s another one: Several nods were given to All God’s Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. Mrs. Hurst was inspired by one of his characters. And you might have recognized his name as the Meryton farrier. Here’s what I learned about the important role farriers played in the development of veterinary medicine!

Here’s a lovely picture of Princess Charlotte with her beloved Maltese, Lioni.

And finally, here’s a glimpse into the Regency parlor game Miss Bingley suggested—and which backfired in her face. Speaking of games…did you recognize Spillikins as Pick-Up Sticks? 

If you have no idea why I’m sharing these links with you, then click here to grab your copy of A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match! Colonel Fitzwilliam bets a guinea that you’ll chuckle at least once. 

A New Regency Romantic Comedy!

Are you in the mood for a light-hearted, low-angst novel that’ll give you a few chuckles? That’s what I set out to write in my latest novel, A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match, and I hope this story brings you as much joy as it’s brought me over the past few months.

Doesn’t Elizabeth look like she’s up to something? Hint: She is!

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match

Opening Lines from Chapter 1

Darcy brushed the sweat trickling down his cheek, the folded messages sliding against the lining in his waistcoat pocket propelling him to Matlock House.
It was a rare occurrence for Darcy to receive correspondence from his relatives when they lived walking distance from his own residence. They preferred simply to call.
One note on any day was unusual. Two notes on the same day was disconcerting. To receive one from his aunt, followed by another summons a quarter of an hour later from his uncle, was alarming.
Picking up his pace, Darcy ran down the damp sidewalk, his boots slapping against the wet pavement and marring their polish.
A long string of grand houses lined one side of the street facing the park, the grass vibrant green against the dull gray sky. His uncle’s house was on the corner, five bays wide, the whitewashed stucco overwhelmed by the gloomy weather threatening to break yet again.
The first drops pelted against Darcy’s hat just as he reached the bottom step.
The butler flung open the painted black door, taking Darcy’s hat and gloves. “His Lordship is expecting you, sir.” Despite Perkins’ decades of experience repressing emotion into a tone of bland indifference, Darcy heard his relief and felt it with the efficiency with which the butler relieved him of his damp hat and greatcoat.
Apprehension rippled through Darcy. The situation must be dreadful if the servants were uneasy.
A shadow fell over the marble from behind him, and the squeak of wet boots slipping on the slick floor and the subsequent, “Thunder ‘an turf!” identified the newcomer before Darcy turned to see Charles Bingley, arms flailing to catch his balance.
“You got the summons as well?” No sooner had Bingley uttered his question than the obvious answer struck him. He grimaced. “Of course you did. The colonel must be in a proper fit of the blue devils.”
Darcy grimaced. He had warned Richard, but his cousin had refused to listen. And now, here they were….

What trouble has Colonel Fitzwilliam gotten into? Curious to know more?

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Anywhere Else in the World: Click HERE!

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match will deliver to your Kindle on Thursday, July 15!

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match, Chapters 1-3

CHAPTER 1

Darcy brushed the sweat trickling down his cheek, the folded messages sliding against the lining in his waistcoat pocket propelling him to Matlock House.
It was a rare occurrence for Darcy to receive correspondence from his relatives when they lived walking distance from his own residence. They preferred simply to call.
One note on any day was unusual. Two notes on the same day was disconcerting. To receive one from his aunt, followed by another summons a quarter of an hour later from his uncle, was alarming.
Picking up his pace, Darcy ran down the damp sidewalk, his boots slapping against the wet pavement and marring their polish.
A long string of grand houses lined one side of the street facing the park, the grass vibrant green against the dull gray sky. His uncle’s house was on the corner, five bays wide, the whitewashed stucco overwhelmed by the gloomy weather threatening to break yet again.
The first drops pelted against Darcy’s hat just as he reached the bottom step.
The butler flung open the painted black door, taking Darcy’s hat and gloves. “His Lordship is expecting you, sir.” Despite Perkins’ decades of experience repressing emotion into a tone of bland indifference, Darcy heard his relief and felt it with the efficiency with which the butler relieved him of his damp hat and greatcoat.
Apprehension rippled through Darcy. The situation must be dreadful if the servants were uneasy.
A shadow fell over the marble from behind him, and the squeak of wet boots slipping on the slick floor and the subsequent, “Thunder ‘an turf!” identified the newcomer before Darcy turned to see Charles Bingley, arms flailing to catch his balance.
“You got the summons as well?” No sooner had Bingley uttered his question than the obvious answer struck him. He grimaced. “Of course you did. The colonel must be in a proper fit of the blue devils.”
Darcy grimaced. He had warned Richard, but his cousin had refused to listen. And now, here they were….
Bingley babbled, betraying his nerves with senseless chatter. “I am horribly ill-equipped to be of any help. Really, I have no experience when too often I am the one in the suds and in need of your and the colonel’s counsel to bail me out. But if Lord and Lady Matlock consider my presence necessary, I will do what is within my power to do. However little that may prove to be. Not that I am completely useless.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “But — dash it all, Darcy — I had hoped to be celebrating with the colonel. Not this.”
Far from senseless, Bingley had hit the mark squarely on the nose, and Darcy was reminded to give his younger friend more credit. Bingley had matured a great deal since those simpler days when he, Richard, and Darcy spent their summers away from Eton between Matlock and Pemberley. Richard, being the oldest, had been in his final year, whereas Bingley was in his first — the son of a man who had made his fortune manufacturing cotton in the North, shorter and skinnier than the other boys, and possessing the unfortunate tendency to blush at the slightest provocation. While the importance of choosing one’s associates meticulously had been ingrained into Darcy since birth, his sense of justice did not allow for him to turn a blind eye to his peers’ bullying of the newcomer. He had been quick to agree when Richard suggested that they extend Bingley their protection and friendship, elevating him to acceptability through their association.
Quick to draw right conclusions. Quick to act. That was Richard. It felt odd to be here for his sake. He should have been able to see what had been painfully evident to Darcy.
Aunt Helen descended the stairs, her lips thin and her eyes strained. “Thank you for coming, boys.” The tenderness with which she addressed them made Darcy feel like a stripling.
He took her hands in his. “How is he?”
Her lips disappeared completely. “As well as a gentleman in his place would be. It is your uncle’s wish, as well as mine, that you both exercise some influence over him. Especially you, Bingley.”
Bingley’s jaw dropped. “M-me? I mean, if you are certain — It is only that — Are you sure you mean me?”
She patted his arm. “It is not my custom to misspeak.”
He colored. “Of course not. It is only that I cannot recollect any occasion in which anyone at all has sought the benefit of my advice. Not one.”
With the overbearing sisters Bingley had, Darcy was not surprised. It was amazing he had managed to form any opinions of his own at all without one of them harping on him to change it.
Lowering her voice, Aunt said, “I hope you will not take offense, but I was under the impression that you have suffered more than one heartbreak and, therefore, are in an excellent position to help my Richard.”
Bingley brightened considerably, his chest puffed in pride. “If I am an expert in anything, it is in falling in and out of love.”
Calf love, Darcy considered. He gladly yielded to Bingley’s expertise. Darcy would not give his heart until he was certain the lady not only suited him perfectly but also returned his affection (based on his own merits and not those which his wealth, position, and connections would guarantee her).
“Precisely,” said Aunt, holding her hands out for them to take and walking up the stairs like a queen between her bodyguards. “I am convinced that Richard’s attachment was more fanciful than genuine — you know how impulsive he can be — and I am counting on you boys to convince him not to waste any more time on a coquette beneath his touch.”
The coquette, in this instance, was Miss Arabella Honeyfield, the beauty of the season with a string of beaus vying for her hand. There was a reason she remained unmarried, but Richard would not hear anything against her. Affection had muddled his brain, eclipsed his sense. Darcy’s warning had ended in a quarrel, and even now that his point had been irrevocably proved, he took no delight in it. Richard was too good a man to fall for a flighty, senseless miss. Better to cry a thousand tears now than weep one’s regret for a lifetime.
They passed Uncle Matlock’s study — where the best brandy and whiskey in the house could be found.
His aunt must be taking them to the billiard room. Darcy took a deep breath, preparing himself for the stench of cigar smoke and the unsightly clutter of empty bottles, decanters, and glasses.
Aunt Helen breezed by the billiard room without so much as a glance.
Darcy sucked in a breath. Was Richard so foxed he could not find his way out of bed? Added to the image of whiskey-rimmed tumblers staining tables were untouched trays of food in a dark, stuffy room. He took another deep breath as they neared Richard’s bedchamber door.
But Aunt Helen passed it by without a pause.
Where was she taking them?
Bingley caught Darcy’s glance, eyes wide with uncertainty. Darcy could only shrug.
Finally, Aunt Helen stopped in front of the library. It was the last room in which Darcy would have suspected his cousin to seek solace. Richard was more of a man of action than of books. And yet, that was the door before which they stood. Gripping her hand around the knob, Aunt said, “He has not left this room in five days,” then pushed open the oak barrier.
No bottles. No decanters. No glasses. Not so much as a tea tray was visible. Only a leather wingback chair surrounded by tables toppling with towers of tomes. And in the middle sat Richard — neck deep in books.

CHAPTER 2

“Goodness me,” Bingley whispered in a hushed library voice.
Darcy was equally astonished. He tilted his head to the side to read the titles — philosophy and military strategy padded with pamphlets of sermons and narrow tomes on etiquette. Themes much too diverse to tell him anything.
He pondered his cousin’s appearance. There was a wildness to Richard’s hair and unclipped whiskers, but he did not appear unhinged.
Aunt Helen touched Darcy’s shoulder. “I will be in my sitting room if you need me.” Her eyes remained trained on her second son, her soft singsong the same tone Darcy used to calm a riled dog.
At the sound of his mother’s voice, Richard looked up. Dark circles rimmed his red eyes. Bingley, too, gasped at the shadow of a man before them. One glance, and Darcy understood his aunt and uncle’s urgency.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had always been a model of vitality and exuberance, as quick to stand up in a fight as he was quick to laugh, the first to adapt and advance. He was a favorite at the dinner table, his conversation lively and emotive. A man highly respected by his subordinates in the army — certainly not the sort to lose all sense of his surroundings or allow for anyone to sneak up on him lest he wanted a pistol trained on his person. Darcy did not know this disheveled book enthusiast hiding behind walls of theories, manners, and stratagems.
Stepping forward cautiously, Darcy spoke as softly as his aunt had. “Good afternoon, Rich.” What did a person say to a man undone? “I trust you are in good health?” He pinched his lips closed before he could utter anything else so stupid.
Richard snapped the book in his hands closed, jabbing the cover with his thick finger, his cheeks feverish and his words rushed. “It is all here, Darcy. All the wisdom of the world distilled through the centuries from the greatest minds of the past.”
Bingley stepped closer, curiosity getting the better of him. “Have you found the secret of happiness? The purpose of life? The key to understanding women? Or how to best Darcy at a game of poker?”
A sly smile gave Darcy a promising glimpse of his steady cousin. “Until you learn to master your emotions as he has done, you would do well not to waste your time in that endeavor, Bingley. And, no, I found no such other treasures of wisdom, however I found the next best thing — a slip of paper with our dearly-departed-and-sorely-missed Cook’s recipe for plum cake.”
Darcy’s gaze roved over every surface for a glimpse of that slip of paper. His aunt’s Cook’s plum cake was as great a source of happiness as anything else Darcy had experienced in his lifetime.
“I can only imagine an under-cook copied it and hid it in one of the pamphlets to retrieve later,” Richard added, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You know how closely Cook guarded her receipts.”
Darcy did. In the fifteen years since her passing, he had yet to sample her cake’s equal. And he had sampled many.
Shaking his head at himself, Darcy pulled his attention away from the promise of plum cake and turned it back to the grieving cousin he was supposed to recall to his senses.
Bingley rubbed his chin. “I remember the cake well and declare that one slice would fill me with enough contentment to last the rest of my life. A man would be happy with a woman who could bake like her.”
Darcy considered that Bingley was altogether too easy to please. Left to his own devices, he would engage Richard in a discussion of food, avoiding the issue for which they were summoned to Matlock House and making their stomachs miserable with hunger.
He motioned to the buttress of books surrounding Richard. “I see you are deepening your intellect. Have you found any information of use?”
Richard shoved his fingers through his hair, the feverish expression heightening the color in his cheeks. “You strictly adhere to the strictures with which we were raised, Darcy. Your judgment has been impeccable, and while I have always wished you would relax and enjoy the advantages you have been born into, I now understand why you are the way you are … especially in new society.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows, intrigued at his cousin’s newly gained insight.
Bingley scratched his head. “Taciturn?” He startled, coloring as he realized he had spoken his thought aloud, and added hastily, “Not with us, mind you. Merely, I have noticed how…” He waved his hand in the air like one attempting to conjure an elusive word.
“Cautious,” Richard supplied.
“Precisely!” Bingley said, snapping his fingers. “You are magnificently cautious … er, around new acquaintances.”
Darcy had no desire to be the means by which Richard would distract them. “Come, Richard. My character is neither so interesting nor complex to merit five days’ study. Your mother and father are worried. This is not like you.”
Richard leaned back with a groan. “I fear there is something inherently wrong with me, Darce. I have lived resourcefully, saving every extra penny to invest in the percents. It has always been my firm belief that my sacrifice would be rewarded with a comfortable establishment, and once I secured that, with a loving wife with whom to share it.”
“A reasonable expectation, and one you are hardly at fault for holding.”
“Ah, but it is not enough, is it?” Richard said with an edge. “Even with my recent good fortune inheriting my uncle’s estate, the lady would not have me.”
“Her loss, certainly not yours.”
Bingley nodded vehemently. “I cannot imagine why any lady would refuse you. You are a jolly chap. Normally. Under better circumstances.”
“I am not wealthy, and while I am the son of an earl, I will not inherit the title. And no one would consider me handsome.”
Darcy opened his mouth to object, as did Bingley, but Richard raised his hand to silence them. “All circumstances beyond my power to change fully, and I assure you that I do not resent them. Harry can have the title and all the responsibilities that come with it. His time will never be his own, and I consider the money and properties poor compensation. No, gentlemen, what I have to offer a lady is only myself.” He sighed. “And I have been forced to see that I am not suitable enough to tempt a lady into matrimony.”
“If a lady loves you, sincerely and truly, she will accept you for who you are with no need for change.”
“We will have to agree to disagree on that point, Darcy. My character is the one thing I have in my power to change, and change it, I must. I will.”
“To what? Your character is exemplary and agreeable on all accounts.” Darcy would not have Richard alter his nature for the world … and most certainly not for an indecisive female who senselessly refused a man who would have done anything to make her happy. Fool woman.
His agitation heightened, Darcy forgot he had asked a question until Richard replied.
“I aim to be more like you.”
Darcy’s mouth opened, but no words, not even breath, passed his lips. A deep sense of foreboding sucked the air out of his lungs, such a dread he could not explain. He took great pride in his dignified character, so why did it chafe his consciousness for Richard to adopt his manner? He only knew he did not wish it.
The door to the library swung open, and the swishing skirts and padding slippers announced the arrival of Harriet, Richard’s youngest sister. Darcy’s only sister, Georgiana, followed behind her, making no noise at all.
Harriet flicked a wayward curl over her shoulder, her voice equally flippant. “Is he still a gloomy philosopher, casting his melancholy net over those of us who wish to meet with greater success for our upcoming first season, or is he the older brother I know and adore?”
Richard made a face. “Not gloomy, only awakened to my faults. I trust I will soon resume my place in your affection, Harriet.”
She shrugged. “There is a glimpse of my favorite brother, at least. Mr. Bingley’s influence, I trust?” Smiling at him, she added, “It is difficult to persist in an unhappy manner when in the company of your most affable friend.”
She did not so much as glance at Darcy. What was he — a surly ogre? He tried not to let it bother him, but it did. Surely, Aunt and Uncle would not have called for his assistance unless they thought he would have an uplifting effect on Richard.
Bingley sat taller in his chair, the light of a brilliant idea shining in his face. “I have just the thing! What you need is to leave dreary London. Why do you not join me at Netherfield Park? The fields are favorable for riding, and the hunting, the bailiff assures me, is excellent. Come, Richard, Darcy, bring your sisters and accept my invitation. We shall make a merry party, and you will soon forget your troubles.”
Harriet immediately declined. “Just because that fluff-brained nitwit refused my brother’s offer—”
A shadow crossed Richard’s face, and the muscles at his jaw twitched.
“I can see you would defend her still, but I will call her what she is,” Harriet continued. “One Fitzwilliam’s failure does not condemn me when I am determined I shall meet with greater success. If I am to marry by the end of the year, I would do better to stay where I am more easily caught.”
“Do not say that, I beg you, Harriet,” Georgiana said quietly. “Just because you do not feel his heartbreak does not make it any less real.”
Darcy encouraged her boldness with a smile, knowing how difficult it was for her to speak at all, and much less about the heart. She was so young, not quite sixteen, but Georgiana knew heartbreak. If Darcy ever needed a reminder of the value of honesty and loyalty, he had only to think of George Wickham — breaker of innocent hearts, dasher of dreams, charming prince of deception.
Darcy caught Richard’s look, and from the stiffness in his cousin’s posture, Darcy understood that he too thought of their foe.
Impervious to the tension in the room, Harriet laughed. “Do not allow me to put a damper on your fun. Please, Mr. Bingley, take my brother away. At least, remove him from the library where he has been camped the better part of this week. I daresay he could use a good airing out.”
Before Darcy could refuse, Aunt Helen breezed into the library. Clapping her hands, she said, “I knew you boys would know precisely what to do.”
Uncle Matlock followed behind her, his hands clasped behind his back and a smile peeking through his thick whiskers.
Between his aunt and uncle’s visible relief, the anticipation growing in Georgiana’s face, and the way Richard rose to stand behind one of the towers of books on the table as though it might protect him from the other occupants in the room, Darcy’s decision was swift.
He dared not speak for Richard, but he trusted Georgiana’s influence would persuade his cousin.
Looking over at Bingley, Darcy nodded. “I am pleased to accept your invitation.”
Bingley beamed. “Excellent! We depart on the morrow.”
“Jolly good!” exclaimed Uncle Matlock. Leveling a more somber look at his son and niece, he added, “I suggest you begin packing.”
Once again, Darcy found himself dashing down Upper Brook Street as though Bingley’s sister Caroline was chasing him. Had he given any consideration to himself, he would not have accepted Bingley’s invitation. The threat of months in Miss Bingley’s company was enough to set Darcy’s teeth on edge. But Aunt and Uncle Matlock were happy, Richard was out of the library, and Georgiana seemed content. He would endure Miss Bingley and the onslaught of new acquaintances they were bound to meet in Hertfordshire.

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth Bennet set her novel aside when her dearest friend, Charlotte Lucas, was announced. Rising to her feet and taking Charlotte’s hands, Elizabeth pulled her over to the corner where she and her eldest sister, Jane, attempted to escape the usual ruckus and mayhem created by their vociferous mother and younger sisters inside Longbourn’s drawing room.
“This is a pleasant surprise, Charlotte. Do you have news?” Elizabeth settled beside her friend on the settee.
Charlotte glanced about, lowering her voice so that Elizabeth and Jane leaned closer to hear.
“I do have news — of the best kind.” Another glance about the room. Elizabeth had to read her lips to understand her now. “I was fortunate enough to be near my father when my brother asked about the gentleman at Netherfield Park.”
Jane smiled dreamily, leaning forward to look at Charlotte. “How did Sir William describe Mr. Bingley?”
Glancing around the room once again to ensure they were not being overheard, Elizabeth noticed her sisters fighting over ribbons while their mother absentmindedly plucked at a piece of plum cake, no doubt dreaming of a pack of unmarried gentlemen who would come marching into Meryton to sweep her daughters off their feet, carrying them away from Longbourn and out of her anxious concern.
Elizabeth had hoped her father would call on the recently arrived gentleman who had only recently let Netherfield Park, but Mr. Bingley had returned to London to fetch the rest of his family, and her own father delighted in avoiding the question when Mother, Elizabeth, or any of her other four sisters pressed him for an answer.
She understood his humor well enough to know he would not reveal what he had or had not done until he could extract the greatest amount of vexation from it from Mama. Thus, he stood to benefit more fully from Mama’s attention and favor when he finally revealed that he had, in fact, not overlooked his fatherly duty entirely by doing what he could to advance the prospects of his five unmarried daughters.
While Elizabeth appreciated his cleverness, she would never understand why he played these games. Papa took too much pleasure in vexing Mama. Mama, in turn, took great pleasure in being vexed. And Elizabeth had long ago drawn the conclusion that if she were to have any advantage at all in her life, or be of any help to her sisters, she would have to be the one responsible for it. Not her father. Certainly not her mother.
All this, Elizabeth thought before Charlotte replied, “My father professes Mr. Bingley to be everything a gentleman ought to be. As I could extract neither a description of his person nor a more thorough account of his character, I must rely on my knowledge of my father’s most highly held virtues and thus conclude that Mr. Bingley is jolly, attentive, and familiar with St. James.” She pressed her lips closed, her eyes dancing impishly. Charlotte had a tremendously under-appreciated sense of humor. It was one of her features Elizabeth most loved, besides her infallible reason.
She teased in turn, “In other words, Sir William managed to establish an acquaintance with a gentleman in which he learned nothing of advantage or import.”
Charlotte laughed. “Certainly nothing helpful to us unmarried females. Did Mr. Bennet do no better?”
Jane sighed. “He remains maddeningly silent on the subject.”
“You? Mad?” Charlotte asked in feigned shock.
The three ladies eventually fell silent, and Elizabeth imagined their thoughts had all taken the same turn. She dearly wished to know what Mr. Bingley looked like, or, more important, if his presence at Netherfield Park would improve their society … or their prospects.
But Sir William was not one to fix on such details, and her father was not one to share them if he had.
Charlotte sat back, cleverly changing the topic before their alternate whispers and silence drew unwanted attention from the other side of the room. “Delayed expectations aside, our new neighbor appears by all means to be a generous sort who will not refuse to widen his circle of acquaintance. And he mentioned his intention to invite more friends over the course of the hunting season.”
Elizabeth’s heart lightened considerably. “How considerate of Mr. Bingley to bring friends. I pray for his sake that he brings enough to satisfy our mothers, although for myself, I am inclined to agree with Sir William and declare him to be the finest gentleman to set foot in all of Hertfordshire.”
Jane looked down at her feet, struggling to control her smile. A lovely blush brightened her cheeks. Gentlemen were scarce in their limited society, and while they both were several years younger than Charlotte — and, therefore, had time enough to find matches — neither of them could afford not to recognize an opportunity when it was presented to them. They had a pittance of a dowry, an entailed estate, an undistinguished family, two sisters whose wild tendencies caused them no little concern, and few enough accomplishments of the sort society expected of the landed gentry. Their mother, ever optimistic when she was not wallowing in the depths of despair, held out high hopes for them to marry advantageously, but she had done precious little to prepare them for such a splendid match.
Had the bearer of their good news been anyone but Charlotte, Elizabeth might have let her heart soar higher at the brilliant prospect before them. But Charlotte, at the ripe age of seven and twenty, had made no secret of the burden she felt herself to be to her family … and her determination to accept the first man who favored her with an offer of marriage. Elizabeth’s heart sank with a heavy drop. She hated to think of her friend settling for anyone less than what she deserved — a gentleman who would cherish her and make her feel beautiful and appreciate her humor and treat her well.
“What do you wish for in a husband?” Elizabeth asked, hoping Charlotte would say more than a secure establishment.
Charlotte replied instantly, “I only wish to be asked. I am not romantic and require very little. Only a modest home to manage. Nothing grand, just comfortable.” Her smile was thin and her eyes dull. Was that what the threat of being shelved did? Dull dreams and extinguish hope, thus stealing a lady’s spark?
While Elizabeth prayed she and Jane were spared such a cruel end, she wished to spare Charlotte from an unhappy, unsuitable union.
Charlotte tilted her head toward Jane. “I hold the highest expectation of you marrying very well, Jane, and I am convinced you will be happy with whichever gentleman you choose to marry. Such is your gentle, forgiving nature.”
Jane’s only disadvantage was a lack of suitable gentlemen in a position to propose. Her blush deepened over her porcelain skin. “I should very much like to fall in love with the gentleman I accept,” she whispered, as though her wish was too outrageous to speak aloud. Knowing Jane, she thought her desire selfish.
“Only do not be so shy in displaying your affection,” Charlotte counseled. “We know your nature, but most gentlemen are insecure creatures in need of reassurance. You must not allow for him to doubt the depth of your attachment.”
“You cannot expect Jane to flirt,” Elizabeth gasped.
Charlotte pursed her lips. “That is not at all what I mean, Lizzy, and you ought to know it. I only mean to point out that those of a shy disposition are too often understood as aloof or indifferent.”
What her astute friend said was probably true, but Elizabeth frowned at the care a lady had to take, at the unfairness to their gender. “I know we must do our duty to our families, but I cannot help but lament the disadvantages we must overcome if we are to marry for love and not merely for convenience or, worse, lack of any other option.” She took Jane’s and Charlotte’s hands into her own. “Both of you are more likely to place everyone else’s desires above your own. More than anything, I want to see you both happily settled, united with gentlemen you deeply love.”
“You often say that you will not be persuaded to marry at all unless it is for the deepest love, but you cannot truly mean it, Lizzy? Can you?” asked Jane.
“Why should we marry for anything less?”
Charlotte arched her brow. “What would a gentleman require to persuade you to marry?”
Elizabeth’s smile spread over her face. “Only that he be devastatingly handsome and disgustingly rich,” she teased.
Charlotte’s sharp eyes examined Elizabeth. “Balderdash. That is what you say, but we all know your tendency to favor the disadvantaged and wronged. You would sooner fall in love with a poor foot soldier than a wealthy gentleman, no matter how much we wish otherwise.”
“Or a gentleman denied his inheritance or tricked out of his fortune,” added Jane.
Elizabeth laughed. They knew her too well.
Charlotte continued, “Furthermore, you are far too clever by half and independent to a fault.”
Jane nodded. “No ordinary gentleman will do.”
“An extraordinary gentleman, then? Does such a man exist?” Elizabeth teased.
“He would have to satisfy your intellect and fill your heart, otherwise you would soon grow bored of him.” Charlotte sighed. “Really, Lizzy, I pity you.”
Clasping her hands over her heart, Elizabeth failed completely in keeping her high humor out of her voice. “When you put it so plainly, Charlotte, I am absolutely doomed! I suppose there is nothing left for me to do but accept my lot. If Jane is bound to marry to save our family, and you are determined to marry the first man who proposes, then I declare I shall marry a perspicacious … and penniless … pauper.”
Jane looked askance at her. “Marry a pauper if you must, only do not marry an officer.”
Elizabeth giggled, leaning in conspiratorially to keep her voice low. “Never that! We would hear of nothing but red coats and brass buttons for years to come. Mother would praise me, and Lydia and Kitty would become so jealous they would not rest until they have secured impoverished officers of their own. Poor Papa would never have any peace.”
Charlotte took a deep breath, shaking her head as she exhaled. “We must face the harsh truth, ladies. Unless the right gentlemen come to us, there is little else we can do to improve our prospects. We would sooner strike a deal with Napoleon himself and end the war. I hate to agree with you, Lizzy, but we are all three of us doomed to snatch up whomever we might. Jane, I have no doubt, shall fare the best of us, for I truly cannot envision any other ending but the happiest for someone so sweet-natured. I would do well to marry a clergyman, whom I will encourage to attend generously to his parishioners and his garden, leaving me free to make our cottage as comfortable as his modest income will allow. And you, Lizzy are bound to surprise us all by marrying either exceedingly poorly or exceedingly well.”
“And be accused of marrying above myself? I would rather not,” Elizabeth scoffed. “All the sideways glances from people who would assume the worst of me, who would gossip amongst themselves that I had bewitched him with my cunning manipulative arts. I would rather marry a gentleman with no prospects, or, as you so eloquently put it, a penniless poet or philosopher.”
“How terribly prejudiced of you, Lizzy. Really, though, if you must choose between the two”—Charlotte said dryly—”then I beg you to consider the disadvantaged son over the impoverished wordsmith. There is no quicker way to kill a stout love than with an empty stomach and an earful of bad poetry.”
They laughed at their situation, making light of their prospects because they were powerless to do anything more. Too much — their happiness, well-being, security, their very freedom — rested solely on their ability to marry advantageously. Elizabeth hated the unfairness of it. She hated the desperation wrapping its cold fingers around her stomach and stealing her breath. And she hated how her expectations rose just like everyone else’s at the thought of Mr. Bingley and the company he might bring with him to Netherfield Park.

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9 Things Forget Me Not, Elizabeth Taught Me…

A lot of the enjoyment I get from writing is in the research. Here are some of the gems I uncovered in my latest book!

Here are the Top 9 things I learned during the creation of Forget Me Not, Elizabeth:

Photo by Noah Boyer on Unsplash

1. Forget-me-nots haven’t always been so romantic.

The forget-me-not (translated from 1530s Old French ne m’oubliez mye) was worn by lovers to ensure they never forgot each other. However, these delicate, blue flowers were known as ‘scorpion-grass’ in England until the early 19th century. Not nearly as romantic…

2. The Royal Navy’s uniform was inspired by a woman. Fashion matters! (Says the person wearing a t-shirt and yoga pants…)

3. Ironically, the originator of the theory that a second blow to the head will cure amnesia…apparently died of a head injury.

4. As early as the 1700s, electronic stimulators were available to the public for treating the brain. Shocking!

5. Frankenstein was inspired by the experiments of 2 eccentric Italians who believed they could bring people back to life with electricity. The uncle-nephew duo’s experiments were both grotesque and extremely popular.

The Hospital of Bethlem [Bedlam], St. George’s Fields, Lambeth. Coloured engraving. Credit: Wellcome Collection. Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

6. Bedlam, the famous insane asylum, was a tourist attraction often compared to the Palace of Versailles.

The fancy façade disguised crumbling walls and deplorable living conditions for the patients inside.

7. Belladonna, or Nightshade, was the go-to beauty treatment for rich women.
The flowers made a lovely rouge and the oil, used as eyedrops, dilated the pupils, making eyes appear larger. The berries are sweet. Too bad they’re so very deadly.

Photo by Vivek Doshi on Unsplash

8. If you want to attract a swarm of bees (like many people do), use a brood comb.

One of the gentlemanly pastimes of the Regency era was beekeeping, not so much for the bees but for the science. They might have used this method to attract bees and further their studies.

9. Mr. Collins was not a very nice beekeeper (according to the ’95 BBC film adaptation, anyway.) Regency beekeepers used straw skeps to house their hives, which, unfortunately for the bees, meant that collecting their honey was a murderous business.

What do forget-me-nots, uniforms, bees, belladonna, Bedlam, blows to the head, and Frankenstein have to do with Darcy and Lizzy?

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