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E lizabeth whirled around, her skirts wrapping around her feet because of the rapidity of her movement, when she heard the door behind her open. Lady Braxton was the first to step out of the parlour, but the smile she gave Elizabeth was enigmatic at its best. Was it a congratulatory expression that she was wearing on her face, or was it a pitying one? Elizabeth could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Lord Braxton, her grandfather, was the next one out. He looked just about as grumpy as he ever did. Elizabeth only bit her lip and kept looking at the door.

Fitzwilliam walked out of the room.

The breath she had been holding left her in a huff.

She did not think she had ever seen him look more like a boy. His eyes were sparkling, his cheeks were ruddy, and his smile was as bright as it had ever been.

Elizabeth grinned back at him, feeling like there was a little sun lodged in her, warming up the inside of her chest.

They were getting married!

She was trembling from the effort to not run to him, to not jump into his arms in an undignified heap of giggles and kisses. She could see that he was no better. Elizabeth observed his right-hand twitch, as if he had just barely managed to stop himself from reaching out to her. He clenched the hand in a fist, and pressed it against the side of his thigh.

“Perhaps,” Lady Braxton, possibly Darcy’s favourite future relation at the moment, suggested pragmatically, “We should give the two lovebirds some time alone.”

“Hmph!” Lord Braxton harrumphed, but went along with his wife anyway, turning around to head to his study, “I shall see you in my office in five minutes, Mr. Darcy.”

“Yes, sir.” Darcy managed to respond, eyes still not moving away from his fiancée. Elizabeth looked like a picture of health and happiness as she stood before him. The backlight from the window behind her seemed to set her skin aglow. Her pink cheeks, her euphoric smile, the love in her eyes-

It was impossible that he was still standing. It was impossible that he was still in possession of his faculties. She completely overwhelmed him with her loveliness. The moment they were alone, he stalked towards her, and she surprised him again when she covered the distance between them just as eagerly, hopping onto her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

Darcy squeezed her waist, properly relaxing for the first time in days in the comfort of her embrace,

“We are to marry!” She whispered, as gleeful as a child, against his ear. Darcy’s grip tightened around her,

“We are to marry.” He confirmed. Pulling away, he kissed her temple, her cheek, her jaw, her neck. After the ordeal that was that interview with her grandfather, Darcy was feeling uncharacteristically woozy with relief. Or perhaps, he was just a little drunk on the taste of her skin, on the scent of her hair, on the softness of her flesh.

It was not until a few minutes had passed that Darcy was able to think again. He admitted to Elizabeth how surprised he was when he found out that she had belonged to the family of the Earl of Wrexham. Elizabeth looked up at him, astonished,

“I thought you knew!”

“How was I supposed to? None of the Bennets, or the people of Meryton in general, mentioned that you were the granddaughter of an earl.”

“Well… my status certainly is something that I like to keep under-wraps when I am visiting my father’s side of the family, but considering how active you are in society, and how fond of gossip the Bingley sisters are, I had assumed that your party had discovered who I was straight away. After all, there are not a lot of Braxtons in Wrexham.”

Darcy felt like an idiot. Had not Mrs. Hurst suggested the possibility on the very first night their party had made Elizabeth’s acquaintance? Darcy had then been too exhausted by the sisters’ tittering and complaining to give their words any thought. He wished he had. Not because it might have stopped him from proposing in the first place (Darcy was not sure there was anything in the heavens and the earth that would dissuade him from wanting to marry Elizabeth Braxton), but because he would have had more time to prepare for the coming hardships. He might have convinced the Braxtons to let him marry their ward, but he still needed to inform his side of the family of his decision.

The Fitzwilliams were not going to be very well pleased by his choice of bride. They certainly did not have any say in who he married, but the conversation that would follow, especially the one with his aunt, was sure to be migraine-inducing.

Elizabeth was looking up at him worriedly, chewing at the side of her bottom lip in unease, “It had not been my intention to trick you in any way.”

Darcy blinked, “Of course, it was not. The thought had not even crossed my mind. Elizabeth, I do not care which family you belong to. You could have been a penniless daughter of the silliest family in England and I still would have wanted to marry you. I still would have proposed. Whatever histories our families share, they have nothing to do with us.”

He looked at her intently, willing her to understand his conviction. Darcy, from a very young age, had had very strong beliefs and principles installed in him by his esteemed father. In the seven and twenty years of his life, he had never had to question those beliefs. Neither was he in the habit of giving up things that he wanted for the sake of others. The world could think of him as a privileged, over-indulged, man for all he cared, but in the matter of his matrimony, he was willing to consider no one's judgement but his own.

Elizabeth grinned, “Fitzwilliam, I had never thought I would ever say this, but sometimes, you can be very adorable.”

He frowned. It was a knee-jerk reaction to her unsettling comment,

“I do not think anyone has ever called me adorable since I started attending Eton at nine years of age.” Contemplating her statement for a moment, he added, “I do not like it.”

She laughed, “A pity, for it is a very accurate term for the face you are currently making.”

Darcy was just about to retort when a door a few rooms down the corridor opened, Lord Braxton stepped out into the hallway,

“Mr. Darcy, am I to assume you have given up the suit considering how unwilling you seem to be to discuss finances?”

Lady Catherine de Bourgh spent the majority of her day lounging on the large, stuffed Chesterfield chair upholstered with the finest brocade fabric, and heavily embroidered with gold and silver silk threads. Oddly enough, the singular chair did not face the fireplace where one might enjoy its warmth, nor did it face the window where one might enjoy the view. The Chesterfield was positioned so as to provide its user with an unhindered perspective of the entrance of the room, through which one could keep an eye on the comings and goings of all the occupants of the house. It did not matter that the chair was not the most comfortable of furniture pieces, or that there was a distinct darkening on the fabric in the shape of her derriere from extended use. It was still the most majestic seat in the house, placed in the most extravagantly decorated parlour in the mansion, and it was thus a seat that belonged to Lady Catherine de Bourgh as the mistress of Rosings.

She had been sitting on the aforementioned chair for a little over three hours on a fine winter day when her butler, Jeeves, brought her an envelope on a silver tray. The inferior quality of the paper, the dullness of the red wax seal and the near illegible writing on the correspondence had her frowning in distaste, and yet, since she had nothing else to do, she decided she might as well read her parson’s letter.

Mr. Collins had written to her of his visit to his cousin’s estate, which was to be his on the occasion of said cousin’s passing. The family, the Bennets if she recalled correctly, had only four daughters (a reprehensible failing of the mother, no doubt). Lady Catherine had considered it only her Christian duty to advise the vicar to choose a wife amongst the daughters so that the family would not be thrown out of their abode in the future.

Collins, it would seem, was unable to follow her wishes. He reassured her that he had, in fact, proposed to marry the third Bennet sister (The first was said to be on the verge of an engagement, and the second had been too scholarly and bookish to be suitable to become a pastor’s wife). However, against every common sense and judgement, he was rejected by Catherine Bennet.

In an unusual twist of fate, however, Mr. Collins, after his failure to gain the hand of a Bennet daughter, had removed to the house of another family, the Lucases, for the rest of his stay in Hertfordshire. There, he had made the acquaintance of a Miss Lucas. The eldest daughter of Lucas's family was a good Christian woman with a sensible head on her shoulders. She showed an appropriate amount of interest in his situation and readily accepted the teachings of his esteemed patroness. It had not taken more than two days since his first rejection for Mr. Collins to decide that Miss Lucas was, both in temperament and character, the best suited to be his bride.

Not wasting another moment, he had proposed to the lady and was readily accepted. He was thus planning to wed as quickly as possible so as to introduce his wife to his patroness and return to his duty as the vicar of Hunsford.

All of this Lady Catherine read, and by none of it was she intrigued. Her only thought throughout the whole tale was about how hoydenish and insensible the Bennet sisters must be to reject a perfectly good and sensible marriage offer. She had certainly had a narrow escape. Lady Catherine had no need for a woman who did not know her place in the world.

Mr. Collins had also written of his experience attending his first ball. This, more than anything else in the letter, gripped her interest. For at the ball, Collins had made the acquaintance of her favourite nephew, Darcy.

Lady Catherine read through the report on her nephew with renewed alacrity. The man had, as was to be expected, forwent the first and the supper set, but, shockingly enough, he had danced twice with some young lady by the name of Miss Braxton. Not much about her was known except that she was pretty and a visiting cousin of the Bennets. Darcy had also, uncharacteristically, spent the majority of his time at the ball in her company. Expectations had been raised, and Meryton was rife with gossip about a prospective match between the two guests.

The two of them had fled to London simultaneously after the ball, giving further credence to the rumours in the village. Mr. Collins had not considered it his place to confront either member of the party, though, he was heartily disappointed by the behaviour of the gentleman who, Collins knew, had the privilege to already be betrothed to Miss Anne de Bourgh, the jewel of the county.

Lady Catherine was incensed! That her nephew would behave in so scandalous a fashion! That some floozy of no consequence would manage to entrap him in her seduction so thoroughly that he would forget his duty! His honour! His very place in society!

It was not to be borne!

Lady Catherine struck her cane against the carpeted flooring in righteous fury, “Jeeves! Jeeves!” She shouted for her butler,

The man in question, lanky and balding, veritably ran into the room, barely managing to come to a stop just inside the threshold,

“M-Madam.” He announced his presence, his voice a little winded.

“Have my trucks packed immediately, and make arrangements for travel. We leave for London at first light!”