Page 1 of Mr. Darcy’s Storm of Temptation (Seasons of A Steamy Pride and Prejudice Variation)

The sky had been threatening all afternoon, dark clouds massing on the horizon as the carriage rolled through the Derbyshire countryside.

Elizabeth Bennet shifted on the worn leather seat, attempting to find a more comfortable position while her aunt dozed peacefully beside her.

Mr. Gardiner sat opposite, engrossed in his correspondence despite the increasing roughness of the road.

"We should reach the inn within the hour," Mr. Gardiner announced, glancing up from his papers. "Though I confess, this weather concerns me."

Elizabeth peered through the window at the ominous sky.

They had departed Lambton after a pleasant morning of shopping, and she had been lost in thought.

Specifically, she dwelt on thoughts of a certain estate they had visited just the day before.

Pemberley. The very name sent an unexpected warmth pooling in her stomach.

Stop this foolishness , she commanded herself.

Yet her traitorous mind returned again and again to Mr. Darcy's transformed demeanor, to the way his eyes had softened when he looked at her, and perhaps a hint of returned interest in his gaze?

But more than that, she thought of his letter.

That horrible, wonderful letter that had shattered every certainty she held about him.

For weeks after reading it, she had been unable to think of anything else.

She could still recall the weight of it in her hands that morning at Hunsford, how her fingers had shaken as she broke the seal.

His words about Jane, about Mr. Wickham, and about his own failings haunted her still.

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.

" The humility in that admission had shocked her.

She had read those words so many times she had them memorized.

Each reading had peeled away another layer of her prejudice, revealing truths she had been too proud to see.

Yesterday, seeing him again, witnessing his kindness to his servants, his devotion to Georgiana, the way he had looked at her with such unguarded longing when he thought she was not watching had confirmed what the letter had begun, she had not only forgiven his imagined faults, but she had grown to hold him in high affection.

No, more than that. It had confirmed a passion she had been denying for months, knowing it was impossible after her harsh rejection of him.

She pressed her palm against the cool window glass, trying to calm the flutter beneath her ribs.

The truth terrified her. How could she want a man she had so despised?

Yet the evidence was undeniable. Her heart raced when she thought of him, and she had felt alive when their eyes met across the drawing room at Pemberley.

He had offered them Pemberley's hospitality at any time during their visit to Derbyshire. Had that been more than politeness?

The first fat drops of rain struck the carriage roof like warning shots. Within moments, the scattered drops became a deluge. Thunder cracked overhead, so sudden and violent that Mrs. Gardiner started awake with a cry.

"Merciful heavens!" she exclaimed, clutching at her husband's arm.

The horses whinnied in terror. Elizabeth's stomach lurched as the carriage tilted sickeningly to one side, and the driver shouted something unintelligible over the storm's fury. Another thunderclap sounded, closer this time, and the horses bolted.

"Hold on!" Mr. Gardiner commanded, bracing himself against the wall.

The world became chaos. Elizabeth's body slammed against the window, her shoulder screaming in protest. The carriage careened wildly, and she tasted copper.

She had bitten her tongue. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the leather seat, nails digging in desperately.

She heard the sharp crack of splintering wood, felt the world tilt further, her body lifting momentarily from the seat, and then they stopped.

For a moment, no one moved. Rain hammered against the carriage roof. Elizabeth's heart pounded as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she could feel a warm trickle where the window's edge had cut her palm.

"Is anyone hurt?" Mr. Gardiner's voice cut through her shock.

"No, no, I think not," Mrs. Gardiner managed, though her face was pale as parchment.

Elizabeth shook her head, unable to trust her voice.

She became suddenly, horribly aware of her state.

The window beside her had cracked during their wild ride, allowing rain to pour in.

Her muslin dress was soaked through on one side, the thin fabric clinging to her body in a way that made her skin burn with mortification.

She could feel every curve outlined, her stays visible through the transparent material.

Her hair hung in wet ropes around her face, pins scattered and lost.

Mr. Gardiner pushed open the door, fighting against the wind. "Driver! What is the damage?"

The cold air that rushed in made her nipples tighten visibly beneath the wet fabric. Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks flaming despite the chill.

Please, let no one come until I can settle myself and find some semblance of dignity.

But the sound of approaching hoofbeats shattered that hope. Her pulse skittered wildly. Brigands? In this storm? The rider who materialized through the rain sat his mount with commanding authority, his broad shoulders unmistakable even through the downpour.

No. Oh goodness, no.

Mr. Darcy.

Every nerve in Elizabeth's body screamed with conflicting emotions. Mortification at her state warred with a shocking thrill at seeing him. The man who had occupied her thoughts, who had written her that soul-baring letter would now see her like this.

Yet beneath the shame, something else stirred. A dark, thrilling voice whispered: What if the fire I thought I saw in his gaze was not my own imaginings?

"Mr. Gardiner!" Mr. Darcy's voice carried over the storm, rich with concern rather than the cold reserve she remembered from Hertfordshire. "What has happened? Are you injured?"

"Mr. Darcy!" Her uncle sounded relieved. "No injuries, sir, but our wheel is damaged. We are quite stranded, I fear."

Through the cracked window, Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy examine the wheel, his powerful frame moving with intention despite the rain soaking through his greatcoat.

Water ran in rivulets down his face, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

When he turned back toward the carriage, their eyes met through the glass.

His lips parted, his eyes widening as they traveled over her disheveled state.

She watched his gaze drop to where her dress clung to her breasts, saw his jaw clench as he forced his eyes back to her face.

But the damage was done. That single, searing look had set her skin ablaze.

Her breasts felt heavy, sensitive, and she was horrifyingly aware of how the wet fabric pressed against her body, revealing far too much of her form for any modesty.

"Miss Elizabeth." His voice came out rough, almost strangled. "You must be— that is, you must all come to Pemberley at once. It is less than three miles, and I can send for another carriage immediately."

"We could not possibly impose," Elizabeth began, her voice high and breathless.

"It is no imposition." His tone brooked no argument, but she heard the underlying strain.

He was already shrugging out of his greatcoat with sharp, almost violent movements.

Before she could protest, he was leaning into the carriage, bringing with him the scent of rain and horses and heated male skin.

The coat was still warm from his body as he draped it around her shoulders.

His gloved fingers brushed her arm through the wet muslin, the barest touch, yet she felt it like a brand.

Her skin erupted in gooseflesh that had nothing to do with cold.

This close, she could see droplets of rain caught in his dark lashes, could feel the heat radiating from him despite his wet clothes.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over her thundering heartbeat.

Their eyes met and held. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes appear almost black.

His hand still rested on the coat at her shoulder, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.

His fingers flexed subtly, as if he wanted to grip her, pull her closer.

The air between them crackled with electricity that had nothing to do with the storm.

"We must get you warm," he said, his voice low and intimate, meant only for her. "You are shaking."

She was, but not from cold. Her whole body shook with awareness, with the sudden, overwhelming realization that she wanted his touch.

That she had wanted it since reading his letter, since understanding the man beneath the proud exterior.

He had said: "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. "

Did he still?

Could he?

The Pemberley carriage arrived quickly, and Mr. Darcy himself helped Mrs. Gardiner in first. When he offered his hand to Elizabeth, she hesitated. Even through her glove, she knew his touch would undo her.

But she had no choice. The moment their hands connected, heat shot up her arm.

His fingers tightened around hers, steadying her as she climbed down.

For one moment, she was pressed against him, her body sliding along his as she descended.

She felt the hard planes of his chest, smelled the intoxicating scent of his skin: soap and sandalwood and something wildly masculine that made her knees weak.

A soft sound escaped her, part gasp, part something else entirely. His breath hitched in response, his hand moving to her waist to steady her. The heat of his palm burned through the wet fabric, and she swayed toward him involuntarily.

"Careful," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

The carriage was smaller than their hired conveyance, built for four but cramped with five.

There was no choice. Mr. Darcy had to sit beside her, his thigh pressed along the length of hers.

Every jolt over the rough road pushed her against him, her breast brushing his arm, her hip grinding against his.

She could feel every breath he took, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white, the tendons in his forearm standing out with tension. She realized with dawning awareness that he was fighting for control, that their proximity was torture for him.

The knowledge sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Every point where their bodies touched burned. She could feel the humid warmth trapped between them, his sandalwood scent mixing with rain and pure male essence.

Another jolt, harder this time. Her hand flew out instinctively, landing on his thigh. Rock-hard muscle tensed beneath her palm. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his whole body go rigid.

"Forgive me," she gasped, snatching her hand back.

"Think nothing of it," he ground out, but his voice was strained to breaking.

She risked a glance at his profile. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she could see the rapid pulse at his throat.

His wet shirt clung to his chest, outlining every plane of muscle.

She had never been so aware of a man's body before, never understood how the sight alone could make her mouth go dry and her core clench with unfamiliar hunger.

What is happening to me?

When Pemberley's lights finally appeared through the rain, she did not know whether to feel relieved or devastated. The thought of leaving this forced intimacy, of losing the excuse to be pressed against him, left her strangely bereft.

As they pulled up to the entrance, Mr. Darcy turned to look at her fully for the first time since entering the carriage. His eyes were wild, dark with something that made her breath catch.

"You are safe now," he said roughly. But the way his gaze dropped to her lips suggested safety was the very last thing either of them should feel.