Authors: Maria Grace
Tags: #regency romance, #Christmas, #Pride and Prejudice sequel, #Jane Austen sequel, #Jane Austen variation pride and prejudice variation Jane Austen fan fiction Pride and Prejudice sequ, #Jane Austen fan fiction Pride and Prejudice sequel
To Forget:Darcy's London Christmas: Pride and Prejudice continuation; Sweet Tea Short Story
To Forget: Darcy’s London Christmas
by
Maria Grace
Published by: White Soup Press
To Forget: Darcy’s London Christmas
Copyright © December 2015 Maria Grace
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,
in any format whatsoever.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information address
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Author’s Website:
http://RandomBitsofFascination.com
Email address:
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“Grace has quickly become one of my favorite authors of Austen-inspired fiction. Her love of Austen’s characters and the Regency era shine through in all of her novels.”
Diary of an Eccentric
To Forget: Darcy's London Christmas
Darcy persuades Bingley to leave Netherfield Park in favor of London to avoid the match making machinations of Mrs. Bennet. Surely the distractions of town will help Bingley forget the attractions of Miss Jane Bennet.
But Bingley is not the only one who needs to forget. All Darcy want this Christmastide is to forget another Miss Bennet.
Can the diversions of London help Darcy overcome memories of the fine eyes and pert opinions of a certain Hertfordshire miss?
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Sweet Ginger
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DEDICATION
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For my husband and sons.
You have always believed in me.
Chapter 1
D
ecember 24, 1812
Darcy closed the parlor door. The Yule Log crackled in the largest fireplace in the house. The Gardiners, Georgiana and Fitzwilliam were safely upstairs now, and they had the room to themselves.
At last.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at him, that dear half-questioning, half-enticing look in her eyes.
No point in trying to hide the smile that crept over his lips. She would know, and that was as it should be.
He gathered up a stack of pillows and blanket left for him by Mrs. Reynolds and piled them near the fireplace.
“You seem to have something in mind, Mr. Darcy.” She cocked her head just so.
“Indeed I do, Mrs. Darcy. Will you join me?” He gestured toward the pillows.
She extended her hand, and he helped her down into the soft pile of down and wool. He settled in behind her, drawing her close against his chest. She leaned into him, her head just under his chin. Her hair smelled of lavender and something uniquely her.
“This time last year, Mr. Darcy, you were in London. You have never spoken to me of your Christmastide there.”
“There is a reason for it.”
“I have no doubt. There is a reason for everything you do. Still, I would very much like to know what you did during your last Christmastide as a bachelor.”
“It was not a pleasant time, though you will probably find the tale rather amusing, now.”
“Then tell me.” She craned her neck up and fixed shining eyes upon him.
“Ah, but what will you give me for the privilege of my tale?”
“Tell me sir, and I promise I shall offer you a fair price.” She winked and all possibility of saying no disappeared.
“Very well my dear, you shall have your tale.”
She cuddled into his chest and laid her head on his shoulder.
“It began the day after Bingley’s ball...”
November 27, 1811
What a difference a pair of fine eyes and a clever wit could make in an otherwise dreadful social obligation.
Darcy laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the bed curtains. Rosy rays of dawn crept around the heavy woolen panels and illuminated Netherfield’s finest guest room, a neat, functional chamber, entirely appropriate to an older country manor.
Perhaps the Netherfield ball had been a good idea after all. Despite protestations that Bingley demanded the impossible of her, Miss Bingley had arranged a first rate event. Probably the best the sleepy little market town had ever experienced.
A pleasant, country affair where one could dance with a partner and not fear it would find its way into the society pages the next day. What was there not to appreciate about that? Certainly, such an event was a novelty he might be willing to repeat.
A sharp gust of wind blew in around an ill-fitting window, fluttering the curtains. Fanciful shadows danced about the chamber. The maid had missed a corner in her dusting. He ought to mention it to the housekeeper himself. Miss Bingley might well have the poor girl sacked for the oversight.
Mother had always been particular about the housekeeping, but she trained the staff herself.
Better see the maids properly trained than to send them packing
.
Pemberley had been as dear to her as it was to Father. She ran the household with the same passion he oversaw the land. They both managed with a firm hand, balanced with the knowledge that proper instruction produced better results than repeated reproach.
Despite Miss Bingley’s constant admonishments to the scullery maids, improvement only came when Elizabeth had stepped in. How patient she had been with the scullion assigned to make up the fire in Miss Bennet’s room.
He screwed his eyes shut and threw an arm over his eyes. Not again! Why could he not shake the thoughts of her from his mind?
Maddening, utterly maddening.
He rolled to his feet and shrugged on his dressing gown. Perhaps a walk on the grounds would help him clear his mind. Unless of course he should encounter her along the way. While it might not be likely, it was exactly the sort of bad luck to taunt him.
Why did she have to be so engaging when her family was wholly dreadful?
He rang the bell for his valet.
They were truly the worst examples of every offensive vice. Indolent and disconnected, Mr. Bennet ignored anything that might demand exertion: his estate, his wife, his daughters. He settled for what came and made no effort to shape what was to come. With the power to command so much for good, Bennet still chose his own ease over caring for those under his wings.
What a revolting connection.
And to shame his own daughter in public, even one as insipid as Miss Mary Bennet! If anyone deserved his censure, it was his horrid wife.
Darcy shuddered and brushed the revulsion off his shoulders.
His valet entered and initiated the mechanics of their morning ablutions.
To be fair, Mrs. Bennet shared much in common with the match-making- mamas of the
ton
. Most were every bit as determined as Mrs. Bennet to see their daughters successfully wed. But few could match that woman’s vulgarity, speaking loudly of Bingley as though he were already shut up in the parson’s pound with Miss Bennet.
The unfettered spleen!
At least the mamas of the
ton
had fortunes sufficient to cover their bad manners, giving them the form of respectability, if not the substance thereof. Mrs. Bennet had not even that thin veil to hide beneath.
Darcy gave his jacket a final tug and dismissed his valet with a nod.
Could Bingley afford such a disagreeable association?
Connection to a landed family, even a very minor one, would be good for him and help establish his position in society. Surely, though, there were other eligible girls who would not bring disagreeable baggage with them.
After last night, it would be difficult to convince Bingley of it. The cakey sot was utterly bewitched by his principal partner of the evening. He would probably be on his way to Longbourn to call upon her yet this morning.
How could he make Bingley understand? Old money and an established place in society, like Darcy’s, could weather the improprieties of a family like the Bennets. Bingley’s fragile social standing could not.
Perhaps something would come to him over breakfast.
He made his way downstairs. Servants bustled about, still working to restore order after the night’s festivities. Darcy dodged around their efforts and ducked into the morning room.
A pleasing array of breads and meats lay spread along the side board with pots of coffee and tea nearby. Coffee’s bitter bite suited the morning time well. Tea was better for afternoon and evening.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley rose and curtsied.
Interesting that she should be up so early the day after a ball and have breakfast laid out.
“Good morning.” He bowed and seated himself.
“I wonder that you are up so early sir, did you not sleep well?”
“It is the habit of a lifetime. I rarely sleep after sunrise.”
Everything in her expression begged to be asked a reciprocal question. But questions like that had the unfortunate tendency to lead to highly improper conversations. So he raised his eyebrow and cocked his head.
She blinked several times, clearly waiting for the desired query.
Darcy poured a cup of coffee.
She added sugar to her tea and stirred it silently.
He could go on for the entirety of breakfast this way, quite comfortable in the silence. In fact, it would be preferable.
Miss Bingley resettled herself in her chair. “I hardly slept at all last night. I am sick with worry for Charles.”
She pressed her hand to her chest and leaned back with a sigh.
Drama belonged in the theater, not in the morning room.
“Has he taken ill?”
“After a fashion. Do you not consider him love-sick over Miss Jane Bennet?” Miss Bingley buttered a slice of toast.
How peculiar she should be considering the same things as he. Peculiar and uncomfortable.
