That evening, back at Netherfield, he dreamed of Elizabeth Bennet, and they were not the terrifying dreams he often experienced when he met an attractive woman. Normally, his dreams, when he allowed himself to dream, held images of terror—blood dripping from open wounds and his inner animal overcoming him. Such horror shook his being, and he often smothered his cries of abhorrence with a pillow. But tonight, his dreams took on different overtones. He pushed a strand of hair away from Elizabeth’s face while his lips brushed hers fleetingly. She looked deeply into his eyes, and Darcy wanted the security he saw there. Then he kissed her more passionately, his tongue invading her mouth and claiming Elizabeth as his.The scene went no further, but a half-awake Darcy replayed it many times until it felt right—felt the kiss—felt the heat.“Mmm, that is nice,” he murmured as he rolled to his left side to allow slumber to overtake him again. Surprisingly, he felt alive—felt strong—when he imagined holding Elizabeth Bennet in his arms. It was an exquisite torment; something he could desire, but something he could never do.

Elizabeth Bennet held no such fascinations for Fitzwilliam Darcy, at least, not on the surface. She had observed him all evening, watching his air of superiority—the ultimate master of Pemberley, just as her Aunt Gardiner described him. Mr. Darcy, obviously, thought his actions were above reproof—maybe even above the law.

After that evening, the word of how he snubbed her spread through the neighborhood, and her pride clouded any feelings of attraction she might hold for him.