Saved from Scandal: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

By Caitlin Marie Carrington

Saved from scandal...but ruined by love?

Elizabeth Bennet is shocked when the unthinkable happens at the Netherfield ball. And no, she is not referring to proud, pompous Mr. Darcy asking her to dance—though that was a surprise, as was his fine dancing ability.

But when Elizabeth takes a moment to cool herself on the verandah outside, Mr. Wickham shocks her by crashing the party—and then attacking Elizabeth!

He's madly intent to ruin her in front of her friends, family, and most especially Mr. Darcy. But when Darcy is the first to discover Elizabeth and Wickham in what appears to be a compromising position, the master of Pemberley shocks her and saves her—by claiming Elizabeth has promised to marry him!

Lizzy can't be content with a forced marriage, even one that saves her and all the Bennets from scandal. But as she slowly grows to know Mr. Darcy, she realizes she's in danger of losing her heart...

To a haunted man who can never love her back.

Gentle readers, please note that this Pride and Prejudice fanfiction variation focuses on the blooming love and emotional connection between Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. (Alright, and a few fiery confrontations!) But the newlyweds DO share heated, sensual moments, as well. It is an intimate, sensual variation. Get ready for a deliciously scandalous adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caitlin Marie Carrington
• Release date: Dec 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386962670

Caitlin Marie Carrington

By day, Caitlin Marie Carrington juggles motherhood, her editing job, one surly cat and all the adorable drama that life with small children (and one giant husband) entails.  By night, she imagines new adventures for our dear couple, Elizabeth and Darcy.  Hang out with her on Facebook for new-release info, excerpts, and all the Darcy memes you can handle: https://www.facebook.com/CaitlinMarieCarringtonAuthor

Book preview

1

Elizabeth

L et me go! Let me go at once!

Elizabeth gasped and tried to wrench her arm from Mr. Wickham’s horrible grasp. Despite her struggles, he held her fast. He clutched her so hard that she realized, on the morrow, her arm would have bruises in the shape of his hand.

Lizzy! A panicked voice sounded from across the dark gardens.

That is my father! she cried, pushing Mr. Wickham away from her—or trying to. His chest was broad and his body heavier than she imagined. Not that she had ever imagined Mr. Wickham in such a way as this: pressing her against a balcony railing and attempting to kiss her.

Repeatedly!

Have you lost your mind? Elizabeth hissed. Get away from me! I have never encouraged your particular affections, and I certainly rebuke them now. Get off of me. My father will be here any moment, and he will—he will—

She stopped and stared at Mr. Wickham in horror. What would her father do, once he found his unmarried daughter and Mr. Wickham in a compromising position outside Netherfield's ballroom? Would Mr. Bennet challenge the younger man to a dual?

She could not let that happen. Even if Mr. Wickham had purchased his commission and had no actual military skills as of yet, she knew the younger man could best her aging father.

I will not, Mr. Wickham said, grabbing her other arm and pulling her close again. She struggled wildly.

Stop it, or I’ll be forced to slap you.

It was the cold cruelty in his words, as much as their meaning, that froze Elizabeth and chilled her to the bone.

What are you playing at? she whispered. Their bodies—their faces—were so close that she could see the faint lines around his eyes, smell his heated breath. But it was an awful juxtaposition. Elizabeth knew that, from a distance, they would look like lovers embracing. But there was nothing like love between them.

Mr. Wickham’s light brown eyes, once so kind and full of laughter, were cruel, cold, and horribly flat.

She thought of how Mr. Darcy had reacted when meeting Mr. Wickham in town—how Mr. Darcy had turned white and barely acknowledged the poorer man’s existence. At the time, Elizabeth thought Mr. Darcy horribly pompous. But now, she wondered: what did Mr. Darcy know about Mr. Wickham, that she did not?

"I’m not playing at anything, Miss Bennet, dear. I’m deadly serious."

Lizzy!

Her father’s voice came from below the balcony, and she saw him racing as fast as his painful knees could take him, up the steps of Netherfield’s wide garden verandah. Inside, not sixty paces away, the revelers at Charles Bingley's ball laughed and danced, light and merriment spilling out onto the shadowy veranda.

Where she was trapped.

Elizabeth had had such high hopes for this ball—ones she had to laugh at now. Of course, Mr. Bingley had danced with Jane and was obviously in love with her. The man had thrown the ball just to impress Elizabeth’s older sister, not that Jane could believe it or admit it. That was the best part of the evening, as Mrs. Bennet so eagerly pointed out to, well, everyone.

And Elizabeth—fool that she was!—had been so excited to see the very man who now held her captive. But when she'd arrived, her dear friend Charlotte had informed Lizzy that Mr. Wickham and his dapper red coat would not be attending. Elizabeth had guessed why the charming man was keeping away: Mr. Darcy.

Those two obviously had some sort of horrible, secret history—a deep and abiding animosity. And not two hours ago, Elizabeth had firmly believed her new friend Mr. Wickham to be the wronged party.

Then she had been forced to accept a dance with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. She didn't care if he was worth ten thousand a year—she had believed him to be proud, arrogant, awful.

And it hadn't helped that Elizabeth had overheard Mr. Darcy insulting her looks. Not that Elizabeth minded if Mr. Darcy found her barely tolerable. She could withstand the pinpricks to her vanity; it would make her a better person.

But if he did only find her barely tolerable, then why had Mr. Darcy asked her to dance? She had wanted to refuse, but somehow found herself accepting. And then, Mr. Darcy had proven himself to be…perhaps not all light and entertainment…but not a villain, either.

He had been…quiet.

And a remarkably good dancer.

And he had asked about Mr. Wickham, and how well Elizabeth and her sisters knew him. He obviously loathed the man. After the dance, Elizabeth could not stand her mother's pestering questions about what Mr. Darcy had talked about, or her sister Jane's pitying glances…

Or the fact that her own heart was beating rapidly. And not just from the half-hour of fast-paced dancing.

Elizabeth had fled to the verandah to calm herself under the low, fat full moon. She'd laughed as she had spied her father, wandering below in the gardens. He had had enough of the noise and dance—and her mother's loud proclamations about Mr. Bingley and Jane's hoped-for marriage. She'd watched her father just disappear among the hedges when she'd heard a footstep behind her.

Miss Bennet, a smooth, low voice had said. Just the young lady I'd hoped to find, all alone.

She'd turned to discover Mr. Wickham, staring at her, a strange, sickening smile on his formerly handsome face.

And then he'd walked forward, grabbed her, and attacked.

2

Elizabeth

M y father is at the base of the steps. He will be here any moment, Elizabeth hissed. So you had best let me go!

Mr. Wickham held her wrists in his hands, and try as she might, she could not free herself. His chest, wearing the bright red regimentals she had so foolishly admired, was pressed against hers. She realized she had never been this close to another man besides her father or uncle.

"I am counting on your father being here and witnessing this spectacle, Mr. Wickham said, his teeth clenched and she again tried to escape his grasp. In fact, please do scream again—perhaps then you will attract the attention of some of the party-goers as well."

You are mad! Elizabeth cried.

He jerked her closer to him, and she froze as he bent over her. His eyes were wild, his dark golden hair messed. He was so close she could feel his hot exhalations on her lips.

"I am, he growled. I am mad—but I am not insane. I saw the way he looked at you. I will not stand for it. He cannot take everything. He shall not win this time!"

What are you talking about? Elizabeth looked behind her, helplessly. Her father was clutching the railing, but still at the bottom of the steps. He raised his cane in their direction and shouted at Mr. Wickham, but the younger man paid Mr. Bennet no mind.

"Him. Mr. Darcy."

Elizabeth turned to look back at her attacker. "Mr. Darcy? I have no idea what you mean—Mr. Darcy?"

I saw how he danced with you, how he watched you all night, keeping track of your movements.

Mr. Wickham wasn't even looking at her now. His eyes were focused somewhere behind her, toward the ballroom. Elizabeth struggled against him, amazed that he seemed to have forgotten his fierce grip on her wrists. He also seemed immune to the fact that her entire body was pressed against his, caught between the cold, stone railing of the balcony and his lean, strong length.

The insanity, and the intimacy, overwhelmed her. She could feel her heart beating madly in her chest; her toes hurt where Mr. Wickham had stepped on her feet; her wrists were in pain and would be bruised from his maniacal grasp—

But none of this was as disturbing as the look in the man's eyes. He had forgotten her entirely. His face was turned, and his eyes watched the glowing ballroom windows.

His mind was obsessed with Fitzwilliam Darcy.

You are wrong. I barely know the man. And he barely acknowledges my existence.

At her words, Mr. Wickham barked a laugh and turned to face her. You are a pretty little thing, he said, his voice gentling. "Not a true beauty, like your older sister. If only Darcy had preferred her; now there's a piece I'd like to corrupt. But you will do. Oh yes, you will do quite nicely."

Elizabeth, despite her fear, marveled at the changes in his tone. He was violent and wild one second; genteel and endearing—at least his voice was—the next.

You, Sir, are insane, Elizabeth said, with more bravado than she felt.

Perhaps, he whispered, bending closer, as if they were lovers and not—Elizabeth could not think what they were, except madman and captive. "Perhaps I have lost my mind. But it is his fault, you see!"

I see nothing, and as soon as my father reaches us, neither will you! He'll call for your own militia to put you in chains!

Mr. Wickham smiled, those very same laugh lines Elizabeth had admired days earlier now feeling eerie and out-of-place as leaned forward and touched his nose to hers.

My sweet, your doddering old father will do no such thing. For as soon as he reaches us, he will see you are compromised. And I must say, we do make quite a dashing pair, do we not? We look just like lovers, sneaking off for a secret rendezvous. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Being the boring, bookish daughter of a gentleman? What fun it will be to teach you.

You shall teach me nothing, except that a handsome face and debonair dress can hide the worst of human souls! Elizabeth shouted. She brought up her knee to kick him, but he blocked her, then grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard until her teeth clattered against one another and her vision went hazy for a moment.

"I'll teach you that, and much more, my sweet. You've been compromised now—I'll kiss those berry-red lips in a moment, and seal our fate. Your father has too many daughters to let one be ruined. Oh no, he'd far prefer a convenient, if hasty, marriage to an officer."

Elizabeth gasped, finally realizing why Wickham was holding her in place.

My father will never believe you. He sees what you are doing. He heard my cries for help. He trusts me.

Mr. Wickham smiled sadly, and Elizabeth realized—he looked at her as if he pitied her.

Oh, Miss Bennet, that very well may be true. But he will be the only one who believes you. The other gentleman does not know you so well.

Who are you talking about? Elizabeth cried, desperate as he leaned forward as if to kiss her.

Right before his lips touched her, he smiled and whispered, "The man standing behind you. Darcy."

3

Darcy

He felt her absence before his senses truly took it in. Although he had tried not to watch her, not to care—all night, Miss Elizabeth Bennet had invaded his horizon.

There she was on the dance floor, looking more graceful and elegant than any poor country gentleman's daughter had the right to.

And there, in the corner, she laughed and made merry with her friends.

And there, she smiled and gazed up at her aging father, as if he held all the wonders of the world in the book he clutched in his free hand.

Who brings a book to a ball? Caroline had asked.

Darcy had bit back his retort: I would, if it would not insult Charles as the host.

Of course, he was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. He had ten thousand a year. He could get away with nearly anything—and what most of the congregation here did not know was—he typically did.

Everyone here in this small town looked at him and saw his money, his great house, his staid and—as Miss Bennet had all but said aloud—pompous exterior. And yet, despite that, all bowed before him and said anything and everything to win his favor. What no one knew, not even his friend Charles Bingley or his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, was how much he detested them.

All of them.

He'd fallen into his position of power too young, when his parents both passed away within years of each other. And ever since, people had tried to win him over. When he was barely a child, others tried to control him—to their own detriment. He was not a fool, and never had been.

He'd barely been a child, really.

Now everyone wanted something from him. And it was…exhausting.

Everyone except her.

Elizabeth Bennet and her flashing eyes, her slow, secret smiles. Perhaps that was the reason—that must be the reason—that he suddenly, completely, and overwhelmingly had fallen under the spell of this humble country girl…

He had tried to fight it, tried not to look at her lovely, bright eyes, her pretty face with freckles from the sun, her pert little nose, and those full, luscious lips he could not stop dreaming about at night…

He had coughed into his fist and willed himself not to grow aroused and awkward as a fifteen-year-old boy in the middle of the ballroom. It was simply because he had not found release in many months. It was simply because he was—no, not lonely—Fitzwilliam Darcy had too many friends, too many responsibilities, to be lonely.

It was…her.

She called to him.

He wanted to talk to her. Protect her. Kiss