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The storm had rolled in swiftly, the sky turning dark as if in response to the tension mounting inside the house. Thunder cracked overhead, rattling the windowpanes of Netherfield Park, but inside the drawing room—far from the happy dinner party nestled inside the estate— the greater tempest raged between two uncommonly stubborn characters.
Rain lashed the windows as lightning cast fleeting shadows over the drawing room, where Elizabeth Bennet stood, eyes flashing, hands clenched at her sides. Opposite her, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a picture of rigid disdain, jaw clenched tight.
'You presume too much, Mr. Darcy,' Elizabeth said coldly, standing near the hearth, the fire casting gold and copper across her face. Her eyes, always quick to sparkle with mirth or indignation, now held nothing but ice.
Darcy's brow furrowed. He stood tall, posture perfect, but his hands were curled into fists. 'And you, Miss Bennet, assume too much. You take delight in misunderstanding me.'
'I take delight in honesty. Something I daresay you are unfamiliar with.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Is that truly what you believe of me? That I am dishonest?'
'Yes,' she snapped. 'How else should I interpret your treatment of Mr. Wickham? Your disdain for my family? Your interference in my sister's life?'
Darcy advanced a step. 'You know nothing of what passed between Wickham and myself. You take a liar at his word because it is convenient to your opinion of me.'
Elizabeth stood her ground. 'And you think your silence noble? Your judgment righteous?'
'I think,' he said tightly, 'that you are the most maddening woman I have ever encountered.'
'And you are the most arrogant man I have ever had the misfortune to know!' she snapped, her cheeks flushed with anger.
'And you,' he returned, stepping forward, 'are determined to misunderstand me at every turn.'
'Oh, do forgive me,' she said coldly, 'for judging a man by his words and actions.'
Darcy’s eyes darkened. 'You twist them until they no longer resemble truth.'
'And you speak as if yours is the only truth worth believing.'
The room was too small. Or perhaps it only felt that way with him in it—his presence, a weight, a heat, a constant pressure against her will.
He advanced a step. 'You think me proud.'
'I know you proud.'
'And what are you, Miss Bennet?' he demanded, voice rising. 'So quick to mock. So certain in your prejudice. Do you take pride in that?'
She blinked, startled—but not silenced. 'Better to mock pride than to live in it!'
Their voices rang in the empty room, echoing off the high ceilings and polished wood. The rain began to hammer harder against the windows.
Elizabeth turned, as if to walk away, but something in her refused to give him the last word. She whirled back, chin high. 'You act as if the world should bend to your will. Do you not see how intolerable you are?'
Darcy took a slow breath, as though struggling against something within him. 'I have tried to forget you.'
The words struck her like a blow. Her breath hitched, but she recovered quickly. 'Then do so. I give you leave.'
'Do not mock me.'
'Then do not provoke me.'
Her breath caught—only for an instant—but he saw it. He felt it.
'And yet,' she whispered, stepping forward before she could think better of it, 'you always find your way to me.'
They were close now. Far too close. Elizabeth hadn’t realized how near he’d drawn until she could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of rain and wool and something earthy that clung to his clothes.
He looked down at her, his face inscrutable save for the storm behind his eyes. 'Why must you always fight me?'
'Why must you always give me cause?'
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Thunder crashed once more, and still they did not move.
Then, low, rough: 'I cannot stop thinking of you.'
Elizabeth’s heart jolted. 'You hate me.'
'I tried.'
Her voice was a whisper. 'So did I.'
Their breaths tangled between them.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
Lightning flared again, briefly illuminating the wild look in his eyes—and the matching tempest in hers.
She should have turned away. He should have stepped back.
But she could smell the starch of his cravat, feel the heat radiating from his chest. She was breathing too fast. Or maybe he was.
Her voice was barely audible, hoarse and trembling. 'I hate you.'
His hands twitched at his sides. 'Then why,' he said roughly, 'does it feel like this?'
'Like what?'
'Like burning.'
There was silence—absolute, suffocating, searing. The kind that fills your lungs with ash instead of air.
And then the world narrowed. The storm faded. The fire dimmed. There was nothing but breath, and skin, and heat, and the unbearable space between them.
His hand lifted slowly, as though against his own will, and brushed a curl from her cheek. She flinched but did not pull away.
Their eyes met.
She surged forward.
Or maybe he did.
Their mouths crashed together with all the grace of thunder. It was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was frantic, wild, a clashing of wills and fury and need. His hands gripped her arms, hers clutched his lapels like lifelines. They devoured, desperate and aching, tasting anger and something far more dangerous beneath. Her hands clutched at his coat, pulling him down. His arms wrapped around her back, crushing her against him.
When they broke apart, both gasping, her eyes were wide with horror.
'What are we doing?' she breathed, dazed.
'I—' His voice failed him. His hands were still on her. He did not let go.
'We hate each other,' she said, as if saying it might undo what had happened.
But her voice trembled.
He stared at her mouth like he didn’t believe it.
'No,' he said quietly. 'No, we do not.'
Her heart pounded painfully. 'I don’t— I shouldn’t want this.'
'Nor I,' he said, swallowing. 'And yet…'
And yet.
The space between them—what little was left—buzzed with energy, confusion, the ghost of the kiss that should never have happened.
'I cannot bear you,' she said, but her voice shook with the weight of a lie.
'And I,' he said slowly, 'cannot stay away from you.'
Her lips parted in protest, but nothing came.
In that moment, soaked in firelight and thunder, with desire clashing against pride, Lizzy Bennet realised that somewhere between their quarrels and glances, between every sharp word and lingering stare, she had crossed the line.
She stepped back, one hand to her mouth. 'This is a mistake.'
'Yes.'
But neither of them moved farther apart.
Lightning flickered. In its light, she saw the torment on his face—and the longing.
Her lips still tingled. Her mind screamed. Her heart raced.
'I shouldn’t want this,' she said.
'Nor should I.'
They stared. The silence stretched.
And then, brokenly, he whispered, 'But I do.'
And heaven help her, she did too.