Nicole Clarkston, author of the recently released and #1 Best Seller, Nefarious, is stopping by and sharing a vignette! You are going to love it! The scene is from Elizabeth's point of view instead of Darcy's. Since the book is written from Darcy's point of view, it is fun to get Lizzy's thoughts in this vignette. But first, let's talk a bit about the book and the blurb.
Have you read Nefarious yet? Did you follow along when Nicole was posting the first few chapters at Austen Variations? I did, and I couldn't wait for the next one. Everything about this book is fantastic - from the way it was conceived to the way it concluded, and everything in between! What a great read, and it is getting rave reviews! If you haven't read it, I hope you get to soon. It is not to be missed.
Nefarious blurb
He hates everything about her.
She despises him even more.
So why is his heart so determined to belong to her?
Once trapped by marriage to a woman he loathed, Fitzwilliam Darcy is finally free again. Resentful, bewildered, and angry, he is eager to begin his life over—preferably with a woman who is the exact opposite of his wife.
He never imagined a short stay in Hertfordshire would bring him face to face with his worst nightmare; a woman similar in face, form, and name. He certainly never expected her to be so impossible to ignore.
Torn between what he believes he wants and what his heart cannot live without, his dignity begins to unravel. Will his desperation to escape his past drive a wedge into his closest friendship and destroy any hope of a future?
Will Miss Elizabeth Bennet prove to be as nefarious as his wife? Or, will the last woman in the world be his only chance at happiness?
Elizabeth Speaks
I counted to ten, very slowly.
And then, I counted ten more… and still, I felt like erupting. Or, at least,
throwing something heavy and expensive.
He was staring over the dinner
table at me again. That dark, brooding fellow—the one who had so fascinated me
when he first appeared at the Assembly with his thoughtful brow, his regal
stature, and the clean, almost severe lines of his face.
But then, there was that mouth. Never had anyone mortified me so thoroughly,
nor had so little reason to do so! It was not as if I had trod on his toes or
uttered some impertinent remark—though, Heaven knew, I did that quite often enough. But this boor, he required no assistance
whatsoever in making himself the most disagreeable, offensive, and arrogant
specimen ever to grace the humble halls of Meryton’s Assembly rooms. Ah! Yes,
they were humble, and he made certain we all knew it, proclaiming his disdain
for the room, the people, the musicians, and most of all, for me.
“Can there be a more unfortunate name in all Christendom?” he had
said of me. Yes! In fact, there was a more unfortunate name, and it was
Fitzwilliam Darcy. What celestial injustice had endowed such a striking-looking
man with a sharp mind, worldly possessions to spare, a voice that could melt wax
and eyes that could look right through a woman, and then besmirched it all with
such a contemptible, sour character?
Miss Bingley certainly did not
seem to mind his manner. If I did not miss my guess, Mr Bingley’s sister was
only waiting for the wine to pour freely enough to dull the man’s tongue into
making her an offer, or even an off-handed compliment. What a fine match she
would make for him! He seemed not at all averse to peppering his company with
ill-tempered quips, and she provided him with ample cause to display his
prowess.
I wondered if he even noticed how
desperately pathetic the woman was, as she tried to lean farther over the table
so that her feminine assets might be the more readily displayed. Probably not.
Most men were clueless in that way.
I tried to focus my energies on
making myself agreeable to the man I hoped would be my brother. I liked Mr
Bingley for his own sake, not merely for Jane’s. Who could not like the man? Mr
Bingley was genial, open, and solicitous—the perfect opposite of his sister and
his friend. How he could suffer their company, I did not understand, but their
very presence in the house proved one thing beyond any doubt: if Mr Bingley
could tolerate their incivilities
with good humour, my own family would seem a pleasant diversion in comparison.
“Upon my word!” Miss Bingley
cried, fluttering her hand near her breast and making certain to catch Mr
Darcy’s eye as she did so. “I should not have thought it possible! Can you
really have an aunt and uncle in trade? No, my dear, I shall not believe you.
You are the very picture of everything cultured and refined.”
Hah! As if she did not sneer down her nose at me every time she glanced
my way! I laughed back, trying not to insult my hostess, for her brother’s
sake. “I am afraid my arrival this morning was anything but elegant.”
I saw Mr Darcy’s rigid brow
dimple in agreement with my own assessment, but he kept his eyes carefully
averted. Provoking, vexing man! Either he stared in challenge or refused to
look my way altogether. It made him wretchedly difficult to engage… not that I
wished to engage him, or to have him become engaged with me, or… oh botheration!
Miss Bingley laughed, an annoying
sound that made my shoulders clench and my spine shiver in revulsion. I might
have noticed a faint roll of Mr Darcy’s eyes, had I been looking at him. A
jolly good thing I was not, for he certainly deserved no notice from me.
Miss Bingley was still talking,
trying to amuse us all with some tale from her youth… however long ago that had been. Was it kindness or
condescension that made her observe—again—how my hems had been stained that
morning, and how I must have very agreeable relatives living in Cheapside? I
fixed her with a glassy stare and silently counted again. I made it to ten before
I had to start over due to some newly outrageous remark.
Well, she was what she was, I
supposed. If my hopes were to bear fruit, I would one day be related to the
woman, so I had best not offend her all at once. And truly, I could bear her, far
more easily than I could tolerate the man across the table. With any luck, he
would see just what a stellar match she might make him, and take her away to
wherever his estate was. Far away, I hoped.
I smiled at my hostess’ blistering
superciliousness and praised her hospitality, all while trying not to look like
I was stretching the truth until its seams would break. At least Mr Bingley was
everything charming and generous, and I did so covet him for dear Jane. What a
fine, understanding husband he would make for her! And he was smitten already,
that much was plain—just as his friend’s interest was also obvious.
Poor Jane! She had been so
uncomfortable dancing with Mr Darcy at the Assembly, with the way he stared at
her and prowled about the room after her. I still congratulated myself with
stepping into his path at Lucas Lodge, keeping him from seeking her out, and I
fairly gloated when I recalled my triumph in forcing him to ask Miss Bingley to
dance. The look he had shot me—part passionate indignation, and part
dumbfounded awe—would forever stand as one of the grandest prizes I had ever
won.
He was glaring at me again, a
curious furrow between his eyes that he had not displayed with any of his
previous scowls. It was almost as if something I had said puzzled him, and he
was even more cross because he could not make sense of it. That was when a
shaft of wicked inspiration struck.
I could not confront him
directly—not only would it be an insult to my father and my family if I were to
condescend so, but I would surely come off the loser. But I could needle him… irritate, exasperate,
and cause him to fret in impotence. What could he do but fulminate in silence?
And so, when we adjourned to the drawing room that evening, I made straight for
the book on the side table.
I knew very well whose book it
was. As if Mr Bingley would moon about for hours reading essays on morality and
human nature! And certainly, it would never have belonged to Miss Bingley or
Mrs Hurst—a fact evidenced when Miss Bingley claimed a different book for
herself and held it upside-down for the first ten minutes. No one else from this house would have such a book in his
possession, nor so proudly display the Cambridge ribbon as a marker.
How fortunate for me that I already
enjoyed Samuel Johnson! It made my own pursuit so much more satisfying,
particularly when I deliberately twirled that ridiculous ribbon through my
fingers. How red his face turned! I thought he would leap from his chair and
snatch it out of my hands that very instant, but he only turned and tried to
write a letter to someone. Probably some count or some-such, and no doubt his
letter contained a series of laments about the backwards Hertfordshire set among
whom he found himself trapped. The scoundrel. He would make little progress on
his letter, for every other moment he was glancing over his shoulder at me.
I drew a luxuriant sigh and
turned the page. There, marked with a bold stroke in the margin, was a passage
that made me stop and read it over.
“Men know that
women are an overmatch for them, and therefore they choose the weakest or the
most ignorant. If they did not think so, they never could be afraid of women
knowing as much as themselves.”
What could he have meant by
marking that? Either he appreciated Johnson’s satire—perhaps had seen the
practice played out in reality—or he had taken it as serious advice for a man
on the hunt for a bride. I narrowed my eyes and read the words again. Only a
fool would misunderstand it… and whatever else he was, Mr Darcy did not appear
to be a fool. A cynic, a misanthrope, and a bit of a peacock, in all his
elevated opinions of himself, but not a fool.
That left only the possibility
that at some point in his life, Mr Darcy, the disdainful and irascible one,
must have possessed a glimmer of good sense, and possibly even humour. I could
not help seeking his face again, hoping to trace some semblance of whimsy or
wit in those marble features—a face that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo—but
he was slanting a bold and confrontational look back at me. I felt almost like
he was willing me to despise him… as
if I needed any help in that regard! His cheek twitched and I could see his jaw
shift in challenge.
I stole my gaze quickly away,
vowing never to repeat that mistake. Handsome
as he was, intelligent as he might be, I would not permit myself to wonder
about him again. I kept my eyes studiously to the book page… but did not
neglect to toy with his bookmark, just to aggravate him. Some minutes passed in
silence
Miss Bingley seemed to have
missed his irritation, because she kept hovering around him. She had given up
on her own book, and was flitting about, trying to make him acknowledge her
existence. “How fast you write, Mr Darcy!” she praised him.
“You are mistaken,” he growled.
“I write rather slowly.”
Indeed, I could see the position
of his hand on the notepaper, and it was still near the top. Why on earth would
it take him so long to scribble out a few lines? He glanced round, as if he
were only looking at his inquisitor, but he happened to catch my eye. I gazed
back only briefly, then pretended to ignore him, making a great show of turning
the book’s page and then toying with his blue ribbon. He turned away and bent
again to his letter, but his hand was not very diligent in its task.
Miss Bingley was pacing around
his chair, casting glances my way now and again. “And how does Miss Darcy do? I
presume it is she to whom you write?”
I was trying to keep my eyes on
the book and not credit the brute with more attention than was his due, but
this caught my notice. A sister? I studied the hunched posture of his shoulders,
heard the affirmative grunt as he acknowledged Miss Bingley’s assumption, and
mused on this piece of intelligence. She must be a fearsome creature, indeed. I
pictured a second Miss Bingley—a woman of perhaps six and twenty, burdened with
far too much fortune and pride to bestow either on some unwitting earl’s son.
“And she is to come away from
school soon, of course,” Miss Bingley continued. “Shall she join us for the
festive season, Mr Darcy?”
“She is to arrive in less than a
fortnight. I am presently writing to inform her of the final arrangements,” was
his brusque answer.
Ah, so this was a much younger sister. And if Mr Darcy was
her primary guardian, she must have been subjected to all manner of conceit and
disdain during her formative years. The poor child! I felt a softening in my
heart at once for this unknown maid—though, heaven knew, she was probably just
as arrogant as her brother. However, it pleased me to conceive of some creature
I might pity for her helpless relationship to such an ogre.
I continued to listen as Miss
Bingley drew each unwilling bit of information from Mr Darcy. Then, she was
turning to me, and declaring that Miss Darcy had not her equal for elegance and
accomplishments. At this, I was forced to enter the conversation.
“Indeed, she must be a remarkable
young lady to have drawn such praise,” I replied. “She is very young, I
presume?”
“Not yet fifteen, is she, Mr
Darcy?” Miss Bingley asked.
“She is just turned sixteen,” he
answered, his head still bent over his page.
“How the years have flown!” Miss
Bingley cried. “Is she much grown since I last saw her? Is she as tall as I
am?”
“She is now about Miss Jane
Bennet’s height, or a little taller.”
“Ah!” mused the lady, “you are so
good, Mr Darcy, to recall our poor guest upstairs. How does she do this
evening, Miss Eliza?”
I sighed and closed the book, for
it was apparent that Miss Bingley would no longer permit me my pleasure in
frustrating Mr Darcy with it. I was not at all happy to be disclosing Jane’s
progress in the hearing of that she-vulture, nor that of Mr Darcy the Black
Cloud, but I was somewhat gratified to see Mr Bingley sitting up to take note
of my response.
“I am afraid she is not at all
well, Miss Bingley,” I replied. “She was very uncomfortable this evening.”
Mr Bingley made some gallant
offer of calling for the apothecary, which I politely declined, but I confess,
my attention was not on him. I was sensing the other gentleman, the dark and
sombre one, whose frame seemed to swell like a gathering storm from that corner
of the room. How did a man possess
such… such presence? Little wonder
Miss Bingley was fascinated by him, for I would have been so myself, if I were
not so despairing over the travesty of his woeful character.
Mr Bingley at last relented in
his concerns and returned to his card game. His sister, however, did not mean
to lose her chance of provoking Mr Darcy into conversation. “What a considerate
sister you are, Miss Eliza,” she praised me. “I always say that family are the
greatest comfort anyone could have. Do you not agree, Mr Darcy?”
What occurred next perplexed me
in the extreme. Mr Darcy refused to answer. It was not as if he had not heard
her—indeed, he could not have failed to do so—but he absolutely rebuffed her.
From where I sat, I could even catch the hint of a shadow at his jaw, indicating
that he was clenching his teeth. Then, I saw the top of his pen jerk sharply at
an odd angle. He had bent it beyond repair!
I watched him as he drew two or
three deep breaths and searched for another pen, ignoring Miss Bingley all the
while. What could she have said to anger him so? But this was Mr Darcy, a man
who seemed always to be angry over something, so I sighed and forced myself to
look away again.
“Miss Bingley,” I said, “do you
not find that family can also be a great source of enjoyment as well as
comfort?”
She looked puzzled. “How so?”
“Why, perhaps it is merely
because I have so many sisters, but we engage in much teasing and merriment
when at home. Is it so in your family?”
Miss Bingley, the aspiring lady
of class and composure, actually snorted. “Merriment! I do not understand what
you can mean. Are cards and reading insufficient to such an enterprise?”
“I do not claim they are
insufficient, but what of less formal enjoyment? Do you not simply tease and
jest with one another for the sake of pleasure?”
She appeared to be at a loss.
“Tease? Miss Eliza, surely you know that my brother cultivates enough ridicule
of his own without requiring another to take note of it.”
“Mr Bingley is everything
light-hearted and engaging,” I conceded, “but what of Mr Hurst? What of Mr
Darcy?”
“Tease Mr Darcy? Why no, my dear,
it is impossible. The very idea!”
I shook my head in mock sadness.
“That is a pity, for I dearly love to laugh.”
This had the result I had
expected. Mr Darcy himself spun round in his seat and fixed me with such a
surly, agitated expression that I nearly giggled aloud.
“You think it proper to ridicule
someone who has made it the study of his life to avoid the sort of weaknesses
that would expose him? To make light of an honourable figure, purely for your
own amusement?”
Ah, if he only knew how very
amusing he was just then, as he tried to stand on his affronted dignity! “Not
for my personal amusement, but for the enjoyment of the whole room,” I replied.
“I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Most of my associates take much
delight in their own follies, for none regard themselves so seriously that they
cannot admit to some fault. Have you no faults at all, sir?”
That nearly pushed him over the edge. I saw his eyes flame, his
nostrils distend, and his teeth even flashed for a glimmer of a second. Oh, but
he was so easy to infuriate!
“Faults?” Miss Bingley protested.
“Mr Darcy! He is a man perfectly without fault.”
I watched Mr Darcy seethe, his
fingers clenching again on another hapless pen, and I could not help but to
smile in victory. “Indeed,” I congratulated him, “you are to be commended for
living so long on this earth without cultivating a few aberrations. I now no
longer wonder at your lack of good humour, sir, for if I were similarly cursed
with perfection, I should think myself the dullest person in the world.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes popped, like
one of the hens when she has just dropped an egg, and she absolutely glared at
me. Mr Darcy, however, had turned quite red. His breathing had quickened, and
those dark eyes were on fire with indignation.
I knew when to withdraw. I rose,
adopted a sweet expression, and informed Miss Bingley that I meant to retire
for the night. To Mr Darcy, I delivered his book, thereby confessing my
understanding that it was his
possession, and that I had knowingly co-opted it for my own purposes. I leaned
low and whispered to him, “You are not so very difficult to understand, Mr
Darcy.”
I distinctly heard him hiss with
exasperation as I left the room.
Didn't you just love the vignette! Wow! Lizzy was not happy with Darcy! I could just see her counting to ten repeatedly! I believe they were almost shooting daggers with their eyes! Poor Darcy! He has no clue what is happening to him. At this point, it certainly doesn't seem like Lizzy and Darcy will ever have a chance at a HEA. I'm so glad there is the rest of the story! :) (and what a story it is, too!)
Nefarious Blog Stops
Giveaway
Now it's giveaway time, and Nicole has a great giveaway for one lucky reader!
Option 1: $10 Amazon Gift Card plus eBook or Audiobook of winner’s
choice; International
Option 2: Signed Paperback of winner’s choice; US only
The giveaway will end at 11:59 P.M. on the 8th of June. Good luck to all!
Thank you, Nicole Clarkston, for stopping by and letting us read Lizzy's thoughts. She was an impertinent mess!
Thank you also for the generous giveaway for my readers. Best wishes with your new release, Nefarious.