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Mr. Darcy was never good with words. But luckily, the author writing the book was somewhat good with expressing Darcy’s feelings on his behalf. Every time he looked upon Elizabeth Bennet’s sallow and wan complexion, Darcy was reminded of a dove, albeit a sick one, but a dove nonetheless.
He had to have her as his bride. Besides, all this chastity in chivalrous romance novels was turning his balls an alarming shade of cobalt, which was why he followed her back to the rundown, sleazy inn where she was staying with her aunt and uncle.
Surprisingly, the bar below the inn was devoid of any patrons or servants. Mr. Darcy wondered if they’d all called it an early night, or if some sinister murderer was on the loose, killing off all minor characters including his beloved housekeeper, Mrs. What’s-Her-Face.
If a murderer was on the loose, then he feared for Elizabeth’s safety as well. Darcy’s need to protect Elizabeth was even more of a reason to make her marry him. After all, Darcy’s desire to make this crass, penniless shrew with poor connections his bride had nothing at all to do with her mouth-watering ample cleavage.
He pushed open the door to what he assumed to be her chamber and crossed the threshold to where Miss Bennet and her ample breasts were sitting.
She looked up from her embroidery and gasped as her breasts jiggled with the movement.
Bending down on one knee, he grasped her pale, cold fingers and made a dramatic sweep with his free hand. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Scowling, she arched back her neck. “How is that possible? We haven’t even had a chance to develop the romance.”
“I apologize. I do believe the author has left out a few relevant chapters, like the part where you are staying with Mr. Collins and his new wife, Charlotte, and we meet at Lady Catherine’s house.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I forgot about Charlotte Lucas and Mr. Collins. Too bad they are dead.”
“Mr. Collins is dead?” Mr. Darcy gasped. “I had no idea. My aunt told me he vanished.” Darcy had assumed Mr. Collins had finally tired of his aunt’s incessant nagging and had run off with a two-pence sparkly whore—one who didn’t mind dressing up as The Prince Regent while he spanked her bare bottom with his Cross. At least, if Darcy had been in Mr. Collins’ shoes, that’s what he would have done.
“Oh, yes, that’s what I meant.” Elizabeth said as she gawked at the growing bulge in Darcy’s trousers.
Damn. He’d have to remember to keep his fantasies to himself.
Darcy coughed into his hand while adjusting his crotch with the other. “We are totally off script. Let us resolve this scene, shall we?”
Elizabeth bared unusually sharp fangs before turning up her pert nose. “Very well. Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner, I might consider your proposal. But do you think I’d marry the man who was the cause of the unhappiness of a most beloved sister?”
“But Elizabeth, your sister is a vampire. I couldn’t allow my best friend to be killed and drained of his precious life blood.” Mr. Darcy moaned. Not just because the sting of her rejection hurt, but because her breasts looked like ripe, forbidden melons, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her ample bosom. But it was totally against gentlemanly decorum.
Damn revealing Regency clothing! And double-damn restrictive Regency etiquette!!
Elizabeth’s hiss made her sound like a feline in heat, which was most unusual behavior for a lady. Darcy was beginning to wonder if his sweet, darling Elizabeth had other unladylike qualities that he’d be forced to overlook. Thankfully, on account of her ample breasts, Darcy would be willing to overlook a few more flaws.
“You know my sister is a vampire?” she asked.
“Of course.” Darcy laughed. “Did you think I was a twit?” Darcy marveled at the fact that Elizabeth was still alive after sharing a home with a vampire sister. He knew Elizabeth’s luck would run out if she stayed with her sister much longer, which was why she and her breasts would need to find a suitable husband soon.
“Actually, yes I did think you a twit,” Elizabeth responded with perhaps a little too much vehemence in her voice.
Darcy rationalized that Elizabeth must be in the throes of her monthly flow. Damn. No wedding for at least a week. He didn’t know how much bluer his balls could get before he was finally able to take his chaste bride to his bed.
“My faults by this calculation have been heavy indeed,” Darcy said.
Elizabeth scrunched her brow while baring pointy teeth. “What?”
Darcy shrugged a shoulder. “I’m just trying to stay on script.”
Elizabeth shook her head before picking up her needlework and pretending to add another stitch to a prefabricated pattern of an urn. “Anyway, back to my sister. She was more interested in his fortune than his blood. I doubt she would have killed him. She’d probably just turn him into a vampire, too.”
Mr. Darcy threw up his hands. “And again, in the best interest of my friend, I cannot allow him to be turned into a vampire. What kind of a best friend would I be if I allowed him to sparkle?”
Elizabeth cocked a finely sculpted brow. “For your information, my sister does NOT sparkle. But what if she did? You’ll wear frilly shirts and tight pants but you’re too masculine to sparkle?”
“Sparkling brings us dandies to a whole new level of low. And you’re one to talk about fashion.” He waved a hand at her dress. “What’s with those empire dresses? They make you all look like cows.”
“I agree the high waistline is a bit unflattering, but the dresses showcase our ample breasts.”
When Elizabeth protruded her creamy white cleavage toward Mr. Darcy’s salivating mouth, he suddenly wished his pants weren’t so tight.
He closed his eyes and tried to envision Rosie O’Donnell naked, but the twisted pervert that he was, that only made matters worse. Then he called to mind that emaciated actress who was the last person to play the role of his darling Elizabeth. That seemed to do the trick. His crotch deflated an entire pants size.
He violently shook his head, trying to purge his mind of the naked Knightley nightmare. “Those dresses don’t showcase much if you’re Keira Knightley playing the role of Elizabeth Bennet. No amount of pushups or padding can make her look any less like a pre-pubescent boy.”
Elizabeth tapped her chin with the tip of a delicate finger. “You’ve got a point.”
Mr. Darcy scratched the back of his head, wondering how the hell his marriage proposal had turned into mind-scarring visuals of fat and skinny naked actresses. “So we are at an impasse.”
Elizabeth heaved a feminine sigh as she dreamily turned her gaze toward the window, which Mr. Darcy just noticed was plastered with sun-blocking window tint.
She turned back to him and flashed a jagged, yet subtle smile. “I guess you’ll have to impress me a little more with your money before I’ll allow you to win my heart.” She placed a hand on her breast before batting long lashes.
“Very well then.” Mr. Darcy stood and tried in vain to adjust the bulge in his tight pants. “In the meantime, I shall steer clear of whores and horny chambermaids while I steadfastly remain loyal to you and anticipate our honeymoon—unlike my devious old friend, Mr. Wickham, who gets laid at least twice a week. I am told he can lick his eyebrows.” Mr. Darcy thrust a fist into the air. “That scoundrel!”
“Indeed, what a brute.” Elizabeth ran her blood-red tongue across her pale upper lip. “You don’t happen to have his cell number or Twitter account?”
Mr. Darcy scratched the back of his skull. “That technology hasn’t been invented yet, Elizabeth.”
She stomped a petite foot and tossed her needlework to the floor. “Damn.”