While there aren’t any werewolves and goblins in this story, there are vampires, but I’m not telling you who they are . . . yet.
Throughout the month of October I’ll be sharing a short novella I’ve been writing for fun. For those of you who don’t care for horror and gore, you don’t have a thing to fear. This story is actually a love story, without a drop of goriness in sight. It just so happens that a few of our favorite P&P characters have become vampires. (But it’s really not their fault. You can blame the author and her unhealthy obsession with the undead.)
So far there are six parts, the last of which should be posted on Halloween. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
Many things are rarely as they seem. That much he knew. It had taken but one evening spent in her company to understand she was like no woman he’d ever encountered. There was something in her air, in her manner of speaking, in the way she moved, and laughed that prevented him from dismissing her as commonplace. Miss Morton, Miss Redgrave, Miss Bingley—the dozens of others—with their simpering attention, banal conversation, and exhausting single-mindedness were commonplace; not Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Though they’d been acquainted less than a fortnight, Darcy had become thoroughly enamoured with her. For a man used to being his own lord and master, the development of such a strong attachment was unsettling; especially when nothing—not even the inferiority of her situation and connexions—had proven a powerful enough deterrent against the spell she’d woven.
Her intelligence was formidable, and had fanned the flames of his admiration with as much ease as the teasing curve of her lips had coaxed his smile. Her wit and vivacity garnered equal veneration, as did the subtle sway of her hips whenever she entered a room, or danced a reel, or strode confidently through the countryside as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
Her complexion was flawless. Her skin pale and pure, and her dark, glossy locks—whether seen by the glow of a wax taper or the natural light of day—were, to Darcy’s eyes, more luxurious than the finest silk.
His fingers itched to caress her cheek, her bare shoulder, the supple swell of her breast. The hours he’d spent thinking of her, fantasizing about her, wondering whether her body might be as responsive to his touch as he’d imagined had become too numerous to count. Darcy wanted to lose himself in her eyes, to immerse himself in her scent, to brush his lips against the shell of her ear and whisper his deepest desires. Continue reading
Many thanks to Jane Austen’s Regency World magazine, where this essay first appeared in January. Please check out the magazine’s website and consider subscribing!
Not to make all of you out there in cyber world swoon, but I’m in Brooklyn at the moment at the Jane Austen Society of North America’s Annual General Meeting, so my responses will not be as timely as usual. I’m excited to meet Diana Birchall for the first time, but will be missing the usual Austen Author crowd that gathers at the AGMs.
Without further ado…back to Mr. Darcy…
Let’s face it. If you met Mr Darcy in real life, you wouldn’t go out with him after the disastrous first date. That’s assuming he condescended enough to actually ask you out, and that you, against your better judgment, said yes. Continue reading