Mr. Darcy's Masterpiece: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

Mr. Darcy’s Masterpiece A Pride & Prejudice Variation Caitlin Marie Carrington Copyright © 2023 by Caitlin Marie Carrington All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Dearest Reader, Be the first to know about new releases and ARC opportunities. Sign up for Caitlin’ mailing list here. Mr. Darcy’s Masterpiece Contents Chapter 1 2. Darcy 3. Elizabeth 4. Elizabeth 5. Darcy 6. Elizabeth 7. Darcy 8. Elizabeth 9. Darcy Thank You for Reading! Also by Caitlin Marie Carrington 100 Ways to Love Darcy About the Author Darcy He had done it. He had somehow convinced Elizabeth Bennet to marry him. And now, this infuriating, gorgeous, entrancing creature was his. And he was hers. By God, it was a miracle. "What are you thinking about over there?" Elizabeth—his sweet wife—asked. Though she didn't speak sweetly. She was rather annoyed. Her mother had gotten quite drunk at the wedding breakfast. Her younger sisters had flirted abominably with any man under age thirty. And her sister Mary had sung. Twice. And it had taken hours for the coach to reach London, with the wet Spring they had had. "You," Darcy said, in a phenomenally good mood. "And how wise I was to marry you." "Hm," Elizabeth said. "I have never seen you quite so...cheerful." "I have never been married before," Darcy said agreeably. "And look—here are the gates. We'll be in Mayfair in no time at all." Elizabeth's quarrelsome facade vanished immediately. "We're here? Already?" She eagerly moved to the side of the carriage, pressing her nose to the window's glass. Darcy didn't even glance outside. He couldn't look away from his lovely bride. Was every husband sublimely happy, just to stare at his wife? No. He had to be the only one because he alone had married the best woman in all of England. In all of the world— "Goodness, you look like the cat who got into the cream," she said, glancing over at him. She glowed against the navy squabs, and one long, dark curl had come loose from her hair. "I'm about to get into something," Darcy said, his voice suddenly husky and his trousers suddenly a size or two too small. "I have no idea what you are talking about," Elizabeth replied pertly, meeting his gaze. But she blushed. He licked his lips, watching her cheeks turn a lovely shade of rose. His sister had taken up painting, and now was obsessed with colors. Colors. Naming them, creating them. Ruby, crimson, Spanish carmine. He hadn’t actually paid that much attention when Georgiana droned on about her class with the current master he’d hired. Darcy was just happy she was happy. But now that he looked at his bride, in the golden light of the setting sun, his sister’s words came to him. He wished he could commission a portrait of Elizabeth right now, as she was in this moment. Motes of dust floating like magic in front of her serious, sweet face. Her eyes so wide, the sun turning their brown to gold and green. Her lips were pink—peony, rose, strawberry cream—and her cheeks flushed to match as he stared. Darcy leaned across the carriage and—holy God, I can do this now, can't I?—and let his fingers trace the long, soft silk of her unfettered curl. It was the color of black tea, warm and deep and rich. "Don't you?" he whispered. Her brown eyes gazed back at him, all the noise and chaos of the London streets faded away. He gently pulled the curl to him, his fingers tracing its silken length. "What has gotten into you?" Lizzy—his Lizzy—whispered, her eyes widening and her lips parting, just so. I'd like to get into you, Darcy thought. But no. He could not say that. Not to her. Not yet. "I'm just so happy to be with you," he said honestly. "We've never been alone before. Just the two of us." Elizabeth laughed. "We have been alone plenty of times. All those walks in Kent, when you just happened to meet up with me during my morning walks..." "Yes, I just 'happened' to wait thirty or forty minutes, hoping you would become sick of Mr. Collins and flee for the woods." Elizabeth bit her lip and then laughed along with him. Darcy had long since confessed to how he had waited eagerly, hoping to meet her on the grounds of Rosings. And she had long since confessed that she had hated him then—for separating her sister from Bingley, for what she had perceived as ill treatment toward George Wickham, and for her enduring (and annoying) perception of how handsome he was. "Tell me again what you thought, when you first met me?" Darcy urged, resisting the little voice inside of him that demanded he pull her to him. And sit her on his lap. And kiss her senseless. Twenty more minutes, thirty at most, and we'll be alone in my bedchambers... Our bedchambers. Darcy would have to have larger trousers made, for just these occasions. "I thought you were the most horrible snob," Lizzy said, though she couldn't stop a pretty grin from spreading across her face. "Arrogant. Entitled. Rich." "And handsome," Darcy said, letting a fair bit of "smug" infuse his reply. A bonnet hit him in the face. "Fine. Handsome." He grabbed her bonnet by its strings and twirled it in the air. Elizabeth reached for it, missing as he moved it quickly from her hands. "Oh, don't! Darcy, that was expensive." "But I'm rich, remember? And entitled. I rather think I'll buy you a hundred bonnets." "That is ridiculous!" she said, laughing. "You know I don't really wear the ones I have. But mama hates my spots—" "I love your spots," he said fiercely. I have dreamed more times than I