NEWS 5/4/17 Time's Up released in trade paperback and for the Kindle. Currently also available on Kindle Unlimited. Phew!

As Sweet Torment was my first story, I've decided to polish it further before publication. I'll also be updating the Pinterest board, which for the moment will be in Sweet Torment Updates. I'm pretty happy with the chapter titles so I've decided instead to run a competition for the best suggestion for improvement of the chapter. This could be concrit, a novel idea, an elaboration on something already in the chapter, or just fixing my grammar and typos. I'll announce a winner for each chapter and then draw the three prizewinners at the end. The prize will be a kindle version of either of my published books or, if you've got those, one of my future ones. Because I'm polishing rather than writing from scratch, I'll be posting faster than my usual rate—I'll aim for twice a week—so you'll need to be fairly quick with your reviews to enter. Thanks for your input!

My favourite version of PnP is the 1995 BBC series by Colin Firth. BBC, what are you doing? It's 2017! Sure, it's a tough act to follow, but time for a reboot! What I would give to see Benedict Cumberbatch as Mr Darcy! And while you're at it, how about Tom Hiddleston as Mr Bingley?

But I digress... one thing that annoyed me about the 1995 version was when Elizabeth jumped from the stile on her way to Netherfield and landed in the mud like a toddler. I believe the director Simon Langton wanted to convey what a happy-go-lucky character Elizabeth was. But no woman would be such a looby! Especially an avid walker. That scene was the inspiration for this chapter.

It all started when Fitzwilliam Darcy encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet as she climbed over the stile into the demesne of Netherfield Park, the estate he was visiting at the behest of his friend, Charles Bingley. Darcy had admired the nimble way she had negotiated the fence which, with its attendant patch of mud, resembled an obstacle in a steeplechase. Despite the encumbrances of her skirts, she landed neatly on her little walking boots, deftly avoiding the grime.

It was only then that Darcy realised he could see right through her muslin skirts below her knees to her shapely calves. He stared mesmerised as she undid a loose knot in her dimity overskirt to lower it over her mud-flecked petticoat. As he flushed scarlet, he thanked God that he was a good fifty yards away under the shade of the tree. She was unaware of his presence, and if she headed directly to the front door of Netherfield, might even pass by without noticing him.

No such luck. After wiping her boots on the longer grass before stepping onto the sward, she headed straight for him. It was at this point that he noticed that her hair was in disarray. Short strands had escaped from the loose bun at the back of her neck to form a halo round her face. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips were parted, and she was panting slightly from the exertion of her walk.

To his chagrin, Darcy's mind then performed some devilish calculus, recalling an embarrassing encounter that had occurred during his youth at Pemberley, his family's estate in Derbyshire. Heading to the stables to take his new gelding out for a ride, he had encountered the steward's son, George Wickham, emerging from a box adjusting the waistband of his trousers. At sixteen, George was two years older than Darcy. He flashed Darcy a superior smile. Darcy bid him a polite good morning,

but thought nothing of that smile until he had led the gelding out of the adjacent box several minutes later to be confronted by the spectacle of a kitchenmaid standing in the same spot he had encountered Wickham. Flushed, and with straw in her hair, she was smoothing down her skirts. She was the pretty maid he'd noticed for the first time the week prior when she brought more jam to the breakfast table...Their eyes had met, and Darcy's face had quickly matched hers in hue as he realised the nature of her assignation with Wickham.

Darcy snapped back to reality when Miss Elisabeth finally perceived him and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Mr Darcy!" she exclaimed, as her hand flew to her hair. "I beg your pardon. I must look a fright!"

There was a pregnant pause during which Darcy realised his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut.

Miss Elizabeth curtsied, saying, "I have come to check on my sister, Jane."

Elizabeth's sister, Jane Bennet, had been invited for lunch yesterday with Bingley's sisters. Apparently, she had arrived on horseback, soaked to the skin, in the middle of a downpour. The gentlemen of the house had returned from their dinner with the officers of the militia to find her installed in the guest room, running a fever.

Having been caught off guard in totally inappropriate thoughts, Darcy was unable to think of a single civil thing to say to Miss Elizabeth. Instead, he bowed perfunctorily and swept his hand toward the front door.

"Ah no," Miss Elizabeth laughed, "I think I had better go in the back way and tidy up first."

And without further ado she had headed toward the back entrance leaving him standing there rooted to the spot.

Darcy was again reminded of his terrible lack of address towards the female sex—a shortcoming that had been so dreadfully exposed just recently when his efforts to prepare his much younger sister Georgiana to come out into society had all gone horribly wrong. Darcy had not had a clue on how to go about finding a suitable companion to shepherd Georgie at social functions in London. His only female relative of a suitable age was his cousin Anne who was of such a sickly disposition that she never stirred from her native shire of Kent. Anne had not even been well enough to attend her own come-out! When his aunt de Bourgh had written that she had found the perfect companion—a widow with pretty manners and a proper sense of humility—Darcy had thanked her gratefully. Oh! Why had he ever thought that his aunt Catherine's judgement on servants would be any better than her management of her estate? Having visited Rosings for the past five year's on his uncle Fitzwilliam's behalf to check on the books and support Rosing's long-suffering bailiff, Darcy ruefully acknowledged he should have known better.

He watched Miss Elizabeth disappear through the servant's entrance without so much as a knock; almost as if she owned the place. At that moment, Bingley's Irish wolfhound, which had greeted him as an old friend when he had first emerged from the house but had immediately gone questing off in search of scent when he had started his walk, returned to sniff his boots, bringing Darcy back to a proper sense of reality. Sighing, Darcy scratched the dog's head and headed for the stables.