Title: A Happy Accident
Rating: K+ (PG) – cuz I can't think of any reason why this should be rated higher and this story won't be long enough to get to the dirty stuff.
Disclaimer: Though I write stories based on the novels and characters of Jane Austen, this work belongs to ME and no one else. Unless given express permission, no one besides myself has the right to distribute or profit from my intellectual property. All rights reserved.
Setting: Regency

Summary: Sometimes we do not say what we mean, other times we mean what we say, but what happens when Darcy says something that he means but never meant to say to Elizabeth? Accidents are sometimes meant to happen. Regency, sweet and clean.

Chapter One:Pride Before a Fall

Saturday, November 16

Darcy jerked his drifting gaze back to the pages of his book, scolding himself internally for his lack of self control. It was absurd! He had not been so relentlessly preoccupied by anything – or anyone, as was presently the case – since he had been a boy and first discovered the wonders of reading. Then, as now, his focus had entirely shifted to his new occupation and left him with little attention for anything else, greatly frustrating his parents and other caregivers whenever he was required to do something other than absorb himself in an adventurous tale or fascinating history.

Currently, it was Darcy himself who was frustrated by his inability to shake his fixation. This was mainly due to the fact that the object of it was not an innocent pastime or necessary business, but a young lady. He had never been infatuated with one before, at least not beyond an appreciation of her person or vague consideration of her suitability, and he had not expected such an experience to be so...intense. As ridiculously cliché as it sounded (and he would never admit such to his cousin Richard lest he be mocked incessantly for it for the remainder of his days), he could now understand what all the poets were so enthused about. If he had possessed their talent for waxing lyrical, he would have written an ode to Miss Elizabeth Bennet's fine eyes with the same sort of besotted passion as Shakespeare, but – perhaps fortunately for all – iambic pentameter was not his forte.

Oh, but the feelings that crafted such words were there, he no longer had any doubt. This, however, was the bedrock of his problem, because he could never marry her. Elizabeth – no, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he reminded himself sternly lest he lose his head and refer to her out loud in a less than formal fashion – was, herself, the most delightful creature he had ever had the fortune to behold. She was beautiful, of course, with dark, tightly spiraling curls, bright and curious green eyes feathered with delicate lashes and a most becomingly warm complexion, tinted pink by the fire…

Darcy was startled to realize that he had been staring at her again where she sat, curled comfortably in an armchair on the other side of the library with a ringlet tangled around her finger and an open tome in her lap, and tore his eyes away. He had entirely lost count of how many times this loss of control had occurred in the past twenty minutes, but he knew that the number was high.

At any rate, he reminded himself, he supposed he would not be in so much trouble were she simply pretty; oh no, it was much more dire than that. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was also witty and sharp with a tongue that often left lesser men befuddled at her cleverness. Unlike Miss Bingley, however, her comments tended toward playful teasing rather than cutting remarks intended to wound, thus proving her to be a kind as well as intelligent person. Even had Darcy not noticed this trait, her devotion to her elder sister – only recently recovered from a bad cold and able to venture downstairs since falling ill at the dinner table earlier in the week – would have spoken for her. In a show of sisterly care and consolation for the ailing Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth had walked three miles through dirt and muck to tend to her personally rather than leaving her to the indifferent care of Bingley's sisters. Though he would not wish Georgiana to make such an exhibition, – as Miss Bingley had previously intimated in that coyly cruel way she implemented when casting a scathing barb – the sentiment behind the act was an admirable one he would wish his own sister to emulate.

But, no matter how beguiling, enchantingly clever or warmly kind Miss Elizabeth proved to be, he could still never marry her. Not when her dowry was essentially non-existent and, worse, her closest connections were an embarrassment. The lack of funds he could, perhaps, overlook, but her mother and younger sisters...no, he could never accept such in-laws. Compounding their personal sins of atrocious behavior, the Bennets were also, apparently, kin to tradespeople. Mr Bennet's family had been landed for generations, according to Miss Bingley's ill-natured gossip, but Mrs Bennet was the daughter of a country attorney and sister to a man who lived within the shadow of his own warehouses. It was not to be borne, even for a pair of the finest eyes he had ever seen and witty banter that challenged him most delightfully.

The lure of Miss Elizabeth Bennet drew his eyes to her form again as a palpable longing overcame Darcy. She seemed not to notice that she was the object of his abstraction as she casually flipped a page, her own gaze riveted to the book resting propped against her folded knees. Her delicate little slippers, a deep, forbidden red which matched the tiny embroidered flowers sprinkled across the muslin of her day gown, rested upon the carpet beside her armchair while her stocking feet hid beneath her skirts. Her head was tilted to one side and rested against the ruddy leather of her seat, one hand palmed against her cheek as her fingers idly played with the loose curls at her temple, and her body remained comfortably still while her eyes trailed down the script in front of her. She was close to the fireplace and, as a result, the skin of the side of her face, chest and arm closest to it was flushed a warm pink, highlighting a dusting of freckles that cascaded downward.

He had to get out of there.

Miss Elizabeth jolted and looked up at him for the first time since his entrance to the room when he made an agonized growl deep in his throat and closed his own book with a loud snap. Her eyes were slightly widened in surprise, a brow arched in his direction, as he stood and tossed the leather bound volume onto the small table beside his own chair. Normally he would take the time to put it back in its place upon the bookshelf if he did not intend to carry it away with him, but in that moment it was critical that he absent himself from Elizabeth's – Miss Elizabeth Bennet's – company before he did anything foolish. Like speak to her. Flirt with her. Pull her into his arms and –

With a bow that was more of a jerk of the head than the more graceful display of respect he generally offered and the lady deserved, Darcy spun around toward the door and fled from the library as if his backside were on fire. Considering how flushed he felt, it might very well be.

He would go for a ride to cool off – yes, that would do. Anything to get him out from under the same roof as Elizab –

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

An hour or so after his escape from the torturous temptation of the siren known as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy felt more at ease upon the back of his mount. Blackthorne was a young stallion yet and somewhat unpredictable, but served most adequately as a distraction from thoughts of fine eyes and teasing smiles. If Darcy allowed his mind to wander too much toward illicit topics, his horse might take it upon himself to misbehave, as was his inclination whenever given the opportunity. He had brought Blackthorne with him to Netherfield Park in order to continue their training as he was still too temperamental for casual riding in London parks and his head groom at Pemberley was struggling to command the willful beast. Despite all of these myriad faults, Darcy was fond of Blackthorne; he was strong, fast and devoted once one earned his loyalty, much like his master. They understood one another, even if the stallion tended toward the mischievous.

They had been riding the fields surrounding Netherfield for the past three quarters of an hour and so Darcy steered his mount back toward the stables, slowing their pace to a trot as they approached the smooth, if winter browned, lawn of the manor. Both horse and rider were showing signs of fatigue and discomfort from the sharp coldness of the day, so it was time to return to their individual lodgings for the warming care of servants.

Darcy raised his gaze to look toward their destination and, as his heart seized most strongly, tightened his grip on the reins. Blackthorne responded by rearing up off his front legs a few inches, though Darcy easily kept his seat and leaned forward to pat his steed's neck in silent apology. His eyes, however, were fixed upon two slowly strolling figures in the near distance – that of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sister. They had, it seemed, decided to take a walk in the fresh, if frigid, air and were making slow circuits around the shriveled rose garden arm in arm.

It was not like Darcy to be indecisive, but for a moment he struggled with whether or not he should continue on his course and inevitably meet up with the ladies or turn Blackthorne around and make a run for it in the other direction. The latter idea he determined was ridiculous – they were young gentlewomen, not highwaymen bent on violent robbery – and so steeled himself to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet with outward equanimity. She would never know that he roiled with irrepressible feelings for her inside.

Darcy inhaled deeply and then expelled the breath in a frosty cloud. Taking the reins more purposefully into his grip, he steered Blackthorne toward the low hedge that outlined the decorative garden space surrounding Netherfield Park's manor house and nudged him in the flanks to encourage a burst of speed. The stallion responded as commanded and sped up into a full gallop. When he reached the leafy barrier between himself and his goal, Blackthorne reared up his front legs, sprung forward from his back and leaped smoothly over the obstacle with powerful grace. His hooves made contact with the winter-hardened ground on the other side without error and the black beast slowed to a more comfortable trot.

"Well done," Darcy complimented, bending forward to stroke Blackthorne's neck. The stallion shook his mane in response as if to say "you expected otherwise?" This incurred an amused smirk from his master.

The soft smattering of distant applause drew Darcy's attention back to the pair of ladies, now only a few yards ahead of him and quickly growing closer. The two Misses Bennet had paused in their promenade to watch Darcy and his own exercise partner perform their jump and, apparently, approved of his athletic skill. Though it was irrational, and though clearing the obstacle had been little more than a necessary act to achieve his goal of reaching the house without going all the way round the expansive lawn to the front drive, he could not help but feel a swell of masculine pride that he had impressed the lady who had so impressed him. There was nothing quite like appearing capable in the eyes of a woman worthy of being pleased.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet leaned toward her sister to speak – something he could not hear from so far away – but her eyes were sparkling in his direction. He could see the vivid splash of green fixed upon him, watched as they followed his own movements, and Darcy was filled with a sudden daring desire to repeat his success.

Sitting up straighter in the saddle, Darcy tugged back on Blackthorne's reins to turn him back around toward the shrubbery which had brought him such victory. He kicked his horse into faster motion and, just before the stallion raised his legs to make his second jump, pressed his torso low against his mount's neck. They cleared it again with the same ease and agility as the last attempt and landed nimbly in the taller grass on the other side.

He turned Blackthorne back around again once they had achieved enough distance to build the right momentum and looked toward the figures of the ladies over yonder. They were in the same spot, their indistinct hands coming together in a demure clap that he could not hear over the heavy breathing of his horse, still watching. Sufficiently encouraged, Darcy once more kicked Blackthorne in the sides to drive him forward.

Darcy kept his eyes trained on the lightly pink, curvy outline of Miss Elizabeth Bennet as he drove Blackthorne toward the hedge, his heart pitter-pattering to the rapid rhythm of his mount's hoof beats. She was getting clearer as he approached, still watching him, and their gazes connected.

Because his attention was affixed elsewhere, he did not see the startled pheasant rise up from the tall grass until it was too late. The panic of the frightened bird transferred to Blackthorne and the horse reared back so sharply that Darcy was unable to keep his seat. As gravity claimed him, he heard a pair of terrified shrieks cut the cold air.

Then, there was blackness.

o0o

"Jane, go back to the house and fetch help!" Elizabeth cried, lowering the hands she had cupped over her gaping mouth when Mr Darcy had been thrown violently from his horse. It had all happened so quickly that all Elizabeth had been able to do was scream, painfully impotent to do anything else more helpful, when he had taken his fall. Contrarily, the same moment had seemed to stretch long as Mr Darcy had made his terrifying descent, only colliding with the hard packed earth after a tortuously extended time.

It had all started so innocently, only to end in potential tragedy. Elizabeth had coaxed Jane out into the gardens for a bit of fresh air, feeling that even the biting November chill would be beneficial after being trapped in a stiflingly hot sick room for so many days together, and they had been doing lazy circuits through the winding paths of dead roses for the past quarter hour. Their conversation had been similarly guileless – with Elizabeth teasing Jane about the obvious devotion of Mr Bingley – until Jane had spotted Mr Darcy riding in the near distance and taken her sudden opportunity to change to a less mortifying subject.

"He is a fine horseman, is he not?" Jane had pointed out, nodding to the dark figure perched upon the back of a great black beast as they both hurtled across the field ahead of them.

Elizabeth had looked to Mr Darcy then and admitted, somewhat grudgingly, that her sister was correct; the gentleman had as good a seat as any she had seen and his ability to handle his spirited mount was impressive. "But then, there never has been anything deficient in his abilities – only his manners."

Jane had then smiled at Elizabeth in a way that reminded the latter strongly of their father. It was a sardonic little smirk, softened by the sweetness of her elder sister's face, and it conveyed a certain gentle smugness. "I have heard from some sources that Mr Darcy has been paying you a great deal of attention since we arrived at Netherfield, Lizzy. Surely you think his manners improved by now."

"Attention? To me?" Elizabeth had accompanied her disdainful incredulity with an unladylike scoff from the back of her throat. "Who told you such nonsense?"

"Caroline mentioned it during a visit to my sickroom," Jane then replied, stopping in place and transferring her gaze to the distant field where Mr Darcy and his horse were slowing their pace. "She did not seem...pleased, but I am sure she meant no offense."

Elizabeth had halted likewise and allowed her eyes to trail after Mr Darcy. Since Jane would not see her eyes roll past the barrier of her bonnet, she had allowed herself an exasperated, yet indulgent, arc. "I am sure. Miss Bingley need not concern herself with Mr Darcy's so-called attentions because she is entirely wrong about them; I am sure that he detests the very sight of me, what with my pert opinions and muddy hems. He only ever speaks to me to point out my imperfections and bask in his own superiority. Why, just this morning we spent an entire half hour in the library together and he said not one word to me! Far from his manners improving, I believe they are getting worse. He at least acknowledged my existence when he called me 'not handsome enough to tempt him.'"

"I can see you have some strong feelings for him," Jane had said at the end of Elizabeth's long, irritable speech, her voice lilting in a teasing way.

"I most certainly do!" confessed the younger sister with a harsh laugh. "I cannot stand him! He is insulting, above his company, haughty, rude, condescending and abominably smug. I very much look forward to returning home tomorrow to spare myself his vexing company."

As Mr Darcy had throttled forward upon his steed and took the hedge between himself and the lawn upon which the ladies stood, Jane raised her hands and began to clap for his show of athleticism. Elizabeth then copied the gesture, both to disguise her uncharitable feelings toward the approaching gentleman and in honest praise; she was no horsewoman herself, but she had always admired the power and agility required to keep one's seat upon an unruly animal. Besides, there was something rather dashing about a tall man with broad shoulders riding with abandon across an open field or leaping an obstacle.

Elizabeth continued to watch Mr Darcy as he turned away from them, swerving his horse around in a semicircle to ride off in the opposite direction. They had jumped the hedge once more, landing with agile grace in the tall grass on the other side, the gentleman laying practically flat against his steed as they had bounded through the chill air. She had clapped again, her kid gloves slapping softly against one another each time her palms collided, and followed Mr Darcy's progress as he turned back for another pass.

"He is handsome, is he not?"

Elizabeth had startled at Jane's non-sequitur, but kept her gaze trained on Mr Darcy; he was then racing toward them at the greatest speed yet, crouched upon his horse's back as if ready to spring over the obstacle himself. His face had been turned slightly upward and focused upon his goal – no, slightly higher, as if he were looking directly at them. Well, of course he would wish to show off to an audience; men such as the superior Mr Darcy could not help themselves when an opportunity for display arose.

When Jane had nudged Elizabeth with her elbow, a common signal between them that she was awaiting an answer, the younger sister had responded with a sigh. "I suppose he is, though he is rendered far less attractive by his superior attitude. Why are you suddenly Mr Darcy's champion, Jane?"

"Caroline's comment made me think – oh my goodness!"

As warned most sternly by the Almighty, it seemed that pride truly did goeth before a fall. Mr Darcy's inattention to his task had cost him greatly when a startled bird rose up out of the tall grass and frightened his mount into rearing back. Though he had grappled fruitlessly to remain seated, Mr Darcy had found himself the helpless victim to the pull of gravity and plunged into the overgrown field and out of Elizabeth's line of sight. His traitorous horse had then scampered away in the direction of the stables, leaving his master felled upon the hard ground.

"Jane!" Elizabeth called out for a second time, whipping around to face her stunned sister as she, herself, returned to the present. Jane was still staring dazedly into the distance where they had last seen Mr Darcy and so Elizabeth grasped her sister's elbow and gave it a shake. Finally recalling her senses, Jane looked to Elizabeth as the latter repeated, "Go to the house. Get help. I shall see if I can assist Mr Darcy."

"Y-Yes, of course," replied Jane, her arm sliding easily free of Elizabeth's hold as she quickly fled toward the entrance of the manor closest to them.

Elizabeth distantly heard the slight squeal of hinges and Jane's voice raised in alarm as she gathered fist fulls of her skirt and raised her hem out of the way of her ankles, baring her boots and the lower portion of her stocking-clad legs to the frigid air. She was too occupied to feel the sting of winter, however, as she raced forward as rapidly as her feet would take her.

The distance was nothing to a young lady accustomed to frequent walks and she was at the hedge faster than many would have been capable. She was forced to pause at her obstacle, however, as the line of cultivated bushes was waist high, requiring additional maneuvering to bypass. She placed both hands upon the flattened top and leaned forward, her heaving breaths rising around her like a cloud of smoke, to pinpoint the precise location of Mr Darcy.

There he was, a yard or so to her left, lying flat on his back in a tuft of tall brown grass. His hat had flown off elsewhere and was not in evidence, allowing Elizabeth a decent view of his face. She saw no blood, nor anything yet more gruesome, but his eyes were closed and he was perfectly still as if unconscious. Or...

Elizabeth dispelled the horrifying thoughts swirling in her brain and set to determining how best to reach Mr Darcy. The hedge was, in one way, easier to climb than a tree being much shorter than what she was accustomed to. However, it was a dense collection of delicate, leafy branches and provided no easy foothold to boost herself up and over with. Additionally, her heavy winter skirts were cumbersome to her task; she could not simply stretch her leg over nor could she leap it.

There was nothing for it; she must go through. While her dress was a disadvantage to climbing, it was actually a boon for her new plan as it would protect her skin from the clawing branches. She was able to spread the hedge apart at the nearly invisible seam between two individual shrubs and bully her way through, albeit clumsily and with much damage to both her clothing and the plants. Elizabeth hoped that Mr Bingley would be more concerned for his friend's health than that of his boundary line.

Elizabeth squawked a little as she finally fell through to the other side, her skirts still caught up on the partially naked limbs of that wretched hedge. She jerked them free with impatience and scurried toward where Mr Darcy lay prone upon the ground.

She collapsed next to him and, with no consideration to the propriety of it, untied the crimson ribbons of her bonnet and allowed the impeding article to tumble down her back and into the grass. Elizabeth then bent forward and, bracing her palms upon his torso, pressed her newly bare ear to his chest where one would expect to hear a heartbeat.

Tha-thump...Tha-thump...Tha-thump…

Elizabeth expelled a whoosh of relief and raised her head, sitting back on the knees folded beneath her. She sought his face with her eyes and examined him more closely than she had been previously able, tracing the aristocratic features which made him so unfairly handsome with her gaze. His brow, which she only just realized must be creased normally for it was smooth and relaxed now, sported no visible bruise nor trace of blood. His nose, likewise, appeared undamaged and as straight as ever above his slightly parted lips. She could not see his neck beneath the layers of his great coat, shirt and cravat, but his jaw was strong and cleanly shaven, excepting the thick growth of sideburns trailing upward into his mop of curly hair.

Elizabeth felt strangely anxious as she bent over him, searching for damage and finding only that he was even more handsome than she had supposed from polite distance. If only he was as attractive on the inside as he was outwardly, he would have made an excellent husband.

Her embarrassment at that thought flared up into a burning flush and she shoved it away to focus on the matter at hand. Mr Darcy could marry no one if he died in the middle of a field. Elizabeth rose up onto her knees and awkwardly walked upon them so that she could settle herself at his head, slumping back down once she was in a better position to observe it at closer proximity. She leaned forward again, her fingers reaching out to probe the presumably tender flesh beneath his hair, and delved into his curls in her search for injury.

A slight hiss from her patient indicated that she had found one and she drew back, looking first to her gloved fingertips for splotches of red – she found none – and then to Mr Darcy's face. His eyes were still closed, but the lashes were fluttering as if fighting to pry his lids apart. His mouth, previously slackened, was now twisted into a grimace and his eyebrows furrowed together at their central point. He was in pain.

"Mr Darcy?" Elizabeth softly cooed, mindful of the headache he would surely be experiencing when he woke. "Mr Darcy, can you hear me?"

"...izib..."

Elizabeth moved closer, one hand resting just above where she had heard his heartbeat; it was suddenly quite jittery under her palm. A disobedient ringlet, one which was a frequent source of irritation to her, slipped free of the knot at the back of her head and bobbed between them. It tickled Mr Darcy's face along the line of his cheekbone, raising further response from him; he flinched slightly at the sensation.

"Mr Darcy…?" Elizabeth tried again, reaching up with the hand that was not bracing her against Mr Darcy's torso to brush lightly against the single curl of his own which rested upon his forehead. His expression relaxed slightly and he tilted his head toward her exploring fingertips.

"...beth..."

Like watching the sun rise over the crest of the horizon, Mr Darcy's eyelids slowly lifted until his gray irises were visible to her. They remained slightly glazed, yet also sharply focused upon her face. She was embarrassed by this scrutiny, but forced herself to say, "Sir, you have been in an accident. How do you feel?"

Elizabeth felt movement down by her side and then a gentle tug upon the long, spiraling curl which was dangling between them. Dropping her eyes only, she witnessed Mr Darcy's gloved fingers stroking it in an almost reverent fashion. "Elizabeth..."

Elizabeth's gaze snapped back up to Mr Darcy's face at the whispered use of her given name. No man had ever spoken to her so informally before and, though she assumed it was a symptom of his addled mind in the wake of his fall, it created a surge of bashfulness within her.

"Elizabeth…," he repeated, softly slurring the syllables. Before she could say anything in response – not that she could think of anything to say at all – Mr Darcy craned his neck forward and closed the short distance between them to press his lips against hers. When he withdrew, he finished, "Dearest...loveliest Elizabeth...be my wife."

And then he fainted.

Elizabeth was frozen in place in the wake of Mr Darcy's befuddled declaration. Had he truly just…?

"Lizzy?"

Startled from her paralysis, Elizabeth scrambled backwards and away from the prone gentleman in her care and looked to where she had heard the voice originate. Jane stood just over the line of hedges, Mr Bingley at her shoulder, and both were staring at her in the utmost astonishment. She could reciprocate that feeling.

A loud, affected screech jolted all three of them from their moment of stunned silence and suddenly Miss Bingley was there also, looming over the line of manicured bushes with an exaggerated expression of deepest despair. "Mr Darcy! Oh, Mr Darcy – what am I to do?"

She swooned into her brother's arms as a troupe of footmen and stable grooms deftly vaulted the hedge and bent down to assist Mr Darcy. In the chaos that followed, the impromptu marriage proposal was blessedly forgotten.

Author's Notes: No, I'm not crazy (I...think?) to be starting another story. This is a pretty simple idea and one that I haven't seen before (not to say it doesn't exist out there somewhere, only that I haven't been fortunate enough to stumble upon it) and will only be ten chapters long (plus an epilogue). Mostly sweet, completely clean, a little silly. I hope you enjoy it. Weekly updates on Sundays.

For the record, NOT a forced marriage scenario. THAT I have seen (and illicitly enjoy).

Next Update: March 8, 2020
Expected Completion Date: May 10, 2020 (Mother's Day)

– MrsMarySmythe