Intentions and mishaps, p.1
Intentions and Mishaps, page 1
INTENTIONS AND MISHAPS
P. O. DIXON
CONTENTS
Introduction
From the Author
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
♥️ Bonus ♥️
P. O. Dixon Books
About the Author
Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
Unbeknown to each other, Darcy and Elizabeth are determined to make their first Valentine's Day as husband and wife unforgettable. Alas, the hands of fate cannot help but intrude. What happens when good intentions and a litany of mishaps collide?
Will their first Valentine’s Day be remembered as a series of misfortunes, or will they discover that the simplest pleasures linger longest in the heart?
FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
Some love stories take years to unfold—for others, it’s what happens in a single, unforgettable day.
Within these pages, you’ll find the story of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth navigating an extraordinary St. Valentine’s Day, where even the best intentions are no match for the whims of fate.
And just as a tale such as this must surely warrant, a special bonus awaits those among us who enjoy a little something more!
Happy Reading!
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
PART ONE
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
— William Shakespeare
FEBRUARY 18__ - LONDON, ENGLAND - DARCY HOUSE
It is a truth universally acknowledged that even the best-laid intentions, however noble, are seldom immune to the uncertainty of mishaps. Whatever the truth of such sentiments, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, née Bennet would soon discover.
Outside, the bustling streets of Mayfair that mid-February day seemed miles and miles away, while inside the Darcy townhouse, Elizabeth was all anticipation. Navigating the first months of marriage—and indeed her first London season—had been full of wonder and adventure.
“What a whirlwind of excitement this has been, has it not, Mrs. Darcy?” said her lady’s maid to her.
Elizabeth watched Mrs. Grant’s reflection in the mirror as the older woman carefully attended to her hair, resisting the urge to add her own touches here and there. “I could not agree more,” was her reply.
It remained a novelty—this extraordinary attention. After years of sharing a maid with four sisters at Longbourn, where patience and compromise had been a necessity, having someone solely devoted to her felt both strange and indulgent. Her manner of living, the unexpected luxuries, someone always at her beck and call—it was something she supposed she might grow used to. For now, it served as a constant reminder of how far she had come from the familiar chaos of Longbourn.
And now, with the season well underway, the only thing Elizabeth desired was to escape it all. The glittering balls, the theater boxes where every glance led to hushed whispers, and the elegant dinners where conversations bore undertones of subtle rivalries. She had admired fine art at exclusive exhibitions and listened to stirring performances in grand drawing rooms, always aware of society’s sharp eyes—ever watchful and eager to scrutinize Pemberley’s new mistress. The relentless demands of society life left her yearning for the comfort of simplicity.
What she desired most now was an intimate celebration for two—far from the clamor and spectacle—with her husband, Mr. Darcy.
St. Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, so what better time to reaffirm my commitment to my beloved Fitzwilliam?
Hours later, Elizabeth shifted in her seat, listening to the soft crackle of the fire as February’s chill settled outside. Her thoughts wandered far from town, back to another first—her first Christmas at Pemberley, along with many of her family.
Elizabeth had been nervous at first, unsure of how Darcy would receive her family as well as unsure of how her family’s liveliness would meet with Pemberley’s grandeur. Yet, from the moment they arrived, he had ensured their comfort in ways that were both considerate and heartfelt.
How far they had come since those early days. She could still recall the scornful look he had cast at the Netherfield ball when her mother spoke so brazenly and recklessly. Lydia and Kitty had behaved so shamelessly, Mary had exhibited rather poorly on the pianoforte, and her own father had embarrassed her. Indeed, what a difference time had made. Darcy had once believed her relations to be her greatest flaw, yet he had not only come to accept them, but to embrace them with sincerity.
She leaned back against the cushion, letting the thought settle over her. Yes, she had chosen well. And now, it was in her power to show him just what he meant to her.
St. Valentine’s Day—a time celebrated by lovers with heartfelt tokens and whispered promises.
At one and twenty, this could be considered Elizabeth’s first true St. Valentine’s Day. It was certainly the only one that mattered. Never had she cause to think of that particular day as differing from any other winter’s day, having never found herself in love at that time of year. She had escaped Cupid’s arrow for so long—far too long, were one to ask her mother, Mrs. Francine Bennet, a woman of mean understanding and uncertain temper, whose chief occupation in life was marrying off all her daughters.
For all Elizabeth knew, her dear husband had never had cause to recognize the occasion before either, for she liked to think she was his first love, his only love, just as he surely was hers.
Elizabeth had pored over countless volumes, seeking inspiration for a gesture both meaningful and romantic, determined to uncover the perfect expression of affection. She had even consulted her sister Jane, who had spent part of the season in London with her beloved husband, Charles Bingley. However, the Bingleys had since retreated to the comfort of their own home at Netherfield, eager for a respite from the constant presence of his pernicious sisters. Armed with the insights gained from her extensive reading and her conversation with Jane, Elizabeth had at last devised the perfect scheme.
Everyone’s first St. Valentine’s Day with the one they love ought to be special, Elizabeth thought. She had circled the date in her heart ever since the idea first took root. She wanted Mr. Darcy’s to be one he would never forget. Not that her scheme was without its risks of coming together smoothly, for it depended on any number of factors that were simply not in her control.
Elizabeth dared not dwell on that, for it was not in her nature to do so. Her spirit invariably rose in the face of attempts to intimidate or unsettle her. It was that same indomitable spirit she would rely upon now as she navigated the unpredictability of her plan. To heighten the anticipation, she had confided in no one who did not absolutely need to know what she was planning, save a trusted servant whose role was indispensable.
An incident at Pemberley during Christmas crossed her busy mind—one having to do with her sister-in-law, Georgiana, which, as fond as it was, only reinforced her resolve. As Elizabeth liked to think of the past only as its remembrance brought her pleasure, she did not dwell on what had unfolded at that moment. It was enough to consider that the fewer people who were privy to her intentions, the better were her chances of surprising her husband.
Secluded in his study—a room of refined dignity, its bookcases lined with well-worn volumes and a finely crafted mahogany desk that had served generations of Darcy men, the faint scent of polished wood evidencing its meticulous upkeep—Mr. Darcy was equally resolved to surprise his wife with a grand gesture on the upcoming St. Valentine’s Day.
He knew enough about young ladies and how they were wont to expect such considerations, even without the frequent hints from his young sister, Georgiana, who had been teeming with ideas of late. No doubt a consequence of her youthful heart and romantic view of life.
Darcy silently considered how far she had come, what with her growing sisterly bond with his young bride. Were he to judge by his sister’s enthusiasm and closeness to Elizabeth, no doubt his wife would be expecting something grand.
Darcy opened the desk drawer and retrieved a slip of paper—a receipt from his jeweler. The thought of his wife’s reaction when he presented her with the gift he had commissioned, especially for the occasion, brought a smile to his face. By now, Elizabeth was no stranger to fine jewelry. As Mrs. Darcy, she had received a multitude of elegant pieces—diamond earrings his father had once gifted his mother, a delicate emerald bracelet worn by Darcy women for generations, a timeless string of pearls renowned for their rare perfection, and so much more. But this piece was different. It was not an heirloom steeped in tradition, but something new—designed by Darcy himself, made expressly for his wife.
The requested engraving on its back came to Darcy’s mind. Heartfelt, elegant, and purposeful, it read:
To my wife, Mrs. D., truly the love of my life.
Darcy’s eyes softened at the thought. The words were simple, yet they captured his most deeply held sentiments perfectly well. He had pondered over the phrasing for far longer than he cared to admit.
“Mrs. D.”—it was both formal and personal, a title that conveyed pride in the woman who bore his name, yet one that still felt intimate, as if whispered between just the two of them. And the ending—truly the love of my life—was a truth that still astonished him at times. To think he had once believed himself incapable of such vulnerabili
Memories surfaced unbidden: the moment Elizabeth had first refused him, shattering his pride, and leaving him to comprehend how inadequate were all his pretenses in pleasing such a woman. And then months later, when she had said “yes”—an acceptance so full of sincerity and understanding, indeed everything a man violently in love could expect. The inscription was not just a declaration of love; it was a reminder of the path that had brought them here—through pride and prejudice, frailties and forgiveness, missteps and atonement.
Darcy closed his hand, as though he could already feel the brooch resting in his palm. He wondered how Elizabeth would react. Would she smile with that mischievous spark in her eyes, teasing him for being sentimental? Or would she simply trace the words in silence, appreciating their meaning with no need for an explanation?
This gesture was not about extravagance—it was about her. About them.
Just as he placed the receipt back inside the desk drawer, his sister gleefully entered the room. Her gown, a pale blue muslin, swayed as she walked, its hem brushing against the plush carpet.
“Georgiana,” he said, with that familiar loving look that he always bestowed upon her when she appeared unexpectedly. In truth, seeing her ought to have become a habit by now. For now, she was living with Elizabeth and him at Pemberley. However, she had only recently joined them in town, having spent time with her cousin Miss Anne de Bourgh in Kent during the early part of the year, which must be his excuse.
She hurried to where he sat and took a seat in the large leather chair in front of his desk. “Brother,” she began. “I trust you have made all the requisite arrangements for the perfect romantic adventure with my sister, Elizabeth.”
“Indeed, with you here to remind me on a daily basis, how dare I not?”
“Wonderful!” With less enthusiasm, she adjusted her position in her chair, leaning closer. Clasping her hands, she said, “However, I wish you would be more forthcoming with me. Why, you have not mentioned a single word of what you have planned. You know you have never faced such a daunting challenge as planning the perfect St. Valentine’s Day for your wife, believing as you always have that it does not differ from any other winter’s day.”
She was not wrong in saying that. What reason could he, a man of sense and education with considerable knowledge of the world, have to give consequence to that particular day? At eight and twenty, he was no stranger to the company of women—he had long understood the unspoken rules of flirtation and seduction, even if genuine intimacy of the heart had always eluded him. Yet, when he told Elizabeth that he had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her, he meant it. That resounding truth had driven his steadfast decision to make her his wife. Once again, he found himself recalling the moment she accepted his hand and the unguarded rush of emotion that followed.
The sound of his young sister gently clearing her throat summoned his attention—her expression that of someone expecting an acknowledgment of her sentiments. Her brow arched, she released a sigh.
Darcy said, “Yes, well, there is a good reason that I have yet to share my plans with you. You know I prefer to keep my own counsel and what with your being more than a decade my junior—”
Here she interrupted him. “How much longer are you going to use the excuse of the wide gap in our ages to justify your minimizing my concerns? It is not as though I am a child. I daresay I am one of your own wife’s closest friends.”
“Indeed, which bolsters my stance rather than lessens it in such a case as this.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As close as the two of you are, how can I trust you would not tell Elizabeth of my plans?”
“Why! I would never—”
It was now Darcy’s turn to arch his brow.
Georgiana said, “Surely you are not holding it against me for spoiling what was meant to be a special surprise for Elizabeth at Christmastime? How was I to know you did not intend for our entire party to accompany you?”
The incident she was referring to was an open carriage ride through the snow-covered grounds of Pemberley Woods that Darcy had intended solely for two—himself and his wife. However, when the time came to embark on their wintry escape, every occupant of the house, save the servants, had donned their warmest attire and was waiting in front of the manor house for a merriment-filled outdoor adventure to begin.
“Did we not have a wonderful time despite the misunderstanding?” Georgiana asked in her own defense.
He had no desire to chance any such repetition, however fond the memories had become in hindsight.
“Indeed, we did. My dearest Elizabeth especially, but that does not excuse the fact that it was intended to be a secret. By the bye, you never told me how you learned of it.”
“And I never shall,” she said coyly, folding her hands together and resting them on her knees.
“Not that it signifies,” he said. “As regards my plans for my darling wife on St. Valentine’s Day, I shall never tell either.”
The sound of the door opening drew their attention, and Elizabeth entered the room. Darcy rose at once, his countenance brightening. Elizabeth paused mid-step, a knowing smile on her lips as she took in the scene.
“Brother,” Georgiana began, her spirits rising to playfulness, “I do not recall you standing when I entered the room.”
Darcy’s lips belied his true sentiments, but the rest of his expression remained perfectly unamused by his sister’s observation.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, moving to take the seat beside Georgiana, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Why is that?”
Georgiana laughed, emboldened by Elizabeth’s participation. “Yes, why is that?” she pressed.
Darcy regarded them both with the air of a man who knew he was outmatched. “You are a pair of incorrigible young ladies,” he said at last, which was sufficient encouragement for the two.
The playful banter continued with Darcy suffering their mischievous jests with dignified tolerance, far from how he might have endured such treatment during the early days of his acquaintance with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, for her part, could not help but recall Georgiana’s earlier observations from the days when she first came to live with Darcy and her at Pemberley. The younger woman had marveled at Elizabeth’s ease in teasing Darcy so freely—a skill Elizabeth had reminded her was the unique privilege of a wife.
Upon deciding it was time to bring their jovial taunts to an end, Darcy consulted his watch and stood. “I fear it is time we part, if we are to prepare for dinner.”
Both ladies rose as well, Georgiana nodding in agreement. “I suppose we must,” she said, her voice that of reluctant acceptance.
They moved toward the door together, but when Georgiana stepped out into the hall, Darcy gently touched Elizabeth’s arm, silently urging her to remain. He closed the door softly behind her and turned to face Elizabeth, his gaze steady and intent. He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if weighing his words, then said, “I have missed you terribly, my love.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “We have only been apart for a few hours.”
The intensity in his dark eyes remained unwavering. “A lifetime in my view,” he replied, his voice echoing his longing. “I am wanting you—most ardently.”
Elizabeth felt a mounting desire stir at his words, causing her pulse to race. For all her teasing, she could not help but be moved by the depth of his affection. Reaching up, she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her touch light yet lingering. “Oh, my poor darling,” she murmured, “how can I make amends?”
Darcy’s answer came not in words but in action. He drew her into his arms, his touch gentle yet firm, as if unwilling to let her go. Pressing a trail of light, lingering kisses along the curve of her long, slender neck, he allowed himself a moment of unrestrained passion.
