Mr. Darcy was an unknowingly shy man. It was through a peeling layer of pride and mystery—one you managed to pick off like a scab.

He didn’t speak to anyone, and everyone near who knew his name thought he was prideful and full of himself.

But all to himself, he was a shy man.

Didn’t dare speak to anyone woman—kept to his close friends and if someone lost his trust, it was gone forever.

And, the worst fact about his shyness was the fact he pushed everyone away who didn’t know well.

Which, that road led down to you. You seemed fiery in your spirit, and he wanted to court you before someone got their hooks deep into you.

Nobody approved of his decision to do so, wanting him to marry richer—to marry a plethora of women who knew how to be a proper lady.

Even his aunt—the Lady Catherine De Bourgh—had tried to bring out the worst in you.

Asked you plenty of questions—did you draw? Did you play piano? For gods sake, have you been brought out in society yet?

To which, none were answered in a lightly manner.

He could do nothing but watch as you raced from the home of his aunt in the rain—drenching you head to toe as you stormed for a place to shelter.

His chair scraped against the hard wooden and polished floors as he didn’t dare look up. His hands came to rest on the table—and then, he was off with quick steps through the rain.

He raced across the same bridge, his footsteps practically matching yours as he reached to meet you under the guise of a pillars and a singular frame to keep them from the cold rain.

“Miss, I have struggled in vain but I can bear it no longer...The past months have been a torment...” he murmured, practically wringing the handkerchief he kept from his pocket. This was a disgusting and hurtful feeling.

“I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you...I had to see you...” he sighed, stomach twisting. He didn’t dare show it, though.

“Me?”

“I've fought against my better judgement, my family's expectation... The inferiority of your birth...my rank and circumstance…all those things…but I'm willing to put them aside...and ask you to end my agony...”

He seemed to stumble over his words, which was odd for the man full of pride and respect for only himself and of his standard. You seemed dumbfounded, so he forced himself to spit out the words he dreadfully wished he hadn’t said.

“I love you. Most ardently.” He seemed to say with some soft passion, before he gulped and made himself stare into your eyes. “Please do me the honour of accepting my hand.”