Page 3 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Her father beamed.

Elizabeth bit into a second chestnut harder than she meant to. It was intolerable. Mr. Darcy had insulted her, and now he admired her father's Milton, and her father liked him for it. "Papa," she said, "Lydia is waiting for her rockets."

"Lydia has been waiting impatiently since the day she was born." But he went, and he winked at Mr. Darcy as he did.

Mr. Darcy watched him go. He turned back to her, and the corner of his mouth moved. "Your father is a man of taste."

"My father is a man who likes to be agreed with. You flattered him beautifully."

"I do not flatter."

"No. You only insult, and then admire people's books."

He looked at her for a long moment. She could not read his expression in the firelight. She did not like how much she wanted to.

You dislike him, she reminded herself. You have disliked him for three weeks. Do not stop now over a chestnut.

Down on the gravel, her father bent over the first rocket with his taper.

It went up with a shriek and burst high over the paddock in a shower of gold. The whole party cheered. Lydia jumped up and down and clapped her hands.

The second rocket did not go up.

It sputtered, tipped off its stand, and shot sideways along the grass. It came straight through the crowd, hissing and spitting, and people scattered on both sides. Elizabeth saw it coming. She turned to run. It struck the ground behind her and skidded under the hem of her pelisse.

She smelled it before she felt it. Scorched muslin, sharp and sweet. Then she looked down and saw fire climbing the front of her skirts.

She could not move. She could not think.

Mr. Darcy moved.

He seized the burning rocket in his bare hand and flung it away across the lawn. It burst in the air with a crack that she felt in her teeth. Then he was on his knees in front of her, beating at the flames with his palms. "Hold still," he said. "Elizabeth, hold still."

The fire had taken her pelisse and the gown beneath it. He crushed the burning cloth against his own chest to smother it. She heard the tapes at her back give way. He tore the whole ruined gown from her body and threw it down on the grass.

The front of his greatcoat was burning.

"Your coat!" she cried. "Mr. Darcy, your coat!"

He tore it off and flung it away. Beneath it, his coat hung open. The waistcoat under it was scorched black, and the shirt under that. He was looking at her.

She stepped back from him. Her foot caught in the torn remains of her gown, and her ankle turned under her. Pain shot up from it, white and total. She fell hard onto the frosted grass and could not breathe.

Across the lawn, her father was running toward her. The taper dropped from his hand.

It fell into the crate of rockets.

For one moment nothing happened. Then the crate went up with a roar, and rockets flew in every direction at once. They screamed across the lawn and over the bonfire. They struck the hedge and the stable roof. They struck the house.

Mr. Darcy threw himself down over her.

His body covered hers on the grass. One arm was around her head. His weight pressed her into the cold ground, and his heart hammered against her breast. Rockets shrieked over them and burst in cracks of gold. She could see nothing but his scorched waistcoat. Through the burned hole in it, she could see the skin of his chest. It was red and raw. His breath came short and hard against her ear.

She should have been terrified. She was terrified. And under the terror, she was aware of every inch of him.

The last rocket burst. The lawn went quiet, except for the screaming.

He lifted his head. His face was black with soot, inches from hers. "Are you burned?"