I had been thrown most unwillingly back into the vicinity of Elizabeth Bennet's net. How often had I told myself I did not want to get caught by her? But of course I did.

Fitzwilliam Darcy is hiding on the roof of a folly when he hears Elizabeth Bennet describe him as a man she could never love.

It is, he will later reflect, not his finest hour.

Darcy has spent years convincing himself he is a rational man, not given to sentiment, not susceptible to a pair of fine eyes or an impertinent opinion. Rosings Park in the spring of 1812 puts an end to that particular piece of fiction. What he cannot yet put an end to is Elizabeth Bennet herself, who contrives to be stranded at the same posting house when the spring floods come, leaving him with no horses, no plan, and no means of pretending he does not care what happens to her.

Two days on the road to London with a borrowed farm cart, a widow’s cottage, and a mule of unexpected character, tear away every performance both of them have been keeping up, and leave something neither of them has a word for yet.

The road to Pemberley is longer than either of them expect. A London Season, a duel, a fever on the Northumberland moors, and Darcy's own considerable talent for talking himself out of happiness all stand in the way of their happily ever after. Then Elizabeth arrives at his door, practical, determined, and entirely finished with waiting, and a practical man is finally brought to his senses.