According to Jane.

MARILYN BRANT.

For Jeff, Joe and Andrew.

Incredibly Good Guys.

In memory of Margaret Weigel (19212007) and Kim Hintz (19672004).

Inspirations.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Since the road to publication is usually so arduous, meandering and fraught with unexpected twists, writers have ample time to compose (in their heads or on fettuccini-stained restaurant napkins) dissertation-length monologues befitting that of a Shakespearean lead character, during which they describe-in complex, paragraph-long sentences-how exceedingly indebted they are to everyone they've ever met, read a book by or chatted about "Motivation" with online (in their entire lives) for the help given in the writing, acquisition, printing and distribution of their debut novels.

I was so not going to be one of those people with the endless lists. Seriously. I was going to do a "brevity is the soul of wit" thing. Heartfelt, but short. Until I started to actually jot down the names of the family members, writing mentors, friends, publishing professionals, librarians and occasional random grocery-store shoppers who've helped me at turning-point moments on this journey and I realized what tremendous teamwork it took to pull this off.

I originally had nine and a half pages. This is the condensed version. So, anyone I may have inadvertently omitted in this draft, please email me and I'll send you the longer edition. (Trust me. Your name is definitely on that one. As is the name of every resident in the entire state of Wisconsin.) First, my infinite thanks to Jane Austen. No, I don't really talk to her, so I'm not sure if she's aware of my grat.i.tude and lifelong admiration. Nevertheless, it's overflowing.

I had the incredible good fortune to join the Chicago-North chapter of RWA, through which I met exceptional authors who also became some of my best friends. Erica O'Rourke, Simone Elkeles, Karen Dale Harris, Laura Moore, Lisa Laing and Jennifer Stevenson-thank you all for reading and critiquing the complete novel and for being so encouraging during every single step toward publication. Erika Danou-Ha.s.san, Sara Daniel, Pamala Knight Duffy, Ruth Kaufman, Liz Evans, Martha Whitehead and all of my terrific C-N chapter mates-thanks to you, too, for your supportiveness and for sharing in the adventure.

On the National RWA level, I benefited greatly by being a part of the online PRO and PAN loops, by getting to know the Cherries, by being a "Bond Girl" and celebrating milestones with my fellow 007 Golden Heart Finalists and by lucking my way into a blog community full of talented writers, astute readers and enthusiastic Austen fans. I'm also grateful to the Romantic Times staff for all I learned as a reviewer, to JASNA for the fun of being surrounded by Janeites, and to the Z-Authors, the Sisters of the Pen and the Girlfriends Cyber Circuit for their guidance and for helping spread the word.

Professionally, I've been so fortunate to have Nephele Tempest as my agent. She believed in this story from the beginning, helped me polish it and worked hard to see it published. The Knight Agency's amazing staff and clients have been behind me at every stage, and I truly appreciate their efforts. As for Kensington Books, I don't think I could've dreamed up an editor more insightful, experienced or supportive than John Scognamiglio. He and the entire publishing team have been ceaseless in their work on this project, from copyediting and publicity to cover art and infinite behind-the-scenes details. Thanks to all of you-we did it!

Here at home, I'm unbelievably lucky to have Sarah Pressly-James, Joyce Twardock, Karen Karris and Pam Russell in my corner. Thanks for your friendship and for your many kindnesses. My dear friend Edna, you've shared your wisdom and your love of literature with me since I was nineteen-I send hugs of love and grat.i.tude from here to Australia for you! My neighbors Jennifer and Heather, I appreciate not only your helpful feedback on my writing but your genuineness and humor. Josh and all our friends from the Y, thanks so much for answering my endless questions. Dorothy Enloe and Raymond Schoen-my writing mentors when I was young and impressionable-you may no longer be with us, but your messages from decades ago are still with me.

Hugs, kisses and colossal thanks to my wonderful family: Mom, for your unwavering encouragement; Dad, for those amazing cliffhanger story endings; Bro, for being the coolest brother imaginable and for helping me build the sound track to every book; Brad, Beth and Dave, for your excitement and interest; my grandparents and extended family for cheering me on (with extra-special thanks to Mich.e.l.le and Stephanie for your enthusiastic emails); and Joanne, for being as caring as a relative. The love you've all given me through the years is such a gift. The downside? I've been forced to look elsewhere to find prototypes for my most antagonistic characters. (And I can't thank you enough for that!) Finally, my extraordinarily supportive, loving and generous husband and son-you two made it possible for me to pursue this dream, and you're why I always say "Yes!" when people ask if I'm an optimist. I love you both-even more than ice cream, music, sunshine.... Thank you.

Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.

-Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813).

PROLOGUE.

In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.

-Pride and Prejudice.

I always thought Homer painted his character Odysseus as a real slow learner with that whole twenty-year-journey thing. I mean, what kind of an idiot needs two decades to understand a simple lesson like "Don't be arrogant in the eyes of the G.o.ds"? Pretty basic, once you take out all the hard-to-p.r.o.nounce Greek names, the weird epic-poem structure and everything that smacks of immortals playing with magic.

But who am I to talk? For so many years, I, too, thought I was clever. I, too, thought I was courageous. I, too, thought I'd figured out all my lessons but, as Jane would say, "I fear this is not so."

See, until this moment, at my wise old age of thirty-four, I had a long-held theory about my own personal power. An erroneous belief that I had more control over my destiny than I actually have.

But, to prove my point, I can't start explaining from where I am now. It wouldn't make sense.

Journeys begin where journeys begin...and mine began with big hair, leg warmers and the musty smell of Mrs. Leverson's English cla.s.s, way back in the mid-1980s when I was all of fifteen.

I was in soph.o.m.ore lit then-midweek, early November, daydreaming of life after high school-when Sam Blaine made his first move and Jane Austen made her first comment.

"Ellieeee," the sinfully cute but annoying-as-h.e.l.l Sam Blaine chanted softly from his seat behind me. "Ellllieee." He walked two of his fingers up the imaginary ladder between my shoulder blades until I shivered.

"Stop it," I hissed. "You're going to get us in trouble."

I scooched forward, trying to focus on Mrs. Leverson's nasal-toned wrap-up lecture of the novel we'd just finished, Childhood's End. Although I was pretty sure my childhood had long ended, I resigned myself to acting polite and studious in cla.s.s if it killed me. I had a reputation to uphold.

Sam, however, had no intention of allowing me to brush him off. Managing to keep his hand out of Mrs. Leverson's line of vision, he snagged my shirt and bra strap with a pinch grip and pulled me back toward him.

"C'mon, Ellie. You know you're as bored as I am." Sam skimmed his fingertips over the spot where my bra's back clasp bulged beneath the cotton fabric. "Tell me your fantasy."

As our teacher gestured with her chubby arms up in front of our suburban Chicago cla.s.sroom and performed other antics to entice student partic.i.p.ation, I thought of my fantasy: Surviving adolescence. Maybe kissing Sam someday. Being a totally cool, in control, woman of the world.

Yeah, right. But I was an optimist in the '80s.

I did not, however, divulge these imaginings to the precocious dark-haired boy who, thanks to the eternal delights of alphabetical order, sat near me in five out of seven cla.s.ses.

No.

I might l.u.s.t after Sam. A lot. But I hadn't yet become self-destructive. I knew S-A-M was shorthand for D-A-N-G-E-R.

"In your fantasy, are you groping a guy in the dark, pa.s.sionately, maybe under the bleachers?" Sam suggested, his voice low. His fingers ma.s.saged my spine, channeling toward me all the vigor of a testosterone-driven teen male.

I felt chills-equal parts anxiety and longing-at his touch. I tried to lean away from him again, but he drew me back with one swift motion.

"And are you feeling that guy's hands rubbing your body, too? First, over your clothes, and then"-he paused to stroke his thumb down my bare neck-"underneath them?"

"Cut it out, Sam," I whispered over my shoulder, finally breaking away despite my absurd desire for more. Since kindergarten he'd poked me in the back with his pencil tip and badgered me with pesky comments, but this was the first time he'd ever really touched my skin. I didn't know what to make of it.

See, with anyone else I might've thought some tiny crush thing was going on, but I wasn't dealing with a typical, gawky sixteen-year-old boy. This was Sam Blaine, a guy who exuded experience even then. A guy who'd morphed into a rare combination of good-looking, athletic, brainy and popular. Versus me, who was, well...just brainy. Or, at least, intelligent enough to know I wouldn't rate high on Mr. Cool's "To Date" list.

I sighed, wishing Sam's attentions were sincere, and watched as our teacher wrote the t.i.tle of our new novel on the chalkboard. Pride and Prejudice. Then out came the big box of paperbacks, distributed to us like the slap of breaded chicken patties on our hot-lunch trays.

I picked up my copy. A second later I felt Sam trace a pattern on my arm with his pinky, and I rolled my eyes. Guess he was more bored than usual. Just as I was about to tell him to knock it off yet again, I heard the first tsk.

In a panic of self-consciousness, I dropped the book back on my desk and glanced at our cla.s.smates. No one seemed to be paying any attention to us in the far-right row. Everyone looked lost in their own daydreams or make-out fantasies or whatever.

But I heard more tsking.

"Who said that?" I asked Sam, shooting a look behind me.

"Who said what?"

"The tsk, tsk noises."

Sam's forehead crinkled. He motioned me closer and I bent back toward him, a mere three inches away from his mocking blue eyes and those ever-smirking lips. I tried hard to keep my view of him peripheral. Gazing head-on at Sam's striking features always made me sweat.

Another tsk came from somewhere in the room.

"That! Did you hear it?" I asked, swiveling around in my seat until I faced him. My eyes darted around in hopes of spotting the tsker.

But Sam didn't seem to have heard it. Instead he simply grinned, his hand nudging my left shoulder until I made full eye contact with him. "Must be your subconscious speaking. It's saying-" He tilted his head to the side and squinted as if in deep concentration. "'Ellie Barnett needs more s.e.xual experience or she'll die a virgin.'"

Then his hand slipped lower.

He covertly grazed the side of my left breast with his palm, his fingers daring to dance along the bra's underwire before breaking the connection between us.

I stifled a gasp and stared at him, my mouth agape. For a split second I thought, Did he mean to do that? Was he seriously making a move on me? Then common sense took over, and I knew this had to be one of his little jokes. Sam loved games.

He sent me a smug, defiant look. His hand, an inch away, was still poised for grasping.

Before he could try that trick again, I seized his wrist with my long, strong, meticulously polished fingernails, and I used them as pink claws to dig four crescent-shaped notches into his hairless inner arm. Deep, darkening imprints against that pale skin.

Sam grunted and pulled away. Unfortunately, his moan elicited the attention of our teacher.

"Miss Barnett. Mr. Blaine." She elongated her syllables with believable menace. "Please flirt on your own time."

The cla.s.s snickered and my face burned, making me wish I could bolt out the door and hide in the girls' bathroom. I stole a glance at Sam. He didn't quite have the decency to blush, but he slunk down in his seat, obviously displeased at getting caught.

With her reprimand delivered, Mrs. Leverson busied herself locating the handouts for our next novel.

The second she turned her back, Sam hissed in my ear, "s.h.i.t, Ellie. Are you trying to scar me for life?" He pointed to the marks on his inner wrist and had the nerve to look indignant.

I fought for a retort that wouldn't get me in trouble. All I could come up with, though, was the really b.i.t.c.hy glare my sister had perfected on my parents, my brother and me.

"Leave me alone, Sam," I managed to say, attempting to replicate the glare. "I mean it."

Of course, I didn't mean it. And Sam knew this.

He was too bright not to have noticed the way I'd studied him all semester, how I sparkled like a mirrored dis...o...b..ll whenever he paid attention to me. Even getting to second base might've been okay if his interest in me were genuine. And if we were somewhere private.

But Sam did not exude earnestness of any kind, and his motives were nothing if not a complete mystery. He had what the adults called "an att.i.tude," and he was copping it big-time that day.

"You...don't...want me...to...touch you?" Sam said, his tone indicating disbelief. He knew I knew that virtually every other girl in our grade would've gladly agreed to be manhandled by him.

But I whispered, "No."

As if guessing the hypocrisy of my words, he narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth. I turned away before he could speak.

Why? Because even then I craved this silly romantic thing. Craved it despite knowing it was stupid. I wanted my first real boyfriend to write me love notes that I could hide in my pocket and reread later. Or hold my hand and dance with me to the latest Journey ballads. Or refuse to tell his friends the exciting things we might do in the back row of a dimly lit movie theater.

I didn't want some guy playing with my emotions for in-school entertainment, especially not the very guy I'd had a secret crush on for eons. No. I wanted pure romantic fantasy. And I got it.

But not from Sam Blaine.

"Our next novel is Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice," Mrs. Leverson informed us, waving her handouts in the air before plopping them on Tanya Hammersley's desk and motioning for her to distribute them. "While Tanya pa.s.ses these out, take a moment to look at your new novel."

I picked up the book again, flipped to the back cover and scanned it doubtfully: The sparring of an opinionated young couple in nineteenth-century England creates the cla.s.sic and enduring romantic theme of Pride and Prejudice.

Oh, ugh. This hardly sounded like high conflict, but I forced myself to keep reading: Clever and vivacious Elizabeth Bennet is both drawn to the aloof Mr. Darcy and repulsed by his arrogance, acrid tongue and condescending behavior toward everyone in the neighborhood.

I imagined using the word "acrid" in a sentence. Like: Sam Blaine deserved to be locked up in a dank dungeon until his groping fingers and his acrid tongue disintegrated. Nice, huh?

The pa.s.sage continued: Darcy and Elizabeth's lively and unlikely courtship is played out on a genteel stage, with parlor flirtations, a.s.sembly-ball intrigues...And blah, blah, blah.

I decided to go ahead, against all cliched warnings, and judge a book by its cover. It was written too long ago to be any good, despite boasting a vivacious heroine who had a name similar to mine. And, anyway, between dealing with the rest of my schoolwork and just making it through the day, my attention span was limited.

Our teacher droned on about the setting and the political climate of Regency England and how dear old Jane spent her days confined to doing dull things like strolling in the park and writing letters, because that was what fine women did back then.

I listened, more or less. But then Mrs. Leverson began telling us about the princ.i.p.al characters in Austen's novel, and the weirdest thing happened.

"Along with Darcy and Elizabeth, George Wickham is an important character to study," she said. "He's a militia officer and his regiment is stationed near the Bennets' family home. As you read your first a.s.signment tonight, pay special attention to the way Austen introduces him and describes his actions."

I was seized by a curiosity I didn't understand about a character I'd never heard of before.

As Mrs. Leverson moved on to secondary players in the story, I flipped through the novel, reading random paragraphs until I saw the first mention of the Wickham guy on page sixty-three. I skimmed the section, getting the flavor of this man who, since he didn't wind up with the heroine at the book's conclusion, couldn't really be as admirable as he seemed, when I heard a lady's voice in my ear.

Beware, Ellie, the voice said before following this up with a decided tsk or two. Sam Blaine is your Mr. Wickham.

Fear seized my throat and all-out panic gripped my stomach. Okay. Who said that?

I blinked, then glanced wildly in every direction. Even Sam was keeping his distance, for once.

"What?" I said aloud to the unidentified voice. A few students nearby turned their heads to shoot me an odd look.

Sam, sounding sulky, muttered, "Don't look at me. I didn't do anything."

I squinted at him, suspicious.

You would do well to heed my advice, friend, said the voice, and I could've sworn I heard an ironic little laugh right along with an unmistakably British accent. I am well acquainted with men of his ilk, and they are disinclined to be honourable. You had best keep your distance.