Posted on Friday, 4 April 2003, at 12:44 p.m.

What are you doing to me? Hast thou bewitched me, robbed me of every proper feeling? When I converse with you, I feel doubtful - what are you thinking behind that arch expression? My shoulders feel tense with anxiety every time. Doth the day laugh at me, or is it another ploy? Then suddenly you turn to me with such a look on your face as to make me feel light-headed - innocent enjoyment coupled with a deeper, more meaningful understanding, surely hiding a depth of feeling I dare not contemplate. I have no right to think such thoughts of a lady - be she low-born or a Duchess.

I must acknowledge to myself - I have lost control over my lust. What madness has this woman wrought on me? True, lust has over-powered me on occasion - but what is so special about her? She is not such a remarkable beauty - but her eyes, oh those *eyes*. Eyes that see into my soul and expose me most cruelly to her quick, discerning mind. Perhaps it is mind that attracts me - two minds alike, her and I. Seeing the intrinsic foibles of life and never being drawn in by them.

We are both far above the petty flatness of the world. What a pair we would make together - a perfect match in every respect...

NO! What am I thinking? She *has* bewitched me - cast a spell that I am unwittingly falling under. She is just like the other women; I am not Fitzwilliam Darcy to them, I am Mr 10,000 a year. Mr Pemberley. Granted, her lure is far more irresistible...

But I cannot bear to ruin my image of her - her energy, her love of life, I loathe to mar it with tasteless accusations. Perhaps she *is* the one - the only woman to see me as a man, not as a bank balance, or a fine estate. Oh, I *cannot*. She is beneath me - if only she were born of a respectable family, not the rabble-rousing ninnies she must call relatives. Such a mother! Such sisters! My pride will not allow me to lower myself to such degradation. Even the most perfect woman in the world will not induce me to such an act.

It seems Bingley has thrown caution to the wind - the man has no self-control. At least once a year he insists on falling in love. But I fear that this time may be of peculiar note. The extent of his devotion has been far more pronounced than I have ever witnessed. Why, I do believe he will propose...

I must get him away. That Jane Bennet does not fool me - her smile is too serene to be that of a woman whose heart has been captured. True, she spends most of her time with him, but what fortune hunter does not stick to their quarry?

Perhaps I am being a little rash - love does that to one...