Elizabeth’s head whipped toward her sister. “What nonsense is that?”
Kitty shrugged. “Only that he looks at you often enough to suggest he finds something interesting.”
“Perhaps he is wondering whether I have horns hidden under my hair,” Elizabeth said.
“Or perhaps,” Jane said, leaning close to Elizabeth’s ear, “you are nearer to winning that wager with Charlotte than you think.”
Sixteen
Elizabeth slowed her paceas the path curved toward Oakham Mount, the breeze tugging lightly at her bonnet strings. It was the kind of afternoon that invited contemplation, the horizon stretching wide and pale beneath a sky heavy with winter light. She had come here seeking quiet, a reprieve from the crowded chaos of Longbourn. The air was crisp, the ground firm beneath her feet, and for a time, she allowed herself the luxury of wandering without aim.
As she paused near a weathered outcrop to take in the view, the distant sound of hooves reached her ears. She turned, half-expecting to see a farmer tending his fields below, but instead, a rider crested the rise. The dark figure on horseback moved with an easy grace, and recognition came swiftly.
Mr. Darcy.
He dismounted a short distance away, tying his horse to a low branch with practiced efficiency. He seemed unaware of her presence at first, his attention fixed on the path ahead. Elizabeth considered retreating quietly down the hill before he noticed her—an option that grew increasingly appealing as he straightened and turned in her direction.
Too late.
“Miss Bennet.” He inclined his head, his tone neither surprised nor overly familiar.
“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, keeping her expression as neutral as his. There was no easy excuse to slip away now, not without appearing deliberately rude, and so she remained where she was, watching as he approached.
Darcy halted a few paces from her, his gaze sweeping briefly over the landscape before returning to her with measured politeness. “I was told the view from Oakham Mount was worth the ride. It seems the recommendation was not misplaced.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. “It is quite the popular spot. I had not expected to meet anyone here, however.”
“Nor I,” he admitted. “But it is a pleasant surprise.”
Pleasant, was it? Elizabeth permitted herself the ghost of a smile. Perhaps she was on her way to winning this wager, after all. For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind threading through the grass around them. There was a tension in his bearing—calm on the surface, but tightly controlled beneath. He did not seem entirely at ease, as though something weighed upon him that he was unwilling to share.
She stole a glance at him. His brow was faintly furrowed, his focus turned inward. Whatever occupied his mind, it was not something he meant to divulge easily. Elizabeth knew enough of Mr. Darcy to expect reticence, yet she could not help but wonder what had brought him here, alone.
“You are enjoying the morning air, I see,” she said at last.
Darcy’s gaze flicked briefly toward her before returning to the path ahead. “Yes. The countryside is particularly pleasant in the early hours.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I find it refreshing, though I suppose it lacks the grandeur of Pemberley. Or so I have heard from Miss Bingley and Mr. Collins.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly, but his tone remained even. “Grandeur is not always what one requires.”
“Oh? And what does one require, in your estimation?”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to answer. “Tranquility.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him curiously. “You do not strike me as a man easily disturbed, Mr. Darcy.”
“Appearances can be deceptive.”
The admission, though simple, caught her off guard. She had not expected him to engage so directly, and it stirred a flicker of curiosity she couldn’t quite ignore.
“Is it the company here in Hertfordshire that disturbs you, or something else?”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not say I was disturbed.”
“No,” she agreed, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “but you implied it rather strongly.”
He glanced at her then, something flickering in his expression—wry amusement, perhaps, or grudging respect. “You are quite determined to draw conclusions, Miss Bennet.”
