Without waiting for Mrs Forster to draw breath, she placed two large, capable hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and shoved her under the churning water.
Elizabeth winced in sympathy as Mrs Forster vanished, leaving only a swirl of fabric on the surface. It was a brutal cure for melancholy, from which Mrs Forster never suffered, and it provided a spectacular, deafening distraction from the rest of the beach.
“It is a brutal method of ensuring good health.”
The deep voice originated from her left. Elizabeth did not startle nor did she turn her head. She maintained her serene gaze on the horizon, her heart executing a sudden flutter.
Mr Darcy stepped into view under her parasol. He was dressed in a grey morning coat, leaning slightly on a polished walking stick. He had the infuriating ability to stand on loose pebbles with the grounded stability of an oak tree, while Elizabeth was forced to constantly adjust her balance to avoid tumbling backward.
“I am beginning to suspect the local physicians prescribe the bathing machines for their own amusement, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth replied softly, keeping her voice low enough that the shouting of the shoreline swallowed the words. “Mrs Forster claims the cold water improves her complexion, but she emerges looking like a drowned, exceedingly angry mouse.”
“It is a testament to the vanity of polite society,” he observed. He too stared straight ahead at the water, presenting the perfect, respectable picture of an idle gentleman enjoying the morning promenade with an acquaintance. “We willingly subject ourselves to torture provided it is deemed fashionable.”
“And what brings you to the fashionable torture this morning?” Elizabeth asked, allowing a small, sideways glance from under the brim of her bonnet.
Mr Darcy’s profile was rigid. “I came to admire the pebbles. And to inform you that our mutual nuisance was seen entering a millinery shop on East Street less than an hour ago. He was purchasing a length of pale blue ribbon.”
Elizabeth frowned. George Wickham did not purchase ribbons for himself, and he certainly did not have the funds to buy them as charitable gifts. “Pale blue. Lydia despises pale blue. She claims it makes her look sallow. She is devoted to bright pink.”
“Precisely.” He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting second before returning to the sea. “The ribbon is not for your sister. I believe he has successfully pivoted his attentions to a Miss Penelope Smythe. I observed her wearing a pelisse of identical blue only yesterday.”
Elizabeth let out a frustrated breath. Wickham was relentless. Having been so brutally dismantled by Lady Clement a few days ago, he had dusted off his red coat and turned his charming smile to his secondary, slightly less wealthy option. Miss Penelope Smythe was a romantic creature who read far too many novels and was susceptible to a tragic tale. She would be an easy conquest for a man who lied for a living.
“He is moving swiftly,” Elizabeth murmured, watching as Martha hauled a spluttering, weeping Mrs Forster back to the surface for a brief gasp of air. “If he secures Miss Smythe’s affections today, he will undoubtedly use her obviousinfatuation to further isolate Lydia and ensure he has multiple avenues of escape. We cannot allow him to gain a foothold.”
“I agree.” He shifted his weight, his walking stick sinking slightly into the pebbles. “The difficulty lies in the fact that Miss Smythe’s chaperone is her elderly aunt, a woman who falls asleep during musical performances. She offers no protection whatsoever. We need a distraction.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced. They were constrained by the oppressive rules of propriety. She could not march up to Miss Smythe and declare Wickham a scoundrel without causing a public scandal that would inevitably ruin Lydia’s reputation in the fray. They had to be subtle. They had to manufacture a social inconvenience so grand that Wickham would be forced to abandon his designs.
A scream from the promenade above them broke her concentration.
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. Lydia, accompanied by Winslow and three junior officers of the militia, was parading along the paved walkway. She was laughing loudly, demanding that the officers procure a donkey for her to ride on the beach. The boys, eager to please, were waving at a gruff-looking local man who managed a string of the stubborn beasts.
An idea, absurd and utterly perfect, bloomed in Elizabeth’s mind.
“Mr Darcy,” she began, her voice taking on a bright, dangerous edge. “How familiar are you with the temperament of the Brighton donkeys?”
Mr Darcy glanced at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I have never had occasion to ride them, Miss Elizabeth. They seem slow, ill-tempered, and loud. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” she replied, a wicked smile breaking across her face as she turned fully to him, abandoning her serene contemplation of the water. “Miss Smythe is walking down the promenade directly to my sister. And Lydia, who has the subtlety of a runaway carriage, is about to mount a donkey. If one were to, perhaps, accidentally startle that particular beast of burden, it might create a path directly through Miss Smythe and her charming new companion.”
He stared at her. The proper gentleman vanished for a single, breath-taking moment, replaced by a man who looked utterly captivated. He let out a low, rich chuckle that sent a startling wave of warmth straight to Elizabeth’s toes.
“You propose we incite a donkey stampede to thwart a courtship,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Miss Elizabeth, that is undoubtedly the most cunning suggestion I have ever heard.”
“It is a natural danger of the seaside,” Elizabeth argued, her own smile widening. “Donkeys are famously unpredictable. No one could possibly blame us if an animal decided to abruptly seek higher ground.”
“And who is to provide this necessary startle?” Mr Darcy asked, leaning closer. The respectable distance between them was evaporating, forgotten in the thrill of the shared jest. “I am quite certain my cousin would volunteer, though he would likely demand to ride the beast himself.”
“We do not need the Colonel,” Elizabeth declared, feeling a sudden, joyous spark of recklessness. “We need a pebble. A small, well-aimed pebble tossed at the correct moment.”
In the water behind them, Martha plunged Mrs Forster under the waves for her final, mandatory dip. The resultingshriek echoed across the beach, a crescendo to a ridiculous plan. Elizabeth looked up into Mr Darcy’s smiling eyes, and a realisation settled into her heart.
She was not merely tolerating Fitzwilliam Darcy. She was having the time of her life.
Elizabeth broke the gaze first, her cheeks warming with a heat that the seaside wind did not cause. She lowered her parasol to obscure her face from the promenade above, before gracefully crouching on the unstable stones.
“I believe,” she announced to the ground, her fingers sifting through the smooth, wet pebbles, “that my slipper has acquired a rather uncomfortable piece of gravel. It is a terrible inconvenience, Mr Darcy. A true tragedy of the promenade.”
