“I had always assumed the phrase ‘living like a prince’ referred to actual royalty.” Elizabeth looked upward, her bonnet tilting dangerously backward. “I see now it refers exclusively to their livestock. These animals have a significantly better view of the sky than I enjoy from my bedchamber at Mrs Forster’s.”
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was pacing the length of the stable block. He did not appear to be enjoying the view. He was quivering with outrage.
“It is a travesty.” Richard gestured wildly to a remarkably smug grey gelding. The horse was calmly consuming oats from a trough that seemed to be carved from solid oak. “A military travesty.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her gloved hand. “The gelding seems quite content, Colonel.”
“Of course he is content! He resides in the Vatican Palace!” Richard stopped his pacing and glared at the horse. The horse blinked slowly and continued chewing. “My regiment spent the entirety of last winter quartered in a leaking barn in Portugal. We had three blankets between fifty men. We survived on boiled turnips and resentment. This creature lives in a palace.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth suggested mildly, “if you learned to trot with sufficient elegance, the Prince Regent might offer you a stall in the east wing.”
Richard turned his glare upon her. “I am perfectly capable of trotting elegantly, Miss Bennet. I simply refuse to do it for oats.”
A deep, familiar chuckle sounded from the shadow of a nearby archway.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped into the golden light, wearing a coat of green wool and an expression of deep amusement. He had clearly been observing his cousin’s descent into madness for several minutes.
“I have already spoken with the head groom, Richard.” Mr Darcy strolled to them. “I informed him that you may wish to join the cavalry as a mount, given your admiration for the superior accommodations.”
Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a traitor to your own blood. If the French invade the southern coast, my regiment will make its final stand directly behind these mahogany mangers. We shall defend the royal oats to the death.”
Elizabeth laughed aloud. She turned to Mr Darcy, a witty retort rising to her lips regarding the tactical advantage of throwing hay at the enemy, but the laughter died on her lips.
Mr Darcy was not looking at the magnificent horses nor at his outraged cousin. He was looking directly at her.
The bustling stable faded entirely. The grooms, the stamping hooves, the chattering aristocrats parading through the aisles—all of it dissolved into background noise.
His gaze was intense, focused, and vulnerable. It was the exact expression he had worn in the dusty alcove of the Theatre Royal, right before he had raised his hand to touch her cheek, right before the Colonel had torn the curtain open with two glasses of lemonade in hand.
He had nearly confessed his feelings; the words had been forming on his lips.
Elizabeth understood, with an overwhelming surge of joy, that the proud Master of Pemberley still loved her. Despite her brutal rejection in Kent, the undeniable absurdity of her family, the ridiculous, covert seaside espionage they were conducting—he loved her.
She took a small, deliberate step closer to him.
“Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. The banter vanished, replaced by a quiet, urgent sincerity. She wanted to bridge the distance between them, to address the unfinished moment in the alcove. “About last night. At the theatre—”
“Lizzy!”
The shrill voice echoed through the cavernous stable dome with the destructive power of a cannonball.
Mr Darcy stepped backward instantly. The softness vanished, the moment shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.
She closed her eyes and remained perfectly still for three seconds. She mentally calculated the legal penalty forstrangling a sibling within a royal stable. She decided it was likely severe.
She opened her eyes and turned to the sound.
Lydia stood near the entrance of the main courtyard. She was twirling her yellow parasol, squealing loudly over a small, yapping terrier belonging to one of the grooms.
“Lizzy! Come here this instant! You must look at this creature!” Lydia pointed her parasol at the dog. “Mr Wickham said it resembles a disgruntled elderly gentleman, and he is correct!”
At the mention of Wickham’s name, both Mr Darcy and Elizabeth stiffened.
Elizabeth walked quickly to the courtyard, Mr Darcy and the Colonel falling into step immediately beside her.
The courtyard was crowded with fashionable visitors, touring the stables as though it were the pinnacle of summer entertainment. Elizabeth surveyed the throng of bright pelisses and tall hats.
She located George Wickham near a display of ornate carriages.
