Darcy ceased all movement.
The bee hovered for a second, and then, with the precision of a trained assassin, it landed squarely on the tip of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s aristocratic nose.
Darcy went cross-eyed, staring at the yellow and black fuzz occupying his field of vision. He did not move a muscle. He did not breathe. The master of Pemberley was held hostage by an insect.
“Do not move,” Darcy whispered, his voice a strained, high-pitched hiss.
Miss Elizabeth, who had been staring at him with romantic awe only a second before, slapped both hands over her mouth.Her eyes crinkled in agony as she fought the most heroic battle of her life against a shout of laughter.
“I am not moving,” she squeaked, her voice trembling with suppressed hysterics.
“It is plotting,” Darcy hissed, his eyes still crossed. “I can feel it plotting.”
“It is resting, sir,” she managed to choke out.
She leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Her face was mere inches from his, her scent enveloping him. Very gently, very slowly, she raised her gloved hand and with the delicate flick of her index finger, she gently shooed the bee.
The insect buzzed indignantly, lifted off his nose, and lumbered away to a nearby patch of clover.
Darcy let out an explosive exhale, slumping back against the bench.
Miss Elizabeth could hold it in no longer. She burst into a fit of giggles, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“I am glad my brush with mortality brings you such joy,” he muttered, though he was smiling.
“It was...” she gasped for air, wiping a tear from her eye. “It was the most majestic display of stoic bravery I have ever witnessed. You stared down the beast without flinching.”
“I am a Darcy. We do not flinch in the face of the enemy. Even if the enemy is pollinating.”
They sat together on the bench, laughing. It was a sweet, silly moment, the misunderstandings a million miles away.God, I want this forever,Darcy thought.
Eventually, the bells of the church chimed in the distance, signalling the approaching luncheon hour.
“I must return,” Miss Elizabeth sighed, reluctantly standing up. “If I am late, Mr Collins will likely send a search party. The search party being Sir William, who will be lost and then we will have to send another search party. An endless loop.”
Darcy stood up with her. He did not want to let her go. He wanted to freeze time under the oak tree.
He reached out and took her gloved hand. He bowed his head, his lips brushing over her knuckles.
“Until London, Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured against her hand.
“Until London, Mr Darcy.”
She turned and walked away, glancing over her shoulder once to offer him a final smile before disappearing behind the laurel bushes.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the grove long after she left. Had he been any other man, he would have skipped all the way back to Rosings Park. As it was, he settled for a stride so buoyant and ridiculously energetic that Dawson would likely assume he had suffered a blow over the head.
The euphoria lasted precisely until Dixon opened the front doors to usher Darcy in.
The grand entrance hall was in an uproar. It sounded as though a small war had broken out in the primary drawing room.
Darcy rushed towards the noise.
The scene before him was bedlam. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was standing by the fireplace, her face an alarming shade of puce, wielding her cane like a broadsword. Colonel Fitzwilliam was standing behind a sofa as though he were seeking cover. Viscount Keathley was leaning casually againstthe mantelpiece unbothered, while a small army of footmen hovered in the hallway, looking terrified.
And in the centre of the room stood Anne de Bourgh.
The heiress was not sitting. She was not coughing. She was standing straight, her arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping the marble.
