Page 4 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Uncle Edward nodded with a smile. “It is settled, then. We shall hire a four-seat phaeton tomorrow morning. I shall drive us to Pemberley for our first excursion.”

Elizabeth set her glass down on a side table with a loud clatter. “Aunt, Uncle, please. I have no desire to see great houses. They are all the same, are they not? Endless passages and dusty portraits of dead men in wigs. I would much rather walk the hills or see the caves.”

Aunt Madeline frowned, tilting her head in confusion. “But Lizzy, you love architecture. You spent three hours examining the vaulted ceilings at the cathedral in Ely last year. Pemberley is a marvel of the modern age. You will adore it.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, to beg, but the words died in her throat. She looked at the eager faces of her aunt and uncle. How could she refuse? What possible excuse could she offer?

She could not say, ‘I cannot go because the master of that house insulted my family, ruined my sister’s happiness, and then had the unmitigated audacity to ask for my hand in marriage.’ She could not confess that she had screamed at him, accusing him of being the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed on to marry.

If she refused with too much vehemence, Aunt Madeline’s clever mind would detect a secret. The questions would begin, relentless and penetrating, until the truth was laid bare in the parlour of the Black Swan.

Elizabeth was trapped.

She forced the corners of her mouth upward, stretching her lips into a smile brittle enough to shatter. “Of course. If it pleases you both, I am sure Pemberley will be... Educational.”

Mrs Lovejoy beamed, oblivious to the situation unfolding before her. “Excellent! Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, will welcome you, I am certain. She is a bit sour and she does not know her marmalades, but she is professional and she will give you the grandest tour imaginable. You shall see every silk hanging and silver candlestick in the place!”

The roasted chicken arrived shortly thereafter, smelling divine, but Elizabeth found she had lost her appetite. She chewed the tender meat as if it were sawdust, nodding numbly as Mrs Lovejoy prattled on about the exact dimensions of the Pemberley drawing-room.

Hours later, long after the carriage trunks had been unpacked and the inn had fallen into a rural silence, Elizabeth lay awake.

The goose-down mattress, which had seemed so heavenly only hours before, now was a bed of thorns. She stared up at the shadowed canopy of the bedstead, her heart hammering.

Tomorrow, she would walk through his home, look on his possessions, and listen to a housekeeper sing his praises. She closed her eyes, praying with desperation that Mrs Lovejoy’s gossip was accurate.

He is in London, she chanted silently in the darkness. He must be in London. God preserve me, he must be anywhere but here.

Chapter Two: A Master in Flight and a Footman in Freefall

Fitzwilliam Darcy urged his black stallion, Orion, into a punishing gallop along the dusty turnpike, welcoming the fierce burn in his thighs and the sting of the wind on his cheeks. Physical exertion was the only known remedy for a mind consumed by chaos.

Three days had passed since he abruptly quit his London townhouse. Three days of relentless, bone-jarring travel, and the pressure in his chest had not lessened by a single fraction. His carriage lumbered one mile behind him, containing nothing but his trunks and his aggrieved valet. Darcy had ridden hired horses for most of the journey and collected Orion at the last posting inn before Pemberley.

Fletcher had protested this barbaric arrangement at every single stop between Mayfair and the Derbyshire border. At every change of horses, the valet would emerge from the plush, velvet-lined interior of the carriage, his cravat tied to mathematical perfection, holding a cup of lukewarm tea and an expression of professional despair.

Darcy remembered their confrontation at the Crown in Leicester vividly.

Fletcher offered a tray bearing a clean linen handkerchief. “Sir, the carriage is quite empty. The squabs are newly brushed. I have secured a copy of The Times. I implore you to come inside before you are baked by the sun and coated in grime.”

Darcy waved the handkerchief away, his leather riding gloves leaving streaks of dust across his brow as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I am well on horseback, Fletcher. I need the air.”

Fletcher’s gaze dropped to Darcy’s formerly pristine riding boots, now caked in a horrific mixture of dried mud and horse lather. “With all due respect, sir, you do not need the air. You need a bath, a change of linen, and to cease riding as if the hounds of hell are nipping at your spurs.”

Darcy turned away, thrusting his foot into the stirrup and swinging back into the saddle with a dismissive sigh. He could not explain the restless energy thrumming through his veins to his valet. He could barely explain it to himself. How could he articulate that the confined space of the carriage felt too much like the parlour at the Hunsford parsonage? If he sat still in the carriage, the memory of her flashing, furious eyes would paralyse him.

The last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

He spurred the hired horse forward, leaving a coughing Fletcher in a cloud of dust.

Now, cresting the final hill that overlooked the Pemberley valley, Darcy allowed the stallion to slow to a manageable trot. The rolling green landscape stretched out before him, a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. The dense forests of oak and beech stood like silent sentinels, guarding the tranquil waters of the river that wound its way to the great stone house.

Pemberley. His home.

As he rode down the long, winding gravel drive, the tension in his shoulders began to uncoil. The imposing façade of the manor house, bathed in the golden light of the late morning sun, promised peace. It promised a world where he was in control, where his orders were followed, and where no fiery-tempered women from Hertfordshire could dismantle his pride piece by piece.

A figure in a light muslin gown burst through the front doors before Darcy had even brought Orion to a complete halt in the courtyard.

“Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana flew down the stone steps, her blonde curls bouncing.