Page 40 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Eventually, Darcy rested his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed.

“You are going to be my wife. My wife!” he said, testing the words on his tongue.

“I am going to be your wife.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “My mother is going to require smelling salts by the barrel when she hears this news. She will likely attempt to move into Pemberley by the end of the week.”

Darcy chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose. “I shall have Fletcher guard the entrance hall. He has proven effective at managing unwanted intrusions.”

Elizabeth pulled back. “Speaking of unwanted intrusions... we should perhaps return to the shore. I believe Bates requires our immediate assistance.”

Darcy blinked, bewildered. He turned his head, squinting at the distant boathouse, to see that the landing was no longer a scene of tranquil waiting.

Bates was battling for his life. An angry white swan had emerged from the reeds. The bird hissed furiously, snapping its large beak and beating its enormous wings.

Bates shrieked and scrambled, flailing his long arms in an attempt to ward off the feathered menace.

The swan pursued the footman like a debt collector.

“Good God.” Darcy stared at the unfolding disaster, his jaw dropping in astonishment.

Before he could reach for the oars, another explosion erupted from the tree line.

Apollo and Diana, having escaped their confinement in the stables, burst onto the grassy bank. The two wolfhounds spotted the giant white bird attacking their favourite source of dropped pastries.

The hounds bayed loudly, launching themselves onto the landing.

The swan, deciding that two giant dogs were a superior challenge to a weeping footman, abandoned Bates. The bird turned, hissing and flapping wildly at the approaching hounds.

Apollo barked, skidding on the damp wood. Diana lunged, snapping her jaws at the white feathers.

Bates seized his opportunity, diving headfirst into the safety of the open boathouse and slamming the door shut behind him.

The swan and the hounds engaged in a loud standoff on the edge of the planks, barking and hissing in a cacophony of noise.

Darcy stared at the ridiculous farrago occurring on his pristine estate. His hounds were fighting a bird. His footman was cowering in a shed.

He turned back to Elizabeth.

She had both hands pressed over her mouth, tears of pure mirth streaming down her cheeks.

Darcy threw his head back, releasing a booming roar of laughter. He laughed until his sides ached, pulling Elizabeth to his side and burying his face in the sweet, lavender-scented curve of her neck. She dissolved into hysterics, clutching his coat as they rocked together in the small boat.

The master of Pemberley was officially engaged. His dignity was ruined, his estate was in shambles, and his heart was full. He held the woman he loved in his arms, the sapphire ring gleaming on her finger, and knew with unwavering certainty that he would happily endure a lifetime of footmen, rampaging hounds, and unpredictable swans, so long as she was by his side to laugh at them with him.

Epilogue

The clock in the corner of the housekeeper’s private parlour ticked slowly. The September sunlight coming through the small, paned windows offered no reassurance to Mrs Reynolds. In Hertfordshire, at this very hour, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was exchanging vows with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sharing a double ceremony with Mr Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet.

Mrs Reynolds sat in her armchair, her posture as rigid as a starched collar. She stared at the tea service arranged on the table before her. The porcelain cups gleamed and the spoons rested at exact angles.

She sighed. The house felt hollow today. Miss Darcy had travelled south with her brother, taking her sweet melodies away from the music room. The great Derbyshire estate awaited the return of a new mistress, a prospect that filled Mrs Reynolds with joy. Miss Elizabeth had brought laughter, light, and a glorious energy into a house that had known only solemn quiet for far too long. The master smiled now and he laughed aloud. He was a changed, thoroughly happy gentleman, and Mrs Reynolds adored the new Mrs Darcy for orchestrating such a miracle.

Because of that adoration, Mrs Reynolds awaited the arrival of her mortal enemy. Mrs Lovejoy had taken tea in this very parlour during the Gardiners’ visit, but they had barely spoken, sipping their tea in silence until the widow was called away. Today, Mrs Reynolds meant to try again.

Martin, the head butler, stood near the hearth, his expression blank.

“Mrs Honoria Lovejoy is expected momentarily,” Martin said. “You have a twenty-year grievance with the woman regarding a fruit preserve. The motivation for this hospitality escapes my understanding.”

Bates leaned against the doorframe. He had been scheduled to travel to Hertfordshire with the wedding party, a prospect that had thrilled him to his very core, but Fletcher had intervened at the final hour. He had declared that a double wedding involved too much expensive lace, delicate crystal, and crowded church aisles to risk Bates’s particular clumsiness. Bates had remained at Pemberley, tasked with assisting the indoor staff.