Page 7 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Aunt Madeline sighed with pleasure. “It is even more beautiful than I remembered, Edward.”

Elizabeth could not speak. This was Fitzwilliam Darcy. This estate, this quiet, imposing majesty, was the physical manifestation of the man himself. It was a place of consequence, a kingdom over which he ruled with absolute authority.

And she had been asked to be its mistress.

A wave of dizzying heat rushed to her cheeks. She gripped the handle of her parasol until her knuckles ached, forcibly turning her gaze away from the house and staring at the passing shrubbery.

They rattled across a handsome stone bridge and pulled to a halt before the sweep of the front courtyard. The scale of the entrance was intimidating, and she felt small and insignificant. Elizabeth allowed her uncle to assist her down.

They approached the double doors. Uncle Edward reached for the brass bell-pull, giving it a firm tug. A resonant chime echoed from somewhere within the cavernous depths of the house.

Elizabeth stood beside her aunt, focused on the intricate carving of the stone archway. She counted her breaths, attempting to project an aura of calm indifference.

The door opened, revealing a young man in a green and gold livery. He was astonishingly tall and composed of elbows and knobby knees. His cravat was tied in a lopsided knot, and a powdery white smudge—which looked suspiciously like baking flour—adorned his left cheek.

He stared at the visitors with a mixture of fear and eagerness. He executed a bow and nearly pitched forward onto the stone steps.

Uncle Edward offered a polite, accommodating smile. “Good morning. We are visitors to the area. My wife is a cousin of Mrs Honoria Lovejoy of Lambton. We were hoping we might impose on the housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, for a tour of the public rooms.”

The footman blinked rapidly, his long limbs twitching as if he were attempting to suppress an uncontrollable urge to flee. “A tour, sir! Yes, sir! A tour of the rooms! Mrs Reynolds! Of course, sir! Sir! Just do not tell her I opened without waiting for the butler.”

He lunged backward, grabbing the edge of the door to steady himself, and inadvertently slammed it shut.

Elizabeth jumped, her parasol wobbling precariously in her grip.

A muffled yelp echoed from behind the thick wood, followed by the sound of scrambling footsteps retreating into the distance.

Aunt Madeline raised an elegant eyebrow. “Well. The staff appears energetic this season.”

They waited. The minutes stretched, the silence of the courtyard broken only by the distant call of a wood pigeon. Elizabeth felt the weight of the house pressing down on her shoulders. She was standing on his threshold and breathing his air. The absurdity of her situation threatened to bubble up into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“I cannot stand here a moment longer,” she declared, closing her parasol. “The heat reflecting off these stones is oppressive. I shall seek the shade of those trees down by the water while we wait.”

Uncle Edward nodded, pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow. “A sound idea, Lizzy. Madeline and I shall hold our ground until the young footman returns with the housekeeper. Do not wander too far.”

Elizabeth turned on her heel, fleeing the judging façade of Pemberley with the speed of a startled deer. She followed a path that wound its way away from the courtyard, descending down a gentle, grassy slope towards the expanse of the lake.

The moment the house vanished from her sight, obscured by a thick grove of weeping willows, her fractured nerves began to settle. Here, amongst the untamed beauty of the estate, she could breathe again. The air was cooler down by the water, smelling of damp earth, sweet grass, and blooming wildflowers.

She strolled along the bank, allowing the tranquil beauty of the valley to soothe her jagged edges. It was an undeniable tragedy, she mused, that such a beautiful corner of the world belonged to a man so devoid of agreeable qualities. If only Pemberley belonged to a pleasant gentleman—someone like Mr Bingley—she could easily spend the rest of her life happily wandering these paths.

The path curved around a dense thicket of rhododendrons, opening onto a secluded grassy bank that sloped into the water.

Elizabeth stepped onto the grass, intending to admire the reflection of the clouds on the surface, when a skipping splash broke the silence.

A man stood at the edge of the water, his back turned to her. He was stripped of his coat and cravat, wearing only his breeches, a fine linen shirt clinging damply to his broad shoulders, and a pair of scuffed riding boots. His hair was windblown and unruly, lacking its usual, immaculate pomade.

He held a smooth, flat stone in his hand. With a forceful flick of his wrist, he sent the rock skimming across the surface of the lake. It bounced three, four, five times before sinking beneath the ripples.

Elizabeth’s lungs ceased to function. The blood drained from her head, leaving her swaying dangerously on the grassy slope.

It was him.

The broad set of his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine—they were etched into her memory with agonising clarity.

She took a panicked step backward. Her boot slipped on the damp grass, and she gave a startled gasp.

The man whirled around, and Fitzwilliam Darcy stared at her. The remaining stones in his hand tumbled to the ground, splashing harmlessly into the shallow water at his feet.