Page 116 of Me and Mr. Darcy

With a thud, what he’s saying registers. Oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t tell me he’s going to do what I think he’s going to do.

He drops to his knee in his front of me.

‘Holy shit,’ I gasp, thrown into a panic.

He looks at me, startled. ‘What is wrong?’

I falter. This is where you explain, Emily. This is where you tell him everything. About how you don’t want to see him any more, about how you’re too different, about how you want to say goodbye. About how you’re in love with Spike—

What? Where the hell did that just come from?

‘Um . . . it’s all muddy,’ I manage to stammer. ‘Your breeches, they’ll get filthy.’

He looks at me and then gets up again. ‘That is what I love so much about you, Emily, you are always so sweet and thoughtful and amusing.’

I watch as he sits back down next to me on that little stone bench, flicking out his tailcoat, pulling at his breeches. Before, it had seemed so attractive, but now it seems stiff and fussy.

‘As I was saying, I have something I must tell you—’ begins Mr Darcy.

‘Look, I don’t think—’ I try cutting him off.

‘I love you, Emily,’ he declares, before I can stop him. He waits expectantly for my response.

Oh, God. I pause, then take a deep breath. ‘No, you don’t,’ I reply firmly.

He looks surprised and, I have to say, more than a little miffed.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Love me,’ I reply simply. And then, more determinedly, I repeat it again: ‘No, you don’t love me.’

Mr Darcy is taken aback, but he quickly recovers. ‘Emily! What would make you say such a thing!’ he declares, his features darkening.

I pause. And for a brief, magical moment I wonder what might happen if I were to change my mind. If I were to tell him I love him. If I were to choose the fantasy over reality. It’s so close I can almost touch it with my fingertips.

‘Because you love someone else,’ I blurt.

‘Who? I demand you tell me who?’

‘Elizabeth Bennet,’ I say firmly, and as the words come out of my mouth I know there’s no going back.

‘You know her?’ he asks, struggling to keep his composure.

‘Well, not exactly,’ I admit.

‘Well, then, let me assure you, Emily, I do not know what rumours you may have heard, but I met Miss Elizabeth Bennet for only a short time some months ago – November, I think it was – and I have not seen her since. It is you who has stolen my affections—’

‘No,’ I interrupt, shaking my head. ‘This is all wrong, you’ve got it all wrong.’

‘I thought so too,’ agrees Mr Darcy, his voice low and powerful. ‘But meeting you has caused a revelation within me, Emily. I do not want a woman like Miss Bingley, I desire someone feisty and opinionated, someone who can match me at my own game.’

‘Like Elizabeth Bennet,’ I persevere, partly because I feel a responsibility to the novel, and partly because I’m hoping this way he’ll get the message and I’ll be able to avoid our ‘talk’.

Mr Darcy throws me an impatient look. ‘Why do you keep talking about Miss Bennet? I barely know her,’ he protests indignantly.

‘But you should get to know her. I think you’d be perfect for each other,’ I continue. ‘I heard she’s . . . um . . . really got the hots for you,’ I say, trying to appeal to his ego.

‘Hots?’