Page 27 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Are you lost?’ His voice is deep and softly spoken. Replacing a slim volume into the showcase in the corner, he turns to face me.

‘Um . . .’ I falter. Up close I can’t help noticing he has one of those sexy clefts in his chin that movie stars always have. I don’t think I’ve seen a man with one of those in real life. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was lost exactly,’ I begin. ‘I’m actually here with a tour . . .’

‘A tour?’ he repeats, furrowing his brow.

I nod. ‘Yeah, but I just wanted to get some air . . .’ I explain, gesturing outside ‘. . . but it’s raining.’

Only it’s not raining. Looking out of the window, I’m surprised to see that instead of gloomy grey skies, it’s bright outside. Shafts of winter sunshine are bouncing in through the panes of mullioned glass and shining on the walls, brightening up the wallpaper.

Wallpaper that had seemed so faded and old earlier, but now looks much more vibrant and colourful, as if it was only decorated yesterday . . . And it’s much warmer, I realise, remembering how chilly it was in here before.

Then I spot a fire burning in the grate. I could have sworn it wasn’t lit before.

‘Someone’s lit a fire,’ I point out, somewhat obviously. Or am I wrong? Was it lit before? To be honest, I can’t remember. I’m feeling so muddled. I’m vaguely aware of my forehead throbbing, and I press my fingertips to my temples. It must be the jet lag. My head feels thick and woolly, as if it’s packed with cotton balls. I’m not thinking straight. Quickly, I pull myself together.

‘Yes, I asked the housekeeper.’ He nods, his face impassive. ‘It gets rather cold in here towards late afternoon.’

‘I can imagine,’ I reply, briskly unfurling my scarf from round my neck and beginning to fold it up. I’m in mid-fold when it registers. Did he just say he instructed the housekeeper? As in this is his house?

Realisation dawns. Oh, shit. Trust me. He’s probably the owner of Chawton Manor. Aren’t all the big stately homes and historical houses still privately owned and just opened up to the public to pay for the upkeep or something? God, he’s probably a member of the British aristocracy. Which would explain the funny clothes, I realise, peering at him uncertainly. He must have been hunting or fishing or something.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ I begin apologising. ‘I had no idea you lived here. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

His dark eyes are sweeping across me like searchlights and I’m suddenly aware I’m doing this flicky thing with my hair that I always do when I like someone. Feeling like a dork, I stop doing it immediately and fold my arms self-consciously.

‘You are not. I am merely visiting.’

‘You are?’ I feel a rush of relief. ‘Snap. Me too.’ I smile, then holding out my hand, add, ‘I’m Emily.’

He seems slightly taken aback by my introduction and for a moment there’s an awkward pause. Shit. I’m probably being too chatty. I do that sometimes when I’m nervous. And he does seem kind of shy.

‘Forgive me,’ he apologises. ‘I have not introduced myself properly.’

Flicking out his black velvet coat tails, he steps towards me and, ignoring my outstretched hand, bows his head politely. Then he looks up and fixes me with the most intense, velvety brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

‘I, am Mr Darcy.’

Chapter Eight

I stare at him in bewilderment.

What the . . . ?

For a moment I’m too startled to say anything. I don’t know how to react.

Then I burst out laughing.

‘Oh, ha, ha, very funny! I get it.’ I grin widely. ‘This is one of those working museums and you’re one of those people who dress up in costume and role-play, aren’t you?’ Suddenly it’s all making perfect sense. The clothes. The formality. The quaintly old-fashioned way of speaking.

‘Role-play?’ he repeats in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’

I must say, he’s really good at playing Mr Darcy. He’s just like I imagine him to be. And just as good-looking. Better even.

‘Though it took me a moment to work it out,’ I confess. ‘You really had me going there.’

‘Going where?’ he replies innocently.

‘You know, with the funny clothes and everything . . .’