Page 87 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘This way,’ he’s saying now and, clicking his tongue, he jabs his boots into his horse’s flanks and trots ahead.

I do exactly the same and feel a tingle of excitement as Lightning dutifully follows. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden, but like I said, it’s just like riding a bike. Only much more romantic.

After a few minutes we go through a gate (note to Mr Hair Plugs: Mr Darcy dismounts to open it for me) and out into open countryside. Wow, isn’t this great? Smiling happily to myself, I sneak a sideways peek at Mr Darcy, who’s riding alongside me. Erect in his saddle, his strong shoulders thrown back, his jaw clenched, his eyes looking directly ahead, he might as well have ‘I am the sexiest man you have ever seen’ written on his forehead. I feel an ache in my groin.

And no, it’s got nothing to do with the hard leather saddle.

‘The castle is over on that hill,’ he announces, gesturing ahead of us. ‘You won’t be able to see it yet, as it’s hidden by the woods.’

Woods? A castle? God, it’s like something out of a fairytale.

‘Oh, great,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice level, as if this kind of thing happens to me every day in New York.

We pause for a moment and then Mr Darcy breaks into a brisk trot. Lightning follows suit without me having to do a thing. I feel a glow of satisfaction. Jigging up and down, I grip harder on to the reins. This really is amazing. I’d forgotten just what a buzz you get from riding.

Mr Darcy picks up the pace. His white shirt billows out behind him, and I wipe my eyes to see better. They’re beginning to water a bit now because of the wind, but luckily I’ve used waterproof mascara. I take a deep lungful of cold night air, enjoying the sensation of it rushing through my nasal passages. Wow, this really clears your head, doesn’t it? Before, I was feeling a bit woolly, but now I feel so clear and focused and—

A dew drop from my nose falls on my sleeve.

Oh. Euggh.

I sniff hard and refocus. It’s so great being in the great outdoors. Maybe I should think about quitting the city and moving to the country. It can’t be good for your health, all that pollution and stress and—

Gosh, I’m really quite sniffly. I sniff harder, but it’s no good. I need a tissue to blow it. I wonder if Mr Darcy has one . . . I feel in his pockets. But nothing. Hmmm. The wind is blowing harder now and my nose is . . . well, running would be one way of describing it, streaming would be another. Shit. And I’ve got nothing to wipe it on. Unless . . . a thought stirs. I’ve got Mr Darcy’s silk scarf in my little sequinned purse.

Immediately I catch myself.

Honestly, what am I thinking? I can’t go and blow my snotty nose on that, can I? It’s got that lovely sexy cologne smell of his. It’s a keepsake.

And yet my nose seems to have suddenly turned into what my grandmother used to call the ‘candle factory’. And I’m on this big full-on romantic date. I can’t very well get to the castle with two big snotty candles hanging from my nostrils, now, can I?

I tug out the slip of white silk and blow hard. My nose makes a noise like a trumpet, but fortunately the wind’s blowing the other way so Mr Darcy doesn’t hear.

‘Isn’t this incredible?’ hollers Mr Darcy from ahead.

‘Amazing,’ I yell back, quickly scrunching up the snotty scarf and shoving it back in my purse. Never mind. I’ll just have to wash it later.

We’re cantering across the fields now, up towards the woods, and as the ground rushes beneath me I experience a whoosh of freedom. We pick up even more speed and suddenly, before I know it, Lightning has broken effortlessly into a gallop. Rushing through the darkness, hooves thundering, I feel as if I’m flying.

I feel alive. Euphoric. Exhilarated.

In agony.

Ouch! I wince in pain as I jig up and down in the saddle. Whose bright idea was it to go bra-less? My boobs are bouncing around like a couple of eager puppies here! Holding the reins with one hand, I try cradling them in the crook of my arm. Trust me, I’m not a big girl by any means, but every woman needs more support than sequinned spaghetti straps.

Squashing them into my arm, I grimace at every thudding hoof. I don’t remember it being like this for Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Galloping across fields with the wind in your hair and a floaty dress always looks so fab in movies – it’s one of those big, romantic fantasies – and yet here I am, getting chafed nipples, I think despairingly.

Thankfully, after a few moments we reach the woods and Mr Darcy slows down as we begin weaving our way through the trees. Relieved, I do the same. Well, skin only has so much elasticity. Any more of that and my pert little B cups will end up looking like something out of National Geographic, I tell myself, letting go of my breasts and quickly smoothing down my tangled hair, which has come undone in the wind.

‘There it is.’

I pause from unbuttoning Darcy’s coat in an attempt to appear a bit sexier and look up. Before me is the castle. It’s so amazing I’m rendered speechless.

‘It was commissioned by Ralph Allen to improve the view of his townhouse, and from a distance it appears to be the genuine article. However, it is in fact merely an impressive façade,’ he continues, as we come to a standstill.

‘It’s like a prop from a movie,’ I gasp, before I realise what I’m saying.

‘A what?’