Page 88 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, quickly brushing it aside. I don’t want to spoil the mood by getting bogged down in explanation, and instead we remain quietly side by side on our horses, both gazing up at the ‘impressive façade’.

Well, actually, I tell a lie. I’m peeking at him.

‘Still rather magnificent, though, don’t you think?’ he says after a moment, his eyes never leaving the castle. Not that he should be looking at me, I’m just saying.

‘Yeah,’ I manage quietly. ‘Yeah, it is.’

But I’d still much rather be gazing at you, I think, getting that jittery feeling again as it registers that we’re here, alone, just the two of us . . . and what with the moonlight, it’s all very seductive. My eyes trace the sharp silhouette of his cheekbone, the proud arch of his nose, his strong, confident mouth—

He turns to look at me. His dark eyes lock with mine and I feel another spasm in my groin.

Oh, God, this is it. This is the part where he kisses me.

My heart is hammering so loudly in my chest I’m surprised he can’t hear it, and as he leans towards me I close my eyes in delicious anticipation. I can feel his warm breath close against my neck. Smell his cologne. Feel his lips . . .

‘O, Rose, thou art sick!’

I jolt slightly, startled by Mr Darcy’s voice in my ear.

‘The invisible worm . . .’

Invisible worm? I feel a jerk of confusion. What on earth’s he going on about?

‘. . . That flies in the night, In the howling storm . . .’

Oh, now I get it, I realise, recognising the words from the time I reorganised the poetry section at McKenzie’s: it’s a poem by William Blake.

Furtively I open one eye, just a tiny little bit, and sneak a peek at Mr Darcy. He’s right there, only inches away, staring at me intensely.

Drawing a deep breath, he continues: ‘. . . Has found out thy bed, Of crimson joy . . .’

He’s reciting poetry to me.

Oh my God, he’s so passionate I don’t know where to look! Heroes are always doing this in novels, but I’ve never heard of it happening in real life before. It’s incredible.

Except . . .

I don’t want to sound ungrateful. What woman wouldn’t want Mr Darcy reciting poetry to them, in that gorgeous cut-glass accent of his, beside a moonlit castle, on New Year’s Eve?

‘. . . And his dark secret love . . .’

But to be honest, I’d rather have that kiss.

An icy chill whips off the turrets and I shiver. Now we’ve stopped riding, I’m fast realising just how cold it is. I try wiggling my toes, but they’re so numb I can’t feel them any more. Unlike the rest of me. My whole body is aching. My butt, my boobs, my ankle. As if on cue, it twinges. No doubt by tomorrow that’s going to be black and blue and the size of a cantaloupe.

‘. . . Does thy life destroy,’ finishes Mr Darcy with a dramatic flourish.

God, it’s all a bit heavy isn’t it?

Irritation bites. I’ve come all the way out here, on a horse, in the freezing cold, and I don’t even get one little kiss? So what am I supposed to do now? Applaud? Swoon? Or—

My thoughts are silenced as Mr Darcy suddenly pulls me close.

Oh, OK. I take it back. So that’s what happens now.

All my life I’ve dreamed about being kissed by Mr Darcy, and now it’s actually coming true . . . Closing my eyes, I lift my face to his expectantly. Everything seems to slow down. I angle my body against his, but the satin of my dress is slippery in the saddle, and as his lips brush against mine I have to dig my heels against Lightning’s ribcage to keep my balance.

Oh, my God. So this is it. The kiss. Finally.