Page 62 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

We’re quiet as we turn a corner toward the back of the house, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of the ball and the leaves crunching under our feet as we walk. We stay in the shadows, just in case, but I don’t see a watchman anywhere.

As we get closer to the garden, Macey looks at me, and her eyes widen as we hear chatter and can see a group of people standing right outside the wrought-iron gate, some of them smoking cigarettes.

“That’s not canon,” Macey whispers.

I snort. “Did they even have cigarettes back then?” I ask.

“I actually have no idea,” she says, giving me a grin. “Where should we go now?”

I tug on her hand. “There are plenty of places,” I say. It’s true; the large property has plenty of gardens and other hidden areas for us to take a break.

We walk away from Netherfield and toward the main house, which tomorrow will be Rosings Park and then the next day Pemberley. I’m pretty sure. I mostly just go where people tell me.

As we walk past the stables, I nudge her toward them, and she gives meare you kiddingeyes. “We are not going to the stables,” she says.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you go there,” I say, teasing in my voice.

She stops, making me stop too, because our hands are still connected. Then she quickly pulls me behind a large tree we just passed.

“I think that’s Caroline Bingley and Wickham,” she says, with a head nod toward the stables.

I peek around the tree, and sure enough, there are two people making out in a shadowy alcove at the back of the stables. She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist as they kiss and laugh softly, pressed against the weathered wooden wall.

“So that’s why she missed her lines,” I say, and Macey snorts out a quiet laugh.

“Come on.” I grab her hand and go a different direction, away from the stables.

We come to a tiny garden just off one of the smaller buildings, which I think is the place Mr. Collins lives in, and, finding a bench, we take a seat. The cold of the cement seeps through my breeches, but I don’t mind.

“I’m exhausted,” Macey says, letting go of my hand and pressing hers to her cheeks. “And my corset is digging into my ribs.”

Don’t picture it, Zane.

“Yeah, my feet are killing me in these boots,” I say, giving myself a little shake because I did, in fact, picture it.

“So,” Macey says after a few moments of silence. She shivers in the cold, and without thinking too much about it, I take off my jacket and drape it around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says, gathering it around her, holding it closed by the lapels. She leans her nose toward the collar and sniffs, which I find oddly satisfying—like whatever mark I’ve left behind, she’s enjoying it.

“So, Caroline Bingley and Mr. Wickham,” I say.

“It’s kind of perfect, actually,” she says. “They should have ended up together in the book.”

“Lady Catherine would have you kicked off the property for saying that.”

She chuckles. “Indeed.”

“And how have you been enjoying the ball, Miss Bennet?” I say with an accent.

“It’s been most delightful,” she says. “And you, Mr. Darcy?”

“Tolerable,” I say, and she giggles. “Has the trip been to your liking?”

“It has,” she says. “Above expectations, really.”

“I guess you’re feeling better now that you know Monroe is okay,” I say, realizing we haven’t had a moment to talk about it. I knew when I heard the news at breakfast that she’d be relieved.

“So much better,” she says. “I still feel terrible that she can’t be here, but at least she’s going to be okay.”

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