Page 66 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“DID YOU SEE HER FACE?” Zane asks, laughing through his words. “I thought she was going to pop a blood vessel.”

“And the way she yelled out ‘My scene!’ like that was the most important thing right then,” I say, laughing so hard tears are now streaming from my eyes.

“Well,” Zane says, reaching up to swipe a finger under his, “you did ruin it.”

“Oh my gosh,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “I can’t believe I broke her crystal glass. I feel terrible.” I do feel horrible about it and apologized profusely, even though I’m laughing about it now with Zane.

He got me to sneak away from Hunsford Parsonage tonight, which, honestly, didn’t take much convincing. Now we’re in the kitchens at Pemberley—formerly Rosings Park, but only in name now that those scenes are done—where he’s staying for the rest of the week. We’re sitting side by side on the counter, eating ice cream straight from the pint after he found some in the walk-in freezer. I’m still in my green dress, but Zane has taken off his coat, and his cravat hangs around his neck. It’s very Regency sexy. I take back what I said about the black jacket. I like this look best.

Even though I’m slightly nervous to be here, worried we might get caught so brazenly hanging out, I was starving, and this was our best option. “It’s my house, after all,” he said with a wink as we snuck into the massive kitchen, with its polished stone countertops, rows of copper pots hanging from the ceiling, and an industrial-size oven that looks wildly out of place in the otherwise Regency-inspired space.

Technically, it’s also Lady Catherine’s house, but she doesn’t stay on property at night. I think she might be with the staff, or maybe she has a home nearby. Or maybe she goes underground like a troll, praying to Jane Austen while she thinks of more ways to berate us. I did get a very stern, “Miss Bennet, do take care with your hand gestures. A lady should express herself with words, not wild flailing—one might mistake you for signaling a ship to shore,” after everything was cleaned up, before we started the scene over.

I could hardly eat after that, feeling like I messed everything up, and I was so flustered, I kept screwing up my lines, which she also didn’t appreciate.

Lady Catherine ended the night with a declaration that, of all the reenactments this week, tonight’s dinner was “a perfect example of why we must adhere strictly to decorum and precision.” She then said, with a pointed glance at me, “Though I suppose even the best script cannot account for certain ... mishaps.” She’s probably had to deal with worse. This park has been here for a while.

“Switch,” Zane says, and we trade our pints of ice cream like we’ve done this a million times before—because we have. It was a regular ritual back when I lived with their family as a teenager: the three of us—Zane, Amelia, and me—sitting around the kitchen table late at night, swapping pints and debating which flavor was best. It’s been years since we’ve done it, but it’s funny how easily we slip back into it, like no time has passed. Amelia and I still do it, but it’s been a long time since I’ve done this with Zane.

“Oh my gosh, this is good,” I say after taking a bite of the banoffee pie ice cream, which tastes like a creamy blend of bananas, buttery toffee swirls, and crunchy cookie crumbs. “Bet they don’t have banoffee pie ice cream in Costa Rica.”

“Doubt it,” he says after swallowing some of the chocolate ice cream, which is also good but nothing like this one. “I bet they’ve got mango sorbet or something tropical to make up for it.”

“Sure, but you’d have to eat it outside, probably surrounded by bugs.”

“That’s true,” he says. “I wouldn’t have to wear a cravat, though.”

“Valid,” I say. “Why did you want to go there, anyway?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. No reason in particular; it was sort of a last-minute thing.”

“I thought you had a project,” I say, bringing up the original excuse he gave Amelia for why he couldn’t go with me. At the time, I would have taken any excuse he was offering, like adoctor diagnosing him with a rare month-long bout of explosive diarrhea or an asteroid scheduled to land directly on his car. Funny how grateful I am that he’s here now. It wouldn’t be the same without him. And probably not half as fun.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head, a sort of sullen look on his face, the corners of his lips pulling down. “I did have a project.”

“Did?” I ask.

He looks at me then. “I was sort of forced to take time off by my dad.”

“Oh.” It’s not much of a response but I’m stuck between wanting to know what happened and not wanting to push him to tell me.

“I messed up at work,” he says.

“Oh,” I say again. Please see previous reasoning.

“Yeah, I brokered a terrible deal. Signed a contract that lost us a lot of money, and then when my dad, who is trying to fix my mess right now, asked me if this is what I really want to do—running Foothills—I couldn’t give him an answer.”

I don’t say “oh” this time, because I don’t know what to say. Zane has been going through something big, and I had no idea.

“So, he told me to take some time to think about it, and on a whim, I booked a trip to Costa Rica and ... well, you know the rest of the story.”

The rest of the story is that he hopped on a plane to Pride and Prejudice Park with me. It would seem Zane’s impulsivity isn’t limited to forbidden, late-night meetups.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m sorry—sorry that this is all happening to him, sorry that he somehow ended up here instead, but I stop myself. Zane is right; I do apologize too much, and none of that is my fault.

“Have you ... thought about it?” I ask him.

“Honestly? No,” he says, letting out a chuckle that has a sad-sounding quality to it.

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