Darcy and Diamonds

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  How strange, to think of him—and to be staring at Mr. Darcy. And…thinking about how well Mr. Darcy must ride. It felt disrespectful, to compare the two men. But she could not help it.

  “Not at all,” Mr. Darcy said. “I almost stayed inside, what with the earlier rainfall.”

  “Yes, the trails will be muddy,” Elizabeth said. And then, aware she was being impertinent but unable to stop herself, she added, “I won’t judge you if you wish to return. It would be a pity to muss your fine jacket.”

  Instead of taking offense, Mr. Darcy smiled back at her. That horrible, wonderful bright bright smile. “If you think I’m scared off by a little bit of water, Mrs. Allerton, then you don’t know me very well.”

  Elizabeth pretended to consider this. “Well, you jumped into a river yesterday. I cannot accuse you of being fearful of getting wet. But equally, I cannot claim to know you at all.”

  Jeremy brought out Mr. Darcy’s horse, a great, gleaming beauty—like night shadows made flesh, Elizabeth thought. Mr. Darcy didn’t even need the mount. He was astride in an instant, the horse sniffing the wind, as eager as his owner to leave the sterile paddocks and explore the forest trails.

  Mr. Darcy made a soft, nickering sound that the stallion instantly responded to, and he was suddenly by her side. “Perhaps we can remedy that, Mrs. Allerton. Shall we ride together?”

  Elizabeth paused, shocked. She did not know him well enough for such an offer. Though she was no blushing maiden any longer. She was a widow and…what harm could it do?

  “Just to the end of the meadow’s trail.” He pointed to the exact path she had intended to ride. “I simply—I didn’t want things to be awkward between us. But please be assured, as soon as we reach the woods, I intend to take the more challenging route and will not be in your way.”

  “You are not in my way.” Elizabeth urged Sabine forward and out of the paddock and away from Jeremy’s wide, intrigued gaze. It would be silly for her and Mr. Darcy to ride within feet of each other and not acknowledge one another. Then she realized what Mr. Darcy had said.

  The more challenging route?

  “I would always have the lady go first, but perhaps you prefer a more sedate pace? Or solitude, yourself?” His beast shifted forward, obviously straining to run. “If so, I will bid you good morning and be swiftly away.”

  Elizabeth inhaled and exhaled again. Mr. Darcy was being all politeness, with none of the authoritative overtones from yesterday. This was perfection, was it not? He was being a kind acquaintance, they had greeted each other cordially and could now each go their own way.

  But she had the strangest feeling, tugging at her heart. Like a rope had been once attached from her to him, and now the ends were frayed but it was still there. She did not want Mr. Darcy to ride off into the wind and mist and leave her behind. Rather, she did want to see him ride fast and hard as he had yesterday.

  But she wanted to join him.

  Actually…she wanted to beat him. At riding, at least.

  Don’t do it, Lizzy. Don’t you dare.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Darcy,” she said, meeting his gaze. He sat erect with perfect posture, and the greenery of the woods behind him somehow made his eyes more blue, more startling. He did not smile when she looked at him, but he did not frown, either.

  What are you thinking? Oh, how she wished she knew.

  “But I do not prefer a sedate pace. In fact, I was going to offer the same to you: are you certain Sabine and I should not ride ahead?” She could not stop her own small smile from forming. What are you doing, Elizabeth?! “I enjoy a rather brisk run in the mornings. I shall be out of your way in no time at all.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth opened, just slightly. But this evidence of shock produced a most pleasant sensation in Elizabeth’s chest.

  She could not stop it. She giggled. She giggled, like a schoolgirl!

  And then she leaned forward and whispered to Sabine and they shot ahead into the mist, leaving Mr. Darcy and his blue eyes far behind.

  For a moment, at least.

  Oh, the rush of this ride! Elizabeth closed her eyes momentarily, letting the cool morning air buffet her face. If she were home and riding astride, she would lean her cheek down to her horse’s mane, pretending her soul could intermingle with the animal’s, and that they could together ride so fast they might feel like they were flying.

  She opened her eyes as Sabine veered slightly to the left, then right. The path they followed had left the open pastures quickly, and they were now in the woods to the north of Netherfield. Elizabeth had walked this path many times in her life, but seeing it from horseback was a lovely, different experience.

  She heard a shout behind her, and turned to see Mr. Darcy and his beast flying toward them.

  “We won’t let him win, will we, Sabine?” she said, turning to study the woods as she urged Sabine on. The horse nickered as if in agreement and Elizabeth laughed as Sabine began to gallop. Elizabeth rode regularly at Steadham House, but they did not have the vast woods and rolling hills and rivers of Netherfield. She felt like she could ride forever here.

  The trees above and on all sides of them were a blur, and there was no sound but birdsong and the beat of horse hooves and Elizabeth’s own fierce, slightly unsteady, exciting breathing. A few tree branches hit her arms, flinging water from the morning’s downpour into her face.

  It felt wonderful!

  “C’mon, girl,” she whispered, gripping the reins. “You can do this. Let’s show him how you fly!”

  From behind, she could hear Mr. Darcy and his stallion approaching—no, racing—through the woods. He shouted again. Elizabeth couldn’t turn to look at him now; she was too intent on the path ahead. But his exhortation hadn’t sounded angry that she had tricked him and raced ahead. If anything, he sounded—excited. Exultant?

  Or perhaps she was just confusing her own feelings with his. How lovely! How wild! Then, twenty feet in front of her, Elizabeth saw the fallen tree. It was recently downed—probably just from last night and the heavy rains. Its roots were lifted high in the air, with dark, wet earth still clinging to them.

  And it completely blocked the path.

  “No—watch out—!” Elizabeth just had time to try and adjust herself, and her blasted skirts, before Sabine panicked. The horse tried to stop, skidding in the wet, soft earth. At the same time, Elizabeth was urging her forward and over the obstacle. But Sabine refused, bucking and rearing up into the air. Elizabeth shouted, clinging to the saddle as her leg slipped from its secure post. Sabine bucked again, angry and unsure and Elizabeth nearly fell before the horse righted itself. Elizabeth had just gotten her balance but not yet put her right leg up over the padded leather branch, when Sabine finally chose to listen to her first directions and leapt—neatly, cleanly, perfectly over the fallen tree.

  Unfortunately, Elizabeth hadn’t expected it. “No!” she cried as she scrabbled for a hold—anywhere, anything. Instead, she fell hard and long to the ground, just missing the fallen log, but landing hard on the muddied forest floor.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She heard Mr. Darcy call her name but she couldn’t quite open her eyes yet. Where was she? On her back, her head aching, her pride in tatters.

  “Elizabeth. Oh God.”

  She opened her eyes to see blue sky. White clouds. And Mr. Darcy’s beautiful face, directly over her, his eyes frantic.

  “Hullo,” she said. “Your eyes match the sky.”

  He frowned, staring down at her. “Have you hit your head?”

  “But you’re still so…frownish,” she murmured.

  Her voice sounded funny to her own ears, like perhaps she was underwater.

  Mr. Darcy shook his head, his hands surprising her and suddenly cupping her face. He was so gentle that she felt her eyes closing. “You have injured your head. Don’t—don’t move, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth blinked and settled back into the earth. Not moving sounded like a good idea. No,
an excellent idea. She was sure her hat was crushed—wait, she wasn’t wearing a hat.

  “Did I lose my hat?” she said. “And you shouldn’t call me by my given name.”

  Mr. Darcy startled her by running his hands over the back of her head. She closed her eyes again. It felt rather nice.

  “Elizabeth!” His sudden yell made her startle and she opened her eyes, looking up at him again.

  “Gracious, no need to shout, Mr. Darcy.”

  “So you know my name? You recognize me?”

  “What a silly question.” She squinted up at him. “You’re tall. Tyrannical. Perfectly attired. Yes—yes, you must be Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  He glared at her, though his gaze didn’t have the same hard, cold indifference two days ago when they’d first seen each other. “We need to get you back to Netherfield.”

  Elizabeth groaned, suddenly feeling more like herself—and incredibly embarrassed. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, even as Mr. Darcy reprimanded her. He put his arm around her shoulders, as if she might faint. She realized for the first time that he was kneeling in the mud and dirt.

  “You’re ruining your riding clothes,” she muttered. “I am quite fine.”

  “You’re talking nonsense and you were just thrown to the ground by your horse.”

  Elizabeth sighed and refused the impulse to cover her face with her hands. “Alas, Mr. Darcy, I often talk nonsense, fall or no fall. ’Tis only my pride that is injured. I’m quite fine. You may—you may unhand me now.”

  For a moment, neither one of them moved. She was sitting up and his arm was around her back. Protective. Warm. Strong. Elizabeth stared down at the ground. To her right, his tall, lean body was bent around hers. He was so close she could hear his heavy breathing. She could see the weave on his pant leg. The mud on his boots. She turned.

  So, so slowly, she turned to the right.

  “There you are,” he said softly. Mr. Darcy’s face was next to hers. On his exhale, she could smell coffee and mint and a sweetness. She looked into his eyes and could not deny that they were the color of the August blue sky.

  “Here I am,” she whispered.

  What was happening?

  Mr. Darcy slowly raised his right hand and gently, oh so gently, touched her cheek. He tilted her head this way, then that, as if examining her for cuts or bruises.

  But then…he kept his hand there.

  On her cheek.

  Elizabeth forgot to breathe. Or perhaps she was physically incapable of doing so. Mr. Darcy’s face was inches from hers, and the woods and the sky and the horses and the lush birdsong all around them faded away into nothing, until all that was left was her unsteady breath and her wildly beating heart and…

  And him.

  “Mr. Darcy?” she whispered. Was she asking him something? Telling him?

  “Yes,” he answered. His face was somehow even closer, his arm tightening around her as if he might never let her go. And then—and then he leaned closer and—

  Suddenly he stood and was helping her up.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Allerton. I should have gone first to make sure the paths were clear. I shall never forgive myself.”

  Elizabeth stood still, watching as he withdrew into himself. He brushed the forest debris from his jacket and picked his hat up from the ground and within a moment had returned to himself. He was now the picture of a perfect gentleman, albeit with mud on his knees.

  “It is—my fault,” Elizabeth said thickly. This was not good. She felt cold and bereft. Not because of the fall—though her right side and leg ached something awful—but because…

  Because he is no longer touching you.

  Holding you.

  “Oh, this is not good,” she whispered, holding her head in her hands.

  In an instant, Mr. Darcy was at her side. “Where does it hurt?”

  She looked up into his eyes. “Everywhere,” she answered honestly. But it wasn’t the aching pain from the fall that worried her.

  It was how her heart felt strangled and tight. As if the invisible rope that had once bound them was now wrapped only around her, and squeezing the life out of her.

  What was happening here?

  He gritted his teeth as if her answer angered him. “You shall ride my Nero back to Netherfield, and I will continue on and look for your mare.”

  “I can’t have you do that,” Elizabeth said. She felt like she was in a fog.

  “It is not a matter for debate, Elizabeth.” And within moments he had placed his hands on her waist and hoisted her up, and she was astride his steed. It was only then that he seemed to realize that she was on man’s saddle and astride his horse.

  And that his hand still grasped her ankle, gently.

  He withdrew his grip quickly, as if her limbs were made of fire. Then he looked up at her, his face concerned. “You do not look well. I’m sure your mare will find her way home, though we’ll send a man after her. But I’m going to walk you back to Netherfield.”

  Elizabeth stared down at the reins, still clutched in his gloved hand. She was not accustomed to this. She was not accustomed to being cared for. Or being told what to do. Not for three years now.

  “I can ride—” she began to say.

  “It is not up for debate, Elizabeth,” he repeated.

  “You should not call me that,” she murmured as he turned the horse and led them back the way they came. “You should not do this,” she argued.

  Mr. Darcy’s face did not change. He showed no emotion and did not look at her. But Elizabeth swore that, under his breath, his said, “Perhaps I am finally doing what I should have done, all along.”

  16

  Elizabeth

  They walked in silence for some time. The sun had risen and the green canopy of the woods was at turns verdant emerald, then glowing yellow. Despite her aches and bruises—and confusion with the man by her side—Elizabeth could not help but sigh happily at the beauty of nature.

  “Are you alright?” Mr. Darcy turned to look up at her. “Are you hurting?”

  “My pride is injured more than anything else,” she admitted.

  He looked down and scoffed—no, he was laughing. Quietly, as if over a private joke. “Pride will heal, I suppose.”

  “I hope not. I should hope I learn a lesson from this. Never boast about your riding skills. And never challenge an expert rider to a race.”

  He glanced up at her, and Elizabeth had to stifle a gasp. His face was so—so open. As if they had no damaged history. As if they had not fought yesterday—or ever.

  “I’m furious with the groom. You should never have been given that horse. Her temperament is off.”

  Elizabeth suppressed a smile now, as Mr. Darcy gave way to a slight rant over poor Sabine. “You are being entirely too hard on her, Mr. Darcy. She is a dear. I am afraid this morning’s fall was entirely my fault. I was too impetuous. Sabine and poor Jeremy the stable boy are blameless in all of it.”

  His horse huffed slightly, as if he shared the same suspicious temperament of his master. “It is my fault, then,” he said. “I should not have raced after you.”

  “Do you always blame yourself for everything that goes wrong in the entire universe?”

  He glanced up at her, shocked. “My friends would say you have described me perfectly.”

  She laughed, even as it hurt her ribs. “Oh, I do hope you are jesting. That is no way to live.”

  They shared a surprisingly easy smile, before both grew troubled and turned from each other. Elizabeth stifled a moan as the saddle shifted below her, but Mr. Darcy somehow heard it—or saw her pain.

  “Eliza—Mrs. Allerton, you are in pain. I confess I don’t know whether to give you the reins and have you race back to Netherfield, or stay the course. I’m not sure how badly you are injured. And I apologize that you cannot ride side-saddle.”

  Elizabeth glanced around at the thinning trees. “We are almost back to the pastures. And please, I am most capable of ridin
g, despite the events of the past half-hour. I actually ride astride at my home, quite often.”

  He continued looking straight ahead as they walked, though she noted his jaw clenched. He must disapprove of her confession and her unladylike behavior. Elizabeth stiffened. No matter how kind Mr. Darcy had been this morning, she had to remember that at heart—at the core of his very being—he felt himself above her, and he would always judge her.

  “So you needn’t—you needn’t worry,” she said softly. Would he always judge her?

  He laughed to himself, though she could not guess as to what he found humorous. “How can I not? You have had a dreadful fall, and now you tell me you ride astride at your own home.”

  Perhaps he would.

  Elizabeth frowned. “I am mistress of my own house. I often ride alone in the mornings.”

  Mr. Darcy turned to glare up at her. “Alone? On your estate?”

  “My home is not exactly grand enough to be considered an ‘estate,’” Elizabeth said.

  It must be her imagination, but that strong jaw and cheekbone seemed to flush a slightly ruddy color. “It is large enough that to be dangerous for you to ride alone,” he said.

  Elizabeth paused, anger and confusion warring with the aching in her head. “You asked me yesterday if I had the usual inducements to marry, and to be perfectly honest: I do not. I am not rich, but I have enough money to keep my house and my servants and put food on all our tables. I may sometimes miss the friendship of a husband and wife, but I do not miss having my husband tell me how or where to ride, how or in what style to dress, and how or what to say! In fact, having my freedom is the greatest inducement to not marry.”

  Elizabeth raised her fingers to her lips. Had she really said all of that? Our loud?

  To Mr. Darcy?

  “Excuse me, Mr. Darcy. I must have—I must truly have hit my head. I should not have exposed you to such an outburst.”

  He looked up at her, and she found no anger—no masculine pride—in his eyes. Instead she found—something like sorrow?