Page 42 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

Elizabeth had barely finished grooming Rebel when the announcement crackled over Pemberley’s sound system.

“All competitors are to enter the main arena for mandatory judge inspection and competitor meeting. Attendance is required.”

She glanced at Charlotte, who was organizing their tack. “That would be our cue to meet the infamous Judge Patricia Wickham.”

“Remember what we discussed,” Charlotte said, not looking up from Elizabeth’s tack trunk. “Polite, respectful, and absolutely no smartass comments.”

“I don’t make smartass comments.”

Charlotte gave her a look.

“I make clever observations.”

“Save the clever observations for after you win the prize money.”

Fair point. Elizabeth straightened her shoulders and followed the stream of competitors heading toward the main arena. The prize money from the competition wouldn’t solve all of Longbourn’s problems, but it would buy them precious time.

Time to figure out how to save her family’s legacy.

The main arena buzzed with nervous energy. Elizabeth spotted her sisters immediately—Mary efficient with her clipboard, Kitty bouncing with excited nerves, and Lydia actually working for once, organizing chairs into neat little rows.

Interesting. Maybe Mr. Darcy’s employment standards were rubbing off on her youngest sister.

Speaking of Darcy, he stood near the judge’s table, looking every inch the perfect host in his pristine polo and pressed khakis. His dark hair caught the arena lights, and when he turned to survey the crowd, his gaze miraculously found hers.

Something electric sparked between them.

But he looked away first.

“Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cut through the crowd like a rusty push mower. “Come sit with me. I’ve saved seats near Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth spotted her mother waving frantically from the front row, where the pompous technical delegate sat polishing his glasses. He was younger than she’d expected, with slicked-back hair and a smile that wavered between predatory and desperate, depending on the angle.

“I think I’ll stand,” Elizabeth called back, positioning herself near the rail where she could escape if necessary.

A hush fell over the arena as the side door opened.

Judge Patricia Wickham entered with the commanding presence of a Grand Prix horse approaching the centerline.

She was smaller than Elizabeth had expected—barely five and a half feet—but she commanded attention with the ruthless efficiency of a corporate raider.

Her silver hair was pulled into a severe chignon, her navy blazer was tailored stiff, and her eyes swept the arena with the cold assessment of a predator evaluating prey.

“Mr. Darcy, I’d like to raise a few minor issues before we start.

” She raised a yellow legal pad and recited from it.

“The arena footing needs raking. I can see hoof prints from yesterday’s sessions.

Unacceptable for championship level. The judge’s booth requires bottled water—Evian, not whatever local swill you’re serving.

And someone needs to explain why there are tire ruts across your entrance lawn. ”

Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. Of course, Patricia had noticed her grand entrance disaster.

Darcy stepped forward, all smooth professionalism. “Judge Wickham, welcome to Pemberley. I’m Fitzwilliam Darcy, facility owner. We’re honored to host the Regional Beginning Levels Championship.”

“Mr. Darcy. Your reputation precedes you.” Her gaze swept the arena again. “Though I expected more attention to detail.”

The insult hung in the air like a cloud of gnats. Elizabeth watched Darcy’s jaw tighten, but his voice remained perfectly controlled.

“We’ve prepared extensively for this championship. I believe you’ll find our facilities meet all requirements.”

“We’ll see.” Patricia’s attention shifted to the gathered competitors. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Judge Patricia Wickham. For the next four days, I will be evaluating your performance according to the unforgiving lens of classical dressage—no ribbons for feelings.”

Her voice carried across the arena, cold and precise. “I do not give participation ribbons. I do not inflate scores to protect feelings. I judge what I see—pure technical execution and artistic merit. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Elizabeth felt the temperature in the arena drop several degrees.

“Some of you have traveled great distances to compete,” Patricia continued.

“Others are local riders hoping to make their mark. Let me be clear—I don’t care about your travel expenses, training costs, or personal circumstances.

The horse and rider who demonstrate superior dressage will win.

Everyone else will learn valuable lessons about their limitations. ”

Mrs. Bennet whispered loudly to her neighbor, “How refreshingly honest!”

Patricia’s laser gaze found Mrs. Bennet and lingered painfully enough to force Elizabeth’s mother to shrink back in her seat.

“Now then,” Patricia said, consulting her notepad. “I’ll be conducting a facility inspection this afternoon, followed by individual competitor reviews tomorrow morning. I expect all horses to be available for conformation assessment and all paperwork to be in perfect order.”

She paused, scanning the crowd like a hawk identifying weaknesses.

“I’ve reviewed preliminary entry information, and I have several concerns,” she continued, consulting her notes. “Miss Caroline Bingley—your horse’s registration papers show discrepancies in breeding documentation. We’ll be discussing that.”

Caroline’s face went white. She was sitting in the front row with her expensive highlights and designer outfit, but suddenly she looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Mr. George Wickham,” Patricia continued, “your training methods will be under particular scrutiny, given our family history.”

Wickham lounged against the arena rail with calculated casualness, but Elizabeth caught the flash of panic in his eyes. Had he expected favors that might not materialize? Interesting.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Patricia’s voice sharpened, “your performance at the Meryton Classic showed concerning irregularities. Three judges scoring the same test with results of 63%, 65%, and 71% suggest either inconsistent execution or… questionable evaluation standards.”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped, but she kept her expression neutral. “Score variations happen with multiple judges.”

“Not to that extent. More troubling, your collective marks were inconsistent with your movement scores. A 7.5 average on movements but only 6.0 for ‘harmony’ raises questions about artificial score inflation.”

The implication was clear—Patricia was suggesting someone had manipulated Elizabeth’s scores upward through selective marking.

“Mr. Collins will be reviewing the Meryton score sheets for patterns that might indicate irregular judging practices,” Patricia continued coldly.

Collins practically vibrated with self-importance. “Score discrepancies of that magnitude typically warrant investigation by the competition committee.”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted with confusion. An investigation into judging? She’d ridden her tests and accepted the scores—what could they possibly find wrong with that?

One of the judges kept winking at her, but it wasn’t her fault he tried to hit on her—to the great disapproval of the older sourpuss next to him.

“Finally,” Patricia announced, “I want to address the elephant in the room. Several of you train at facilities with questionable reputations. Others represent established programs with resources most can only dream of. Don’t mistake expensive facilities for superior training, or modest circumstances for inferior preparation. ”

Her gaze swept from Elizabeth to Caroline to Georgiana. “The arena is the great equalizer. Privilege ends at the gate. Talent—or the lack thereof—cannot be hidden.”

The words should have been encouraging, but Patricia’s tone made them sound like a threat.

“Any questions?” she asked, clearly hoping there wouldn’t be any.

Silence stretched across the arena like a held breath.

“Excellent. Facility inspection begins in one hour. I expect perfection.”

As Patricia strode out, conversations erupted across the arena. Elizabeth felt like she’d been hit by a freight train of professional intimidation.

“Well,” Charlotte appeared at her elbow, “she’s exactly as charming as advertised.”

“She basically called me for judge manipulation. I did nothing to encourage that horndog.”

“She can’t prove it,” Charlotte said. “She called everyone something unpleasant. Did you see how Caroline looked when Patricia mentioned her horse’s papers?”

Elizabeth glanced toward Caroline, who was now in a heated whispered conversation with Wickham near the arena exit. Whatever they were discussing, neither looked happy about it.

“Miss Bennet.”

She turned to find Darcy approaching.

“Mr. Darcy.” She braced herself for another lecture about proper preparation or facility standards.

“Judge Wickham’s directness can be unsettling,” he said carefully. “Don’t let her intimidation tactics affect your performance.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering me advice, or warning me not to embarrass your facility?”

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across his features. “Both, perhaps.”

“How refreshingly honest of you.”

“I have my moments.” He paused, seeming to weigh his words. “Your results at Meryton were inconsistent, but your progress speaks for itself. Don’t let anyone suggest otherwise.”

The unexpected support caught her off guard. “Thank you. That’s surprisingly generous.”

“Not generous. Accurate.” His dark eyes met hers directly. “Though I’d recommend avoiding any clever observations during your review tomorrow.”

Heat crept up Elizabeth’s neck. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Just remember—Judge Wickham has a long memory and a short tolerance for wit.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, Collins bustled over, practically radiating self-importance.

“Miss Bennet! I’ve just spoken with Judge Wickham about these Meryton scoring concerns. Most troubling! Most irregular!” He adjusted his glasses. “As technical delegate, I have considerable influence over competition investigations. I could ensure this matter receives favorable interpretation.”

“My performances at Meryton were completely honest,” Elizabeth said evenly.

“Of course they were, of course they were,” Collins beamed.

“But investigations can be so damaging, regardless of outcome. Mere accusations of judging irregularities have ruined careers.” His tone became ominously helpful.

“Perhaps you could join me for dinner tonight to discuss how we might manage this situation? I know a lovely restaurant in town.”

Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. “I’m afraid I’ll be busy preparing for tomorrow’s review.”

“Nonsense! All work and no play, as they say. I insist?—”

“Mr. Collins,” Darcy’s voice cut through the babbling like a sonic boom. “Miss Bennet’s preparation time is precious. Perhaps your documentation review could wait until after the championship?”

Collins deflated slightly. “Well, yes, I suppose, though Judge Wickham did specifically request?—”

“I’m sure Judge Wickham would prioritize competitor performance over paperwork,” Darcy said smoothly. “The documentation isn’t going anywhere.”

Elizabeth shot Darcy a grateful look. “Exactly. The horses need attention after that intimidating introduction.”

As Collins wandered off, muttering about regulations and proper procedures, Elizabeth found herself alone with Darcy near the arena rail.

“Thank you,” she said. “Collins has been persistent about that dinner invitation.”

“He means well,” Darcy replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. “He’s too enthusiastic about his responsibilities.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

A genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Among other things.”

The moment stretched between them, charged with possibility, until Lydia’s voice cut through the air.

“Lizzy! Mom wants to know if you’re free for lunch. She’s planned a whole strategy session about impressing the judge.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Duty calls.”

“Indeed.” Darcy’s expression returned to its usual controlled politeness. “Good luck with the strategy session.”

She didn’t have much time. Tomorrow was Friday—the final day before the weekend competition began. Two days to prove Patricia wrong, or watch her family’s future crumble like chalk beneath a horse’s hooves.

As she walked away, Elizabeth could feel his eyes following her. Judge Patricia Wickham had just declared war on everyone’s confidence, Collins was sniffing around her Meryton Classic scores like a bloodhound, and her mother was planning “strategies” that would probably involve more mortification.

But somehow, Darcy’s unexpected support made the whole situation slightly less impossible.

Which was dangerous thinking, but Elizabeth had bigger problems to worry about.

Like surviving the next three days without throttling a judge, a technical delegate, or her own mother.

Not necessarily in that order.

END OF EXCERPT: To read more, please go to Mr. Darcy’s Perfect Piaffe: A Pride and Prejudice Equestrian Romance