Page 4 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER THREE

E lizabeth whirled—only to see Mr Bingley’s discourteous friend, Mr Darcy, perched atop a dreadfully tall beast on the ridge above the river, his expression inexplicably furious.

She stared at him, curious. What was he doing here, on Longbourn land? And why, she wondered, would he possibly care what she was doing? She tried for a little joke, pretending that his fiery countenance was not at all alarming.

“Certainly, Mr Darcy, you have a say in whether or not to partner me in a country dance at the assembly hall. On Longbourn land, however, your authority over my actions is sadly lacking. Perhaps you did not realise that this bridge is past the border of Longbourn? I do not, you notice, accuse you of purposely trespassing.”

He leapt off the great stallion, tore off his coat, tossing it aside, and marched down the embankment towards her in ground-eating strides.

A frisson of fear crept up her spine, but disbelief and surprise rendered her immobile. She was right at the water’s edge, her bare toes nearly touching it. She could swim, also thanks to her uncle, but her dress would hamper her. Could she kick him, shove him into the river?

But her astonished delay prohibited her from any chance to do either; in one motion she could not prevent, he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and headed back up the embankment. She kicked madly, and beat upon his back, but his strength was inexorable. Still, the climb was steep, and he was breathing hard by the time he neared the top of the rise with his burden.

“Calm down, you little hellion, or you will hurt yourself,” he hissed.

Bound by the steely strength of him, she only fought harder. “Villain! Put me down!”

“I will, if you promise not to go back in the water!” he shouted.

“The only promise I shall make is to have you dragged before the magistrate! Unhand me, you buffoon!” She managed to get in a bite to the solid muscle of his back, and he jumped a little.

“Dash it, I am trying to save your life! In a day or two you will realise it is worth saving!”

Through the haze of her anger and fear, his words finally penetrated, and she quieted.

“Oh,” she said. And then, even though the blood was rushing to her head, and her hair had come loose and was blinding her, and her arms would probably be sore for a week from trying to beat at his too-large back, she could not help it, and a giggle broke free.

At the sound of it, he stilled.

“Are you laughing?” he asked, but he set her down upon the grassy ground at last.

Looking up, Elizabeth saw he was red-faced, his hair mussed from having lost his hat in her struggles. He appeared so utterly undignified, the opposite of the previous evening’s hauteur; she could not help it, and laughed even harder.

Mr Darcy’s expression was the picture of frustration and…something else, an emotion she could not name.

Darcy stared at the woman, only just now recognising her. It was Miss Bennet’s sister, the one whom Bingley had tried—completely ineffectively—to distract him with. What was her name? He could not remember; he had barely noticed her at all, only glancing at her during the introduction and dismissing her with—as he unwillingly remembered—a disrespectful remark. When he had suddenly come across her at the river’s edge—thoughts of Georgiana’s current melancholy fresh in his mind—he had jumped to the worst possible conclusions. Obviously, however, she was not on the brink of throwing herself into it. He felt like a great fool, was deeply annoyed, and at the same time, was relieved beyond measure.

With a sigh, he sat on the grass beside her while she made a half-hearted, not very successful struggle to control her laughter.

“Very well, Miss Bennet,” he said stiffly. “Enjoy your laugh at my expense. I suppose it is deserved.”

“Well, yes, it is. I can assure you, I would never take myself so seriously as to consider jumping in the river. Unless I planned to swim in it, of course. But I like this dress too well to intentionally ruin it.”

Embarrassment filled him, and a little anger too; he did not try to prevent his scowl. She ought not to have been down there at all! Swimming? What kind of a young lady was she? “Again, I apologise,” he said, his tone even more wooden than before.

“You are forgiven,” she said easily, cheerfully, and not at all as if she was mortified to have been caught wading in the river like some hoyden. “I can admit that it is probably not de rigueur to find maidens barefoot on the riverbanks of London…or even, Derbyshire, was it?”

“It is not,” he said brusquely. However, despite all his efforts not to notice, something within him, some rebellious spark, looked at her, really looked, for the first time. Unwelcome was the realisation that she was not at all the plain-featured young lady of his first impression. Despite her slighter figure in comparison with her more, er, generously endowed sister, there was nothing unattractive about her. In fact, she made an alluring picture, sitting upon the grassy knoll, her hair in wild display around her shoulders, falling to her waist; her slim ankles and perfectly formed calves were on full, unconscious display—did she not even realise it? Was she truly that na?ve?

Something in his regard must have alerted her to his wandering attention, for a pretty blush suddenly warmed her cheeks and she deftly rearranged her gown to cover her ankles and feet.

“What were you doing?” he asked, desperately trying to fit her back into the more juvenile image he had held the night before.

“Angling.” Her chin went up.

So did his brows. “You? An angler?”

“I happen to be one of the best anglers I know,” she said, and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice. “My catch is on a string in the shallows. I was just about to retrieve it when I was…um, interrupted.”

His curiosity was unexpected. Curiosity killed the cat .

“Your father taught you to fish?” It was a strange gentleman who would.

“No, my uncle. He used to spend a lot of time with us, before he married. Now he has too many warehouses to leave town often. And the children, of course.” She sounded wistful. “We probably will not see them before Christmas.”

Too many warehouses? It sounded as though her uncle was quite prosperous.

As if she could hear the direction of his thoughts, she added, “He lives in Gracechurch Street, near Cheapside.”

“Cheapside.” He was unsure why he had repeated the word. Everyone knew that there were fine, expansive—and expensive—properties in the area; it also made sense that a tradesman would not think of more appropriate amusements for a lady than angling. Her father must be negligent, indeed, not to curb such pursuits.

“Yes, Cheapside. My aunt and uncle are the best people I know.”

She would not, could not, know many—or any—of the best people, however. If Matlock ever learnt he had given four dances to the niece of a tradesman, he would have an apoplexy. The notion filled him with amusement.

“What does your father think of your…angling?” He put an extra measure of chastening disapproval into his tone to cover it.

A wicked light danced in her fine eyes. “What would your father think of you dancing two sets with my sister?”

He stared at her; it was as if she had read his thoughts. No one in London, or anywhere else for that matter, would dared have teased him about it, to his face. “My good father, unfortunately, is beyond the reach of mortal interests,” he answered stiffly.

Her eyes—which, now that he noticed them, were probably one of her finest features—softened. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said, her tone gentle now. Her words were the usual words a person offered when they knew not what else to say, but hers conveyed something deeper than that—as if she truly felt sorrow for him. He could not help but respond to it.

“I am sorry I frightened you earlier.” He paused, and almost against his will, added explanation. “My sister has been inconsolable lately. I am afraid my thoughts have been too dark, of late.” He could have bitten off his tongue, but she did not respond to the opening with the usual insincere expressions designed to elicit more revelations for the gossip mill.

She only nodded her sympathy, and even more to his surprise, shared a confidence of her own.

“You wondered why my father allows me to fish. He…” she began, and then hesitated, before speaking again. “I adore my father. It is probably true, however, that he spends more time with his books than noticing how I, or really any of us, spend our time.”

“He does not know of your…interest?”

“No, he knows. He does not have enough attention left over from his studies to care overmuch whether it is not proper.” She appeared a little sad, but only briefly before her chin went up again. “I am glad of it.”

“If he did take the time, perhaps you would be prevented from being the best angler the neighbourhood has ever known.”

“I did not say I was the best ever ,” she protested, but she smiled, and it was odd how much it cheered him.