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They look especially appealing contrasted with the period-dressed coachmen standing beside their beautiful horses and garland-bedecked carriages.

Suddenly, I’m overcome with the urge to experience the pleasures of the park before the entrapment of my forced temporary marriage begins.

“I’m going to take a little jaunt in Central Park before the ceremony,” I tell Anna. “On this gorgeous day, it looks just like Pemberley.”

Pemberley.

Only Anna shares my obsession with the name of handsome Mr. Darcy’s grand estate in Jane Austen’s 1812 novel, Pride & Prejudice.

Since we were twelve, we’ve been obsessing about what we’d do as soon as we married our modern version of Mr. Darcy and became the mistress of an estate just like Pemberley.

When the limousine stops for a light, I rap at the plexiglass window separating us.

“Ernesto,” I say, remembering the driver’s name. “I’m going to get out and stretch my legs. Please tell the Ricci family I’ll be there in time for the ceremony. And please take my suitcase to the venue.”

“Mr. Ricci doesn’t like surprises. You’d better let me take you all the way.”

“No thanks,” I say, opening the door and hopping out into the warm sunlight.

CHAPTER 3

EMILY

“Anna, you would not believe this park,” I say into the phone, pausing mid-step on the path.

A pretzel cart idles near the park’s entrance. Somewhere behind me a child shrieks with laughter.

My eyes fall on a row of horse and carriage rigs idling along the curb. Their coachmen lean against spoked wheels or tip their top hats at passersby.

One of the coachmen catches my eye. He’s young, broad-shouldered, and wears a grin that knows exactly what it’s doing.

“Anna, would it be a total geek move to take a horse and carriage ride?”

As I speak, I watch a laughing couple climb into one of the carriages and settle under a tartan blanket.

“After all, it is my wedding day.”

“Total geek move?! Yes. Especially since brides don’t take carriage rides alone. Carriage rides cost a fortune. And they are dangerous! Didn’t you see that article last week when a tourist was killed in one?”

“No. But instead of taking a ride, I’ll take pictures and send them to you.”

“Okay, but be careful taking pictures too.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ever since we were toddlers, Anna was like the conservative Dr. Jekyll to my wild Mr. Hyde.

I drift toward one of the horses.

His coachman stands a few feet away, deep in conversation with a couple who look like they’re trying to get a discount.

The horse is enormous up close, his coat shiny and dark. He wears a giant red feather plume like a Las Vegas showgirl.

Pulling out my phone, I start snapping photos, circling around to get the horse, the carriage, and the groom all in the shot.

The horse neighs as I move in for a tighter shot.

“Don’t get too close, Em,” she warns again after hearing the horse’s whinny from my phone. “Horses can be unpredictable.”

“Stop being a worry wart.”