Page 27 of A November to Remember

“I am merely a valet, sir,” Dawson bowed slightly. “I preserve the wardrobe. Your sanity is your responsibility.”

Dawson required only a few minutes to exchange the morning coat and shoes for a riding coat and top boots. Darcy did not linger. He slipped out of his bedchamber with the desperation of a fleeing convict. The passages of Netherfield were relatively hushed, but as he approached the landing of the main staircase, the ringing trill of Miss Bingley’s laughter floated up from below.

“Oh, Charles, you are too absurd! Mr Darcy prefers much stronger coffee; I have sent to London specifically for the beans—”

Darcy pivoted on his heel so fast he nearly lost his footing. He abandoned the main staircase and took the narrow, uncarpeted servants’ stairs, emerging through the kitchen quarters and stepping out into the biting chill.

The stable yard was bustling, but the moment he issued his request, a wide path was cleared.

Roc was led out by two nervous grooms. The stallion was a creature of polished obsidian and coiled malice, his dark eyes rolling, a cloud of white steam blowing from his flared nostrils into the crisp air.

“Easy, you big brute,” Darcy murmured, stepping into the horse’s line of sight.

Roc stilled instantly, recognising his master. Darcy took the reins, dismissing the grooms with a nod, and swung himself into the saddle. He turned the horse away from the gravel drive, pointed him towards the rolling fields of Hertfordshire, and let the beast run.

The physical release was immediate and overwhelming. The wind roared in his ears, tearing away the suffocating atmosphere of Netherfield. Roc’s powerful strides devoured the earth. Darcy leaned low over the horse’s neck, surrendering to the rhythm and the speed. For the first time in days, his mind quieted. There were no social expectations to navigate, no importunate hostesses to evade, no cousins to endure, and no witty women to inadvertently insult.

He rode without a destination, allowing the stallion to choose the path across the meadows. As the horse’s breakneck gallop eventually slowed to a canter, Darcy realised the terrain had begun to slope upward. He recognised the incline as Oakham Mount, the highest point in the immediate vicinity.

He guided Roc up the winding, narrow path. The air grew sharper, and the branches of the oaks thrashed above him.

They crested the rise at a brisk canter. Darcy’s attention was fixed on the horizon, admiring the pale sun struggling through the clouds, when a flash of dark fabric caught his eye.

A figure was standing at the very edge of the summit, concealed by a tree trunk until the last possible second.

Darcy’s heart stopped in his chest.

“Whoa!” he roared, throwing his weight backwards and hauling on the leather reins.

Roc, enraged by the violent command, let out a furious shriek. The stallion planted his hind legs and reared high into the air, his front hooves striking the sky. Darcy gripped the saddle with his knees, fighting a frantic battle to maintain his balance and bring the animal back to the earth. The horse danced sideways, tossing his head, his iron-shod hooves crashing into the ground mere feet from where the figure stood.

Darcy fought the horse down, his breathing ragged, his pulse hammering hard. He had nearly trampled someone.

He forced Roc to a halt and glanced down, the apologies tumbling to his lips.

Standing there was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She did not scream, nor did she faint. Instead, she had merely taken one measured step backward. Her dark pelisse snapped around her legs, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold. She held a half-eaten apple in one gloved hand.

She looked up at the horse, and then at Darcy.

“Mr Darcy,” she said. Her voice was steady, carrying clearly over the wind and the horse’s snorting breaths. “I had assumed your philosophical agreement with me on Sunday indicated a formal cessation of hostilities. I did not realise it was only a distraction before you attempted to flatten me.”

Darcy stared at her, the breath failing to return to his lungs.

She had almost been crushed under fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh, and she was delivering a composed, dry rebuke. Only her, he thought.

Darcy swung down from the saddle in a single motion, his legs feeling hollow as his boots struck the ground. He maintained a punishing grip on Roc’s reins, forcing the unsettled stallion to remain behind him.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he gasped, his composure shattered. “Are you injured? Did he strike you? I did not see you until we crested the rise. I swear to you, I did not see you.”

Miss Elizabeth took another crisp bite of her apple, chewing thoughtfully as she observed his frustration. “I am unharmed, sir. Your friend has excellent reflexes, and you have a very strong grip. I was merely startled. Though I suspect your heart is beating rather faster than my own.”

“My heart has ceased to function,” Darcy admitted, the truth ignoring his usual guarded reserve.

Her lips twitched, amusement softening her features. “Then I must congratulate you on your miraculous ability to stand upright while deceased, Mr Darcy.”

Roc, sensing that his master was distracted, tossed his head and took a step forward, pulling against the reins. He let out a low, warning rumble, his ears pinned back, his eyes fixed upon the stranger.