Page 39 of A November to Remember

His chest heaved as he rounded the corner of the stable block. Roc, his monstrous, obsidian stallion, was housed in the corner paddock. The horse was a legitimate menace, and even though she was not afraid of him, if she approached him without warning—

Darcy skidded to a halt at the edge of the paddock, his heart hammering hard.

He was prepared to throw himself over the fence and wrestle almost three-quarters of a ton of angry horseflesh to the ground. He was not prepared for the tableau before him.

Elizabeth Bennet was standing at the wooden fence. Her shawl had slipped off one shoulder and in the palm of her bare hand was a sliced apple.

Roc, the terror of Derbyshire, had his head draped over the top rail. He was delicately, almost reverently, plucking the apple from her palm with his lips. He chewed slowly, his eyes half-closed.

Ten feet away the Netherfield head groom was huddled behind a water trough alongside two stable boys. The man was clutching a pitchfork to his chest, his lips moving in what Darcy could only assume was silent prayer.

“There’s a good gentleman,” Miss Elizabeth murmured, her voice a low thrum that sent a wholly inappropriate shiver straight into Darcy’s heart. She raised her free hand and firmly scratched the stallion’s neck, just like she had done at Oakham Mount. Roc leaned into her touch so heavily the wooden fence groaned. “You do enjoy apples, do you not? Yes, you do.”

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy announced himself.

Miss Elizabeth turned her head, her hand continuing its scratching of the animal’s neck. Her gaze travelled over him. Darcy became acutely aware of his damp hair, his haphazard cravat, and the fact that he was standing in the mud in his shirtsleeves, panting like a madman.

An amused smile bloomed across her face.

“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” she said, utterly unbothered. “I see you have abandoned your usual rigorous adherence to tailoring. It is a refreshing look. Very... elemental.”

Darcy flushed, conscious of the cold air biting through his damp linen. “I saw you walking towards the stables from my window. Roc is not accustomed to you. He is dangerous.”

“Dangerous? But look at him! We are friends now. He is a sweetheart.” Miss Elizabeth offered the final slice of apple. “He simply requires firmness and a fair reward. Most males are precisely the same, in my experience.”

Darcy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone dry. He stepped closer to the fence, dismissing the groom and the stable boys with a sharp jerk of his head. They melted away, relieved to be absolved of the responsibility of watching a gentlewoman be eaten alive.

“How is your sister?” Darcy’s voice came out rougher than he intended.

Her smile softened, the teasing light in her eyes dimming into exhaustion. Up close, Darcy could see the faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, revealing that she had not slept.

“The fever has not broken.” She dropped her hand from Roc’s neck and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Mr Jones assures me there is no immediate danger, but she is uncomfortable. She slept fitfully through the night.”

“And you?” Darcy asked, the question slipping out before his internal censor could stop it. “Did you sleep at all?”

Miss Elizabeth looked at him, startled by the directness of his concern. “I rested. A cot was provided.” She let out a small, self-deprecating sigh. “In truth, I came out here because I simply could not face the breakfast room. I love Jane dearly, but the silence of the sickroom combined with the prospect of Miss Bingley’s morning conversation was... overwhelming. I preferred the company of a hostile stallion.”

“I cannot fault your logic.” Darcy stepped up to the fence beside her. Roc opened one eye, recognised his master, and let out a huff of breath that smelled strongly of fruit, before returning his attention to Miss Elizabeth’s empty pockets. “Miss Bingley before ten o’clock requires the fortitude of a saint or the deafness of a stone.”

She let out a bright laugh, a sound that cut through the air and struck Darcy squarely in the chest. “You are shockingly disloyal to your hostess, Mr Darcy.”

“I am merely a man dedicated to the truth, Miss Elizabeth.”

They stood side by side for a moment, the silence between them stripped of its usual briars. Darcy studied her profile, the stubborn slope of her nose and the unruly curls framing her face, and had a powerful urge to reach out and touch her cheek, to wipe away the exhaustion, to stand between her and anything that dared to weary her.

He was descending into madness, and he was fine with it.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here, Richard.”

The spell shattered. Darcy stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground together.

Viscount Keathley and Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled around the corner of the stable block. Robert was dressed elegantly, his boots gleaming, his cravat tied in a mathematical masterpiece. Richard, towering beside him, was casually tossing a half-eaten red apple in his right hand.

“The goddess of the stables,” Robert declared, stopping a few feet away and sweeping Miss Elizabeth a ridiculously dramatic bow. “Miss Elizabeth, you are a vision. Though I must ask, have you enchanted the beast, or simply threatened him with a classical historian? Because I was under the impression that this horse ate human flesh.”

She turned, her face instantly brightening. “Good morning, my lord. Colonel. I simply offered him an apple. It is a highly effective diplomatic tool.”

“Excellent strategy,” Richard grunted. He took a bite of his own fruit, chewing loudly. “Never negotiate on an empty stomach. I would have brought him one myself, but I got hungry on the walk from the house.”