Sally O'Rourke - The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

Eliza stared wide-eyed at the horse. Up close it was even more enormous than she had previously thought. “I don’t think I can do this,” she protested.

“Come on,” he urged, “just give it a try.”

Feeling more than slightly ridiculous, she placed her left foot in his clasped hands and grabbed the saddle with her right hand. And suddenly she was looking down at him from a great height. “Who do you like in the fourth race?” she quipped in an attempt to cover her abject terror.

Laughing, Darcy retrieved her purse and portfolio from the mud, wiped them on his riding breeches and handed them up to her. She smiled appreciatively, “Thank you.” Smiling back he swung easily up into the saddle behind her. Reaching around for the reins, he urged the horse into a slow walk up the drive.

Acutely aware of his body moving maddeningly against her back and buttocks as her legs tightly gripped the powerfully muscled back of the horse, Eliza managed a breathless grin. “You could get arrested for doing this in the subway,” she said.

He laughed more heartily. “Well, we’ve established that you’re from New York,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Eliza Knight,” she answered, feeling slightly lightheaded. “What’s yours?” she added, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to know.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service,” he replied.

She had known he was Darcy but the Fitzwilliam caught her by surprise—the F in the e-mails, she should have guessed. “Fitzwilliam. Was your mother a Jane Austen fan?”

“It’s a family name.”

“Oh. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Darcy.”

“My friends call me Fitz.” Darcy guided the horse at a slow pace for Eliza’s comfort and the small talk slipped into silence.

Feeling slightly dizzy she unconsciously leaned back against him. His breath caught in his chest. After a few moments she realized what she’d done and sat bolt upright. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, lean back, relax.” Unequal to the upright position she did relax against him. Strange, it made her feel safe and she sighed in contentment.

Fitz looked down and had to stop himself from kissing the top of her head. Odd reaction to a complete stranger and this was the second time in less than a week that a woman had stirred feelings he had not experienced in over three years. It felt good. Warmth radiated through his body as she instinctively nestled against him. It felt right, as though she belonged there. In spite of feeling slightly silly for what seemed like a schoolboy’s reaction, a small smile of contentment lit his face.

The sun had already burned off the worst of the morning fog from the higher ground surrounding the magnificent Federalist-style mansion at the center of the estate.

Out on the broad front lawn, which sloped gently down to a small lake, tables and chairs of white wicker had been set up near a buffet table laden with cold meats and salads. Four of Darcy’s closest friends were standing around one of the tables making small talk about the fine weather and helping themselves to drinks and coffee, before sitting down to lunch.

The most striking member of the luncheon group was an elegant blonde. Her name was Faith Harrington and her golden hair was pulled straight back into a severe bun of the type that only the extremely wealthy seem to get away with. The classic hairstyle accentuated rather than detracted from her patrician good looks and minimal makeup. In fact, Faith looked absolutely wonderful in her form-hugging, fawn-colored English riding costume, the cost of which roughly approximated three months of the nearest servant’s salary.

Clutching a frosty Bloody Mary in one perfectly manicured hand, Faith raised her free hand to shade her sky blue eyes and peered anxiously out over the estate.

“Has anyone seen Fitz yet?” she asked nobody in particular. “He promised to ride with me.”

Harv Harrington—a slightly disheveled young man whose tousled hair and movie-star looks eclipsed his downscale out-fit of rumpled golf shirt, old khaki trousers and topsiders without socks—grinned and sauntered over to a table where he slouched into a comfortable wicker chair.

“You’ll have to start rising earlier if you want to catch Fitz that way, Sis,” Harv said, pausing to sip his own drink, which was primarily comprised of Stoly with a slight hint of orange juice for the sake of appearances. “Our gracious host lit out of here on his horse this morning before your first layer of natural-look makeup was dry.”

Faith was not amused by his taunt. “Baby brother, remind me to slip something toxic into your next martini,” she retorted, sitting primly in a chair opposite her brother and sticking out her lower lip in the tiny pout that had gotten her almost everything she’d ever wanted since the age of two.

“Don’t you two start,” warned Jenny Brown. She was a statuesque, awesomely beautiful black woman, and her rich, melodious voice carried a serious undertone of warning that instantly quelled the brewing argument between the Harringtons. Jenny’s husband, Artemis, a handsome, muscular man dressed comfortably in a threadbare Harvard T-shirt and baggy sailing shorts, arrived from the beverage table at that moment and diplomatically seated himself between Harv and Faith. He and Jenny exchanged a quick, cautious glance, then he raised his coffee mug to Harv.

“Cheers,” Artemis said without preamble. “Let’s eat.”

Faith’s lower lip extended another quarter inch, expressing her added displeasure at his suggestion. “Artie, we will not begin without Fitz!” she said emphatically.

“Faith, I’m hungry now!” Artemis countered. “And Fitz may not be back for hours.”

“Or at all,” Harv interjected, giving his sister a meaningful wink. “Remember that time when he—”

Faith’s cheeks instantly reddened through her imported Swiss makeup base. “Shut up, Harv!” she spat.

“Good Lord,” Jenny interrupted, pointing down the curving drive, “will you look at what’s coming!”

Distracted from the brewing argument, the others all turned and stared in the direction indicated by Jenny’s finger, in time to see Darcy riding slowly up the drive with the bedraggled Eliza tucked securely into the saddle ahead of him. As they watched, Darcy angled the black horse onto the grass and guided it straight toward their table.

“By God, it’s Fitz,” Harv laughed, getting to his feet, “and he appears to have rescued a damsel. She’s a real beauty, too, from the look of her.”

Faith glanced at the approaching pair and sniffed disdainfully. “How on earth can you tell?” she asked. “The poor thing looks as if she’s been freshly dipped in mud.”

By the time the horse reached them everyone but Faith was on their feet. “Harv, Artemis, lend a hand, will you?” Darcy called out. “Miss Knight has been injured.”

Harv and Artemis rushed forward to help Eliza down. When she was safely on the ground, Darcy dismounted and handed the horse over to a groom who had run up from the stables.

“We need to get your arm taken care of right away,” he told Eliza, who stood forlornly dripping mud in the circle of staring strangers.

“I think it may be broken,” he said worriedly to Artemis.

“I’m fine, really,” Eliza insisted. She looked down and cautiously fingered her bad arm, getting a good look at the blood for the first time since her fall. She winced at the sight because her arm really did look like hell. “It’s nothing, I’m sure,” she said without much conviction. “Just a skinned elbow.”

“Nevertheless,” Darcy said firmly, “I’d like you to go up to the house and let Artemis have a look at it.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone and gave Eliza a conspiratorial wink.