Chapter Sixteen #2
We set off at a leisurely walk. Everything is so peaceful.
It’s like the whole world is asleep but me and Mr Darcy.
It’s a full moon tonight and the glow is shedding a milky whiteness on everything.
It almost has a dreamlike quality to it, I think, casting a sideways glance at him from underneath my eyelashes just to check he’s still there and hasn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke, or turned into a pumpkin or something.
Oh, he’s still there all right.
I slide my eyes across his firm-set jaw, his Roman nose, his dark eyes staring directly ahead, the gleam of his white shirt in the moonlight. I feel the warmth of his body against my arm. It still doesn’t make sense. Mr Darcy isn’t supposed to be real. And yet . . .
Without even glancing down at me, he seems to sense me looking at him and wordlessly places his free hand reassuringly across mine. And yet, the funny thing is, Mr Darcy feels more real to me than any of the men I’ve been on first dates with.
I’m not sure how long it takes for us to reach the lake.
Time seems to blur, until I’m no longer aware of it passing and I see the lake, stretching out before us like a pale, silvery ink blot.
Picking up a stone, Mr Darcy skims it across the water and I watch it bounce, one, two, three, four, five times, the moonlit ripples spreading ever outwards.
‘Here, let’s see how many you can get,’ he says, handing me a stone.
I laugh and protest that I’m useless. ‘Look, not even one,’ I groan, as my stone plops into the water and disappears.
‘Try again.’ Handing me another stone, he stands behind me and curls his fingers round mine. ‘Like this.’
I get a sudden shortness of breath. ‘Oh, I see,’ I murmur, feeling the warmth of his breath on my neck and the solidity of his body behind me. Gosh, I hadn’t realised skimming stones could be so much fun.
We stay like this for a while before Mr Darcy finds an old row boat hidden under a weeping willow and rows me out into the middle of the lake.
I can’t quite believe what’s happening. I feel as if I’m in one of those romantic movie sequences – you know the ones, a montage of cheesy moments over which plays a power ballad – only in my case the soundtrack is just the lapping of the water against the boat and the gentle sound of the oars.
And then Mr Darcy stops rowing and, tilting his head, declares, ‘Look, there’s Orion.’
Gazing upwards into the velvet darkness, I trace the glittering pinpricks of light.
Like millions of tiny diamonds. In the past I’ve never been able to make out any star formations, but sure enough, there it is, clearly visible, the hunter and his belt.
I feel a burst of joy and suddenly it hits me: I don’t know exactly what’s happening, and I can’t explain it, but honestly, right now this feels so wonderful, I don’t care.
‘You know, I’ve dreamed of a moment like this,’ I whisper. ‘Of meeting you.’
There’s no reply, and as I turn my gaze away from the sky I look across at Mr Darcy.
He’s staring at me intently, and even when I catch his eye, he still doesn’t feel the need to say anything.
Wow. I feel a shiver all the way up my spine.
Mr Darcy is so completely different from all the other guys I’ve been out with – I’m so used to the crappy jokes and easy small talk that are usual in these kind of scenarios, but he’s just so intense.
In fact, if I were to have one teensy-weensy criticism about Mr Darcy, it would be that he can be a little too intense, I decide, feeling a little self-conscious and looking away again.
I mean, all this brooding is lovely in theory and he looks very handsome with his brow all crinkled up like that, but in reality it’s all a bit – well – heavy.
Not that I don’t like heavy. I’m not saying that.
Heavy is good. Especially after some of the idiots I’ve been out with who laugh at their own farts and can’t be serious for a minute.
Only sometimes it’s nice to have a little light relief.
A bit of chit-chat about the usual stuff: you know, current events, the latest celebrity gossip, what’s on TV.
But of course I’m being ridiculous. This is Mr Darcy. He doesn’t do chit-chat; he broods and smoulders and strides around setting pulses racing. And that’s why I love him, right?
Afterwards he rows back to the side, chivalrously helps me out of the boat, and we walk back into town. And then, before I know it, I’m back outside my hotel again, and Mr Darcy is saying, ‘Well, I shouldn’t keep you out all night.’
No, keep me out, keep me out, pipes up a little voice in my head, but instead I just nod and smile. To tell the truth, this evening has left me in something of a trance.
‘Goodnight, Emily.’ He bows politely.
Of course. No goodnight kiss. I feel a stab of disappointment. Oh, well. What can I expect? He’s a gentleman, remember?
‘Goodnight, Mr Darcy,’ I add with emphasis.
He waits dutifully as I climb the step and dig my night key out of my pocket.
Sliding it into the lock, I turn the key and open the door.
Then falter. I can’t just walk into the hotel and close the door behind me, allow him to disappear into the dead of night without knowing what happens now. I just can’t.
‘When am I going to see you again?’ I ask, twirling round.
My voice is urgent and high. I am so not cool. But I have to ask.
Having begun to walk away, he stops under a street lamp and turns, and with his trademark composure, replies enigmatically, ‘Soon.’