18. Lizzy
Lizzy
“Iactually do something like this with my trainer,” Emma said, heaving between throws. “Turns out the real deal is much harder. Wait for Darcy to take off his shirt—that’ll be a cinematic moment.”
I pushed her playfully and rolled my eyes.
One more round of the field and the two men were saturated with sweat, dripping, but Darcy didn’t take off his shirt.
That tracked. He was private, and he hardly knew us.
Or maybe he didn’t have a good chest and abs.
Yes, that was probably it. And anyway, he should sweat.
We were doing the hay baling because he’d lied to us about his cooking skills.
I was knee-deep in irritation, muttering under my breath about him, when he stopped, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and casually lifted it up to wipe his face.
Every one of my grumbles died a dramatic death.
Because…hello, abs.
Not “fit guy” abs. Cut abs. Sculpted like he moonlighted as a Greek statue. And a defined V-cut with the trail of hair disappearing into his low-slung athletic shorts. I swear I heard a choir. My brain…rebooted.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
Because then—then—he lifted his shirt higher to use another piece of the fabric.
Full chest view. Broad, defined, completely unnecessary in the best way. He could have used his sleeve like he did before, but his pecs flexed like they knew exactly what they were doing, which felt rude, honestly. My concentration packed its bags and left. My dignity followed.
I was supposed to stay annoyed. I was. But how was anyone meant to maintain a bad mood when the universe threw a live thirst trap directly into your line of sight?
My gaze rose to his face. A corner of his mouth kicked up and his eyes glittered with amusement. Oh shit, I didn’t realize he’d seen me staring.
I saw Harry filming us.
“Oodles, where are you?” I called, theatrically curving a hand over my eyes and rotating as if I were atop the mast of a tall ship. See? Not looking your way, self-absorbed Darcy person.
He kept on with his stupid grinning and nodded to his side. Oodles and Max were right beside him. For once, not running around. For once, being obedient.
“Jeez, did you see that? That guy is ripped,” Emma said. “Yoo-hoo! We’re over here, Knightley.” She taunted him with a wave. “Toss that bale…any old time. We’re up here twiddling our thumbs, waiting for you.”
Knightley grabbed another hay bale. “If you spent more time doing your own job, Emma Woodhouse, instead of getting on my arse, this might go faster.”
“Believe me, I am nowhere near your arse.”
Emma glared at him. He glared back.
I caught Darcy’s face, and he gave me a grin, like we were coconspirators now. I smiled back, momentarily forgetting I didn’t like him, then quickly turned away.
“I suppose he is ripped,” I said, referring to her previous comment about Darcy. “He probably spends a ridiculous amount of time in the gym. And I’m sure he has a personal trainer, so…”
I realized I was describing Emma too.
“You’ve got to admit, he’s hot in a repressed way,” she argued. “Ultimate Englishman.”
A cold stone lodged in my stomach at her words. Surely not jealousy?
“Are you interested in Darcy?” I asked.
She gave me an exaggerated side-eye. “As bloody if. Why would I want a boyfriend? My life is perfect without a man. But as an objective observer, I might be helping you see his finer points.” She swung up her arms as a bale crashed up on the truck bed.
“You don’t have to help me,” I protested. “And especially not with that man.”
“Don’t worry, it’s no trouble.” She inspected her pretty nails and arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I have a gift I need to honor.”
Emma had engineered a romance between her childhood nanny and a family friend, and they were now engaged. She was proud of her new self-appointed role as matchmaker.
“I’ve watched you two together. There’s something between you,” Emma said slyly, as though she hadn’t listened to a word I’d said about him.
She was clearly mistaken. This was her thinking one match made her a gifted cupid…but with Chanel-linking C’s.
The first night I’d met Darcy, he’d insulted me as soon as he walked through the bloody door.
I’d seen mostly disdain on his haughty aristocratic features since, plus his scowling, frowning, and glowering.
All the bad-tempered expressions, like they were synonyms for his name.
I had the same reaction to the mere sound of his voice—turning me down for a dance, belittling my romance writing, bringing it up again as I climbed the stairs for the night, saying I was being passive-aggressive about the cooking plans.
There were those times, though, when I’d been intrigued. With the dogs. Shopping with him. That moment at the window in the early hours of the morning. His surprising helpfulness with this painful farming activity. But those appealing, likable moments felt few and far between.
“We clashed immediately,” I said, more annoyed than I should be. “We are exact opposites. You know me. I love walking in the forest for hours with Oodles. Darcy is all about strict training.”
Oodles bounded around Darcy, who rewarded him with a huge scratch and a grin, and both dogs bounced off down the field, as if all conspiring to contradict me.
I sighed. “The rest of my day, I love to spend writing alone in my little cottage, wrapped in my imagination. I used to love that.” A jarring reminder I’d been trying and failing to imagine Peony and Thomas’s story and write on the page. “I hope to love it again soon.”
Why was I even talking about Darcy? I was agitated and needed to make Emma see sense.
“Can you honestly see me as mistress of his enormous place up in Derbyshire?” I went on.
“Wearing an evening dress and a diamond necklace and hosting a huge table of people, not being able to speak my mind? Most of the time, I wear ripped jeans and half a tree is stuck in my hair. Giving orders to staff? I can’t even give orders to my dog. Or rather, he doesn’t take my orders.”
“You’re thinking about this all wrong.” Emma looked thoughtful.
“What do you mean?” Now I was intrigued.
“You’re thinking of the life you’d have, rather than the man you would have. You don’t need to envisage being the lady of a manor house. That’s not what this is about.”
“That’s absolutely what dating him, wanting any kind of future with him, would be about.”
Again, why was I even talking about having a future with Darcy?
I barely knew the man, and what I knew of him, I didn’t even like.
Typical Emma, sucking me into this fantasy of hers.
The woman was relentless when she got the Gucci bit between her teeth.
Speaking of Gucci…was that outfit the real deal?
Jeez. Was I taking advice from a woman who wore a pink-checkered romper and matching bucket hat to do rigorous farmwork?
“I bet he doesn’t even want to be lord of the manor,” she said. “I mean, who would? Such a heavy responsibility for so many people’s livelihoods. He was born to it, but it doesn’t define him.”
“Actually, I’m fairly certain he would love the role. I can imagine him getting off on bossing staff around and striding haughtily around his enormous house, knowing everyone is paid to tell him he’s right. And if a woman wanted to date him, she would have to want to be lady of the manor.”
I’d done loads of research on this for Regency times and even in contemporary times.
And from local women whom I’d met, I knew it was a full-time job, like being a CEO of a company but without the respect, because most people thought it was merely lounging around in riding boots.
Now I was thinking about Darcy in riding boots. And those tight riding pants…
But no! That wasn’t the life for me.
“Wanting to be with him is about that,” Emma said.
“Him. The person. Gagging to be wrapped in that gorgeous man’s arms. Having a glass of wine together by the pond.
Walking in the forest with your dogs. These are the only things you have to consider.
If you’re a good fit romantically, the rest will fall into place. ”
I wondered where Emma got these ideas from.
If they weren’t being applied to me, objectively, these thoughts were remarkably wise and down-to-earth for her.
I could picture all that, ordinary things I loved, walking for hours, my dog—things that had nothing to do with living on a big estate.
I wrote those sorts of things into my stories all the time, how what one person was in society, what they owned, and their standing, had nothing to do with who they fell in love with.
I’d never had these feelings with my ex. He’d opted to stay inside in front of the TV, and I’d always had to walk in the forest alone.
“As it turns out, I don’t want any of those things with him. He’s appalling. Please don’t try to push Darcy on me—or worse, try to sell him on me. Promise me you won’t meddle.”
“We’ll see,” she said enigmatically.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Emma Woodhouse.” I went to demand that she give me her promise, when she was bumped sideways by a bale.
She swiveled around.
“Whoa, Knightley. You bowled me over with that bale,” she said. “Could you possibly throw straighter?”
“If you weren’t looking at yourself in the reflection of your princess nails, you might have seen it coming,” Knightley fired back.
“Bust-ed! You know I have a princess manicure. Have you been listening in on my phone calls again?”
“I don’t have to listen in to your phone calls. That world is a dumpster fire, and you talk all day long about whether you should go sheer pink or nude on the dead cells attached to the ends of your fingers. It’s the same color.”
“Ew. My nails are not dead cells. And it’s a commonly known fact that sheer pink and nude are vastly different.
” Emma gave him a hard look. “Why do you insist on ruining everything with your, ‘I’m a vet, and I have a puke name for every body part that’s supposed to be pretty.
’ No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. ”