Page 156 of What Change Entails

The gig seat was narrow.

She had not fully considered that fact.

Climbing up required placing her gloved hand in his, gathering her skirts, and trusting him to steady her weight. His grip was firm and warm through the leather. Once seated, she became painfully conscious that he must sit beside her, not across from her, not at a decorous drawing-room distance, but close enough that the edge of his coat brushed her sleeve when he climbed in.

Mr. Darcy settled beside her, took up the reins, and gave the mare a light command. The gig moved forward with a gentle jolt.

Elizabeth placed both hands in her lap.

That lasted almost one minute.

The drive began along the main road, then followed a narrower path that curved past the kitchen gardens and out toward the rolling pasture beyond. Darcy pointed out the orchard, the rebuilt stone wall near the lower meadow, and a line of cottages half hidden by trees.

Elizabeth heard perhaps half of it.

The other half of her attention behaved disgracefully.

His hat shadowed part of his face, but the morning light touched the hair at his temple where a few dark strands escaped beneath the brim. His coat stretched across his shoulders whenever he shifted the reins. One hand held the leather loosely, the other guided with small, controlled movements that spoke of competence rather than display. His hands were large, well formed, and very capable. Elizabeth had noticed them before in the library, when he had handed her a volume from the upper shelf. She had noticed them in Lambton when their fingers met over a book. Now she was trapped beside those hands, watching them manage horse and road with calm assurance.

She forced her attention to the scenery.

There were fields.

Likely beautiful fields.

She could not have described them upon pain of death.

“And beyond that rise,” Darcy said, “the stream joins the larger branch that feeds the mill.”

“Indeed?”

A dangerous answer. Too vague.

Elizabeth devoted herself to the view and pretended deep appreciation of a hedgerow.

“I have always liked the road here,” he continued after a pause. “In autumn the beeches color first along that slope.”

“How considerate of them.”

“Very. I shall be certain to commend them when the season comes.”

She laughed softly before she could prevent it.

He had a pleased expression, and it thrilled her.

The gig rolled onward. Gravel gave way to a smoother earth road, shaded now by trees that arched overhead. Birds moved in the branches above them. Somewhere out of sight, water ran over stone. Elizabeth allowed herself the smallest glance in his direction.

His profile was severe and beautiful.

That was the word. Beautiful. It seemed improper applied to a man, and yet no other word would do. There was strength in his features, certainly, and reserve, and intelligence. But also beauty in the line of his brow, the shape of his mouth when he was not guarding it, the way sunlight caught in the dark of his eyes whenever he faced her.

His legs, braced lightly as the gig moved over uneven ground, were as well formed as any she had ever seen. More than well formed. Excellent.

Elizabeth forced her attention back to the road.

Good heavens.

The mare slowed. Elizabeth did not notice at first. Then the wheels ceased their soft turning altogether.