On a brisk December morning, Fitzwilliam Darcy rode through Hyde Park. His black mare’s hooves thundered against the hard-packed earth. Charles Bingley kept pace at his side on a chestnut gelding. Yellow rays of sunlight skimmed the horizon and broke through the mist.
Darcy breathed the clean air—clean for London, at least. At times like this, he missed his Pemberley estate, the endless woods and rolling hills. Hyde Park was a poor substitute.
He once again questioned their decision to quit Netherfield—the estate Bingley had let in Hertfordshire. It had been two weeks since they had left the country retreat. Since then, Darcy had been restless, his mind plagued by Elizabeth Bennet.
The provincial beauty had all the wit and spirit he wished for in a wife. Her father was gentry. Yet the m
