A bleary-eyed footman opened the door. "Mr Darcy? It is barely light, Sir."
"I require my cousin," Darcy announced, stepping inside past the servant. "Is he awake?"
"Lord Keathley is present, Sir. I believe he is currently breakfasting."
Darcy marched to the breakfast room. Robert was there, slumped in a chair, wearing a dressing gown of violently patterned purple silk. He looked up as Darcy entered, blinking slowly.
"Go away," Robert groaned. "It is St Stephen's Day. The servants have their boxes, so the only thingIam permitted to box today is my own liver."
"Robert," Darcy said, stopping at the end of the table. "Look at me."
Robert opened one eye. "You are wearing riding boots. And a coat that looks heavy enough to smother a bear. Why?"
"I have a question for you. And I require an honest answer. No jokes. No deflections."
Robert sat up straighter, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "Very well. Ask away."
"Are you serious about Miss Bennet?"
Robert didn't hesitate. The rakish smirk vanished. "Absolutely. I intend to marry her, Darcy. Assuming she will have me."
"Good," Darcy nodded. "Then we have work to do. We have secured the approval of our own family—miraculously—but we have neglected a crucial step. We have not spoken to her father."
"Mr Bennet is in Hertfordshire," Robert pointed out, reaching for a piece of toast. "And the ladies are here. Surely, we can speak to him when he comes to town?"
"Too late," Darcy said. "Our aunt arrives tomorrow. If I am to face Lady Catherine and tell her I am attached to another, I need to know that the attachment is sanctioned by the lady's father. I need to stand on solid ground."
"So... what? You want to write him a letter?"
"A letter takes too long. And a letter is easily dismissed." Darcy pulled on his gloves. "We are going to Longbourn."
"Longbourn?" Robert choked on his toast. "Hertfordshire? Today? It is twenty-five miles, Darcy! In the snow!"
"The roads are hard-packed. We can make it in four hours if we ride hard. An hour there. Four hours back. We shall be back by dinner."
"You are insane," Robert declared. "You are deranged. It is freezing. My nose will fall off. My horse will not talk to me ever again."
"Do you love her?" Darcy asked simply.
Robert looked at the toast. He looked at the frost on the window. He looked at Darcy's unyielding expression.
He sighed, a long, tragic sound. "I do. God help me, I do."
"Then get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes. Wear wool. Lots of it."
"I hate you," Robert muttered, standing up and tightening his dressing gown. "I truly hate you. This better be worth it."
"It will be," Darcy promised. "Besides, Mrs Bennet is a character. You will enjoy her."
"If I die of hypothermia," Robert called over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs, "tell Jane I looked dashing in the saddle."
The journey was, as predicted, miserable. The wind cut through their coats like a knife, the horses breathed plumes of steam, and the landscape was a relentless monochrome of white and grey.
They spoke little, mostly because opening one's mouth risked freezing one's teeth. But they rode hard, driven by the kind of madness that only love—or the fear of a formidable aunt—can inspire.
By the time the chimneys of Longbourn came into view, Robert looked less like a dashing Viscount and more like an icicle wrapped in expensive tailoring.
"I can't feel my toes," he announced as they turned up the drive. "Are they still attached? Check for me."
