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“I feel quite at home here,” Elizabeth noted as a goose burst from a gap in the greenery. “At Longbourn, geese are always escaping, and our paths have this wild effect of wandering like drunks. I had expected Pemberley to be stiffer and more formal.”

“The Derbyshire winters are harsher, and our groundskeepers are busy with clearing the snow,” Darcy said.

“I see.” Elizabeth kept her voice light, though she noted that Derbyshire winters didn’t explain why the hedges hadn’t been trimmed or why the gate hinges had rusted. “And the ornamental urns we passed? The ones containing nothing but last autumn’s leaves?”

“The spring planting has not yet begun.” Darcy’s explanation missed the mark. “The gardeners are preparing the beds. You will find Pemberley much improved by May.”

“I look forward to it.” Her gaze wandered over the ornamental beds—bare earth, rose bushes reduced to stubble, a pergola bereft of its climbers. Beyond the formal gardens, a meadow sloped toward a birch copse, and on the hillside, half-swallowed by ivy, stood a stone structure of ambiguous purpose.

“Is that a folly?” she asked, pointing.

“My grandfather’s. He had a passion for classical ruins and, finding none on the estate, built his own.” A pause. “It is somewhat more ruined now than he intended.”

“How convenient. Nature has completed his artistic vision.” She surveyed the landscape beyond the unkempt pleasure grounds to the glass structure she had glimpsed from her chamber window. “Is that the hothouse? I should very much like to see it. I have always been curious about how such things are managed.”

“Why don’t we head toward the lake?” he suggested. “I should like to show you the pavilion my mother built.”

They crested the rise, and the lake she had glimpsed from her carriage window came into view. Daffodils blazed along the shore, and the pavilion perched at the edge of shimmering water, painted in the muted palette of late March.

“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, and she felt Darcy’s arm tense beneath her hand, that shy vulnerability she kept glimpsing beneath his composure. “Mr. Darcy, this is beautiful.”

“My mother thought so.” He took steady steps down the path, which thinned in places where the gravel hadn’t been evenly raked. “She would come here to feed the swans and read.”

The pavilion proved dry and unexpectedly comfortable, with a stone bench facing the lake and a roof sufficient for all but the most ambitious rain. Elizabeth seated herself, and Darcy joined her—not quite touching, but near enough.

“Georgiana used to bring her dolls here,” Darcy said, his voice tender. “She called it the fairy house and insisted that the geese were enchanted courtiers under a spell that could only be broken by the proper application of bread crusts and seed cake.”

“Did the spell break?”

“The geese remained geese. She was disappointed but philosophical about it. She decided they must be under a stronger enchantment than she had anticipated and that she would need to study the subject more thoroughly before attempting another rescue.”

“I should like to meet her,” Elizabeth said, as they stood, leaving the shelter. “You speak of her with such affection that I cannot help but be curious about the woman who inspires it.”

“She is eager to meet you as well.” They walked along the lakeside pathway, close enough that she could see the darker rings in his eyes and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. “She has written no fewer than three letters since learning of our engagement, each one more pointed than the last regarding my failure to provide her with a sister earlier. I believe she considers my delay in marrying to be a personal slight against her.”

“Then she and I will have much in common, although I do not suppose she knows of the terms of our marriage.”

Darcy’s mouth curved down. “I have not told her everything.”

“Then your sister and I have even more in common than I thought.” Elizabeth’s words were sharper than she had intended, as she once again glanced toward the hothouse. “Does she like roses, or does she prefer orchids? What other secrets, Mr. Darcy, do you keep in the hothouse? Perhaps oranges for the marmalade?”

His expression darkened. “I am afraid our hothouse is not in use.”

“But, Mr. Darcy, where did the roses in my chamber come from?”

“There are arrangements with neighboring estates.”

“How fortunate to have such obliging neighbors.” She set her course for the hothouse, all but towing Darcy along. “I should like to see it, regardless. My uncle Henry was forever returning from warmer climes with orchids and other botanical curiosities.”

Darcy’s stride faltered. “The hothouse is in some disrepair. I would not wish you to be disappointed.”

“Well then, where are these celebrated views you promised me?” She watched his composure slip as he caught the note in her voice. “I had imagined Pemberley every inch the grand estate of rumor. From afar, it certainly appears so, but on closer acquaintance…”

“You are now Mistress of Pemberley,” Darcy stated, as if that fact alone would prevent her criticism.

“Indeed I am, and as such, I should like to see the household accounts.” She turned in the path to face him squarely.

“They are not your concern.” Darcy raked his fingers through his hair. “Mrs. Darcy, please believe me that I have given you every consideration.”