As they watched, Sarah and Laura galloped indoors, Mrs Darcy chasing them with as much energy and gaiety as if she too were a child. Charlotte laughed aloud before turning to her companion to thank him for his role in their day. As he had taken to doing before they parted, he kissed her hand, a mark of attention and courtesy she enjoyed, but did not attach any special meaning to – he did the same for Lizzy before they all retired for the night. But this time, perhaps intuiting the warmth, the unexpected happiness that flooded her, he turned her hand in his, and impulsively pressed his lips to the transparent skin on the underside of her wrist.

A small gesture, but it transfixed Charlotte. Her husband had always been a clean-shaven man, so the brush of moustache was a novelty to her, as was the combined softness and firmness of Jacob’s lips.

She halted, unable to move for the tumult in her body, and he snatched his mouth away and flushed deeply, rose coming up through the golden ivory of his skin. His eyes dropped, throwing into relief the half-circles of his dark lashes on his cheeks, and she was momentarily reminded of Tom. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked uneasy, and as he began to stammer, she interrupted him: she could not bear to have an afternoon of such rich contentment marred by apologies or explanations, or to see him discomforted. Momentarily feeling the difference in their ages, she set about speaking in calm tones of the beauty of the vista before them, while moving on as sedately as possible, once again taking his arm with both formality and friendliness. He took his cue from her, equally eager to regain their footing of ease and affection, and they processed into the grand house once again apparently comfortable with one another.

But upstairs, in the privacy of her chamber, Charlotte first leaned against the door, then looked at herself in the glass. Face flushed, her chest was rising and sinking as if she was the hapless heroine in one of the flimsier novels Anne de Bourgh liked to read. But no amount of self-mockery or chastisement could stop her sinking onto her bed and replaying the incident again and again, reliving the frisson that had flooded her body with warmth at that moment, raising gooseflesh and, to her mingled dismay and delight, tightening her nipples.

Her unruly mind ran in pursuit of more intimate details: she flashed back to the musculature she had seen as his wet shirt had clung to his skin after he rescued Sarah, and her fingers tingled, anticipating touching, stroking: what would it be to caress his body, to feel his skin against hers? What might it mean to recline for him, to part her legs, open herself up to him, to bear his weight on her body, to melt and blend with him?