Would Elizabeth kiss a man to whom she was not engaged? Or perhaps Wickham had forced a kiss upon her. Cold shivers raced down Darcy’s spine, spurring a momentary desire to find Elizabeth and spend every moment protecting her from the other man’s advances.
Perhaps it would be simpler and more satisfying to throttle Wickham. If he were unconscious, he could not kiss Elizabeth.
The music had ceased. “Ah, it is time for me to claim my dance with Elizabeth,” Wickham said with a smirk.
Darcy considered how he could persuade Wickham to leave Elizabeth alone, but nothing occurred to him. Moving like a predatory animal, Wickham stalked away and was soon lost in the crowd.
Darcy was not accustomed to indecision, but it seemed that every possible reaction to Wickham could only make the situation worse. If he further harangued Elizabeth, she might guess at Darcy’s feelings. Without the capacity to act on those feelings, he could not allow her to suspect their existence. And that approach would risk pushing Elizabeth even more firmly into Wickham’s arms. Her independence of mind was admirable, but it made her harder to persuade.
As the music commenced, Darcy tortured himself for a minute by watching Elizabeth dance with Wickham. She laughed at something he said, her head tossed back in amusement. Each coy glance Wickham shot her was like a knife to Darcy’s stomach.
Wickham was a good dancer, damn him, and Elizabeth, of course, had superlative dancing skills. But Wickham seemed to be crowding her in one direction, breaking them from the line of dancers. How odd.
Oh, he had maneuvered Elizabeth beneath a clump of mistletoe. Wickham reached up to pluck a berry and presented it to Elizabeth. Darcy was too far away to hear what was said, but she gave Wickham a good-natured smile and allowed him to kiss her. It was a quick kiss, a mere brush of the lips before she pulled back. But it was sufficiently long to ignite a fierce ache in Darcy’s hollow chest. Those kisses belong to me! But if I had plucked the berry, would she have been so quick to kiss me?
Wickham lingered, speaking softly into her ear. Around them the dancers eyed them with tolerant smiles, no doubt believing them to be an engaged couple. Darcy’s blood surged hot through his veins, and he locked his knees lest he surrender to the impulse to stride across the intervening distance and rip them apart.
Darcy yearned to stay and claim another dance with Elizabeth, but it would be unwise. His heart was bruised enough with longing for this delightful creature he could not have. If he remained, he was in danger of blurting out his feelings for her—or taking her for a visit to the mistletoe. His kisses would erase every memory of Wickham from her mind.
He tore his gaze from her and fixed his eyes instead on the darkened windows leading to the terrace. He owed his family—and his family name—too much. He could not marry Elizabeth Bennet, and thus it was best not to dance with her. It would only give his foolish heart more encouragement.
At first he had been relieved she had believed his warnings about Wickham so readily, but now he feared that she had not taken them to heart. I must find another way to convince her without giving rise to expectations. Another day.
Resolutely, Darcy turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
Chapter Four
Four days had passed since the Marlowes’ ball, but as she did her needlework Elizabeth still hummed some of the music they had played. She had been blessed by some excellent partners. Mr. Wickham was quite light on his feet and never faltered in the steps. His attentiveness created the illusion that she was the only woman in the room.
Mr. Darcy was an excellent dancer as well, although his attention unsettled her; she did not know why he had sought her out other than to discuss Mr. Wickham, an activity which hardly required dancing. Still, he had been a good partner. In truth, better than Mr. Wickham, although Elizabeth was loath to admit it even to herself. Despite their stilted conversation, they had danced as if made for each other. For a few brief minutes she had felt like she was flying.
No, Elizabeth admonished herself. She could indulge in the memories, but nothing would come of it. Mr. Darcy was attractive, no doubt—with his dark wavy hair and intent dark eyes that somehow always seemed turned in Elizabeth’s direction. As they danced, his hands had held her so tenderly, as though she were infinitely precious. But he was too…he was not enough…
When she recalled dancing with Mr. Darcy, she found it difficult to remember her objections to him. No. Elizabeth shook her head. She should not be silly about this. An attractive man danced well; there was nothing more to say.
She turned her thoughts to the more promising subject of Mr. Wickham. In the carriage on the way home from the ball, Aunt Gardiner had observed, “I believe you have made a conquest there.”
Elizabeth was not so certain; he had neglected to dance with her when he had promised—although he had explained that faux pas by saying the pretty blonde woman had been spurned by another man; Mr. Wickham had partnered her to lift her spirits. Certainly, he possessed an easy air and a delightful countenance; his attentions to Elizabeth seemed sincere. Yet she felt little attachment to him. She waited to be overwhelmed with her feelings as Jane was with Mr. Bingley, but nothing had happened.
Now I am being fanciful again. My expectations are too high; not everyone in the world is destined for such love. Mr. Wickham was pleasant company—far pleasanter than Mr. Darcy. Most likely nothing would come of it. Elizabeth would enjoy the soldier’s company and return to Hertfordshire with naught to show but memories of a few flirtations.
When her Uncle Gardiner strolled into the drawing room, both Elizabeth and her aunt looked up from their needlework. He sat heavily in an armchair before speaking. “Well, Madeline, I told you I wrote to my brother Bennet.” He waved a letter.
Elizabeth sat up straighter. Why had Uncle Gardiner corresponded with her father?
Her uncle fixed his gaze on Elizabeth. “This concerns you as well, Lizzy. At the Marlowes’ ball, your aunt was most concerned about the animosity between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy—and how they both wished to involve you in their dispute.”
Elizabeth stabbed her needle into the cloth rather more forcefully than required. Mr. Darcy had already intruded sufficiently into her life, and she had no desire to discuss him with her aunt and uncle.
Her uncle continued, “I wrote to your father to obtain his opinion on the matter.” Adjusting his spectacles, he read from the letter. “‘I have not heard one word uttered against Mr. Wickham in Hertfordshire. All who know him consider him to be a pleasant and well-mannered man who has been mistreated by the Darcy family. Mr. Darcy, however, is a proud, unpleasant man who was generally disliked in Hertfordshire society. I have no reason or inclination to believe his word over that of Mr. Wickham.’”
Elizabeth gave a slow nod. “I am inclined to believe Mr. Wickham as well. The two men have quarreled in the past about matters that are of importance to Mr. Darcy, but I cannot imagine they are as dire as he portrays. Nor am I inclined to discontinue my association with Mr. Wickham.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. I would be most sorry to banish Mr. Wickham from my house.” Uncle Gardiner’s eyes twinkled.
Aunt Gardiner frowned. “I have never heard that Mr. Darcy is untrustworthy; however, I do not like his attentions to you, Lizzy. It is hard to conceive that his intentions are honorable.”
Elizabeth felt a frisson of anxiety. She was inclined to believe that he sought her company primarily to sneer at her country manners and lack of polish, but perhaps he did possess deeper, darker motives which would be served by warning her about Mr. Wickham.
Mr. Darcy did not appear to be the type to seduce women for the pleasure of it, but many of his class were. What did Elizabeth know of it?
Her uncle stood but handed a letter to Elizabeth before quitting the room. “Here is a note from your mother, which was enclosed along with my letter. I shall leave you to it.”
Dropping her needlework in her lap, Elizabeth slowly opened the letter and read its
contents.
My dear Lizzy,
All are well at Longbourn, although the house is much quieter with you away. Lydia and Kitty are making some good friends among the militia. Unfortunately, Mr. Wickham is away on a fortnight’s leave. Your sisters are such favorites with the officers. They understand that your father will not live forever and that they must secure suitable husbands when they can.
Charlotte Lucas—now Charlotte Collins—was married in a small ceremony on Sunday. Her father spared no expense on wedding clothes or flowers, and it was enough to make her look almost less plain. They are gone into Kent, where Mr. Collins apparently has a very nice parsonage. And, of course, Mrs. Collins may look forward to the day when she is mistress of Longbourn. It pains me to think—let alone write—such a thing, particularly when one of my own daughters might have claimed that position. Lady Lucas will not stop crowing her triumph over having one daughter married whereas I have none.
I hope you are employing your time in London to great advantage and meeting suitable young men. Otherwise you might as well have stayed at home and we should have sent Lydia.
Yours, etc.
Mama
Elizabeth crumpled the paper into a ball, ignoring her aunt’s surprised stare. Her mother never lost an opportunity to chastise her second-oldest daughter for refusing Mr. Collins. Although Elizabeth knew it had been the right decision, regret and guilt weighed upon her.
Such constant remonstrances had been one of the reasons Elizabeth had sought refuge in London, but distance did not completely alleviate the guilt gnawing in her stomach. Her mother was not wrong that Elizabeth’s marriage to Mr. Collins would have provided her family with the security that they now lacked.
If Papa should pass away while all five of us were unmarried, it would be a terrible tangle. I cannot not imagine how we would all manage. Unbidden, all sorts of visions arose in Elizabeth’s mind: becoming a governess, marrying a shopkeeper, living as a dependent relative—even the poor house. At the time of Mr. Collins’s proposal, Elizabeth had believed that Mr. Bingley was sincerely attached to Jane and would make her an offer—and he certainly could care for the Bennet women should the worst occur. Now that eventuality seemed highly unlikely.
Unequal to the task of discussing the letter with her aunt, Elizabeth picked up her needlework once more but could not see clearly enough to resume the task. The brightly colored threads blurred and swam in her vision. Her mother should not blame her for the family’s situation, but that did not prevent Elizabeth’s niggling doubts.
If her father perished, Mr. Collins would inherit. Even with Charlotte as a moderating influence, very little could stop him from descending upon the Bennet family like a vulture onto a carcass. Elizabeth shuddered. She could not recall Mr. Collins’s sweaty hands and greasy hair without disgust, yet surely she could endure far worse to ensure her family’s safety. Now they had nothing.
Well, perhaps not nothing. Mr. Wickham’s interest might be sincere. Of course, his pay was a pittance, but at least he would take responsibility and help support her family. As his wife, at the very least Elizabeth would not be a burden to her mother—or any other family members who might feel obligated to care for them. With a husband to provide for her, Elizabeth would be independent and in a position to help the others.
Her eyes lit on the bare branches of the large oak tree outside the window and the rose bushes beyond. Occasionally she felt uneasy about Mr. Wickham’s character, but his treatment at Mr. Darcy’s hands was reason enough for bitterness. The militia officer had open, pleasing manners and was amiable and easy to converse with. Elizabeth did not love him, but she was reasonably certain she could be content as his wife. Then she could be a help rather than a hindrance to her family.
She pressed her lips together in a thin line. Yes, it was decided. If Mr. Wickham made her an offer, she would accept.
***
Darcy crumpled the note in his fist. He had engaged a man to follow Wickham about London, and the man’s notes reported that in the five days since the Marlowes’ ball, Wickham had been twice received at the Gardiners’ house. Damnation! His words to Elizabeth had not been taken seriously. Darcy had intended to visit her immediately after the ball, but an emergency with flooding at Pemberley had required him to ride to Derbyshire. He had only returned a few hours earlier.
There was a knock at the door before Ward, the footman, entered, his manner as stiff as the servant’s livery he wore. “Mr. Wickham is here to see you.”
Words guaranteed to ruin Darcy’s day. The sheer gall of that man astounded him.
“He called several times while you were away, sir. Should I tell him you are still not at home?” Ward asked.
It was tempting, but a conversation with Wickham might yield some clues about what the man planned. “No. I will see him, but he will not be staying long.” Darcy stood. “Where is Miss Darcy?” Georgiana should not encounter Wickham at Darcy House.
“She is visiting friends with Mrs. Annesley.”
Thank God. “Station someone outside the front door to intercept them should they arrive while he is here.” Ward nodded. “Where did you put Wickham?”
“I considered the stables, sir, but ended up with the blue drawing room.”
Darcy smiled at his footman’s joke. “I knew there was a reason I kept you on.”
“Yes, sir.” Ward’s face was impassive, but his lips twitched with humor.
Darcy reached for the coat he had discarded on a chair and shrugged it on. Managing Wickham required Darcy to be every inch the master of Pemberley.
Ward followed Darcy as he thumped down the grand front stairs into the marble-clad front hall. Darcy stalked grimly toward the blue drawing room door, squaring his shoulders and throwing open the door.
Wickham lounged insouciantly on a fainting sofa, looking for all the world like the picture of gentlemanly idleness. “Ah…Darcy,” he drawled, “so good of you to see me.”
He does not even stand to greet the master of the house, his host! Darcy gritted his teeth. He could not allow Wickham’s petty insults to irk him. “What do you want, Wickham?”
Wickham gestured grandly to the opposite settee—Darcy’s settee. “Have a seat and we can talk over old times.”
I will not allow him to provoke me. Darcy took a deep breath as if he could inhale patience. “You have one minute to tell me what you want before I throw you out of Darcy House.”
Wickham huffed. “No chewing over fond old memories?” He clutched his heart theatrically. “You wound me!”
“Wickham,” Darcy growled as he advanced menacingly toward the man.
“Very well.” Wickham sat upright on the sofa, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I came to make you an offer.”
“I am not interested.”
“You have not heard the offer.”
“I am not interest—”
“Even if it concerns Elizabeth Bennet?”
Damn the man! Just the sound of her name made Darcy’s heart beat faster. “You could not possibly have any interest in Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy scoffed, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
Wickham gave him a sly smile. “But I do, I assure you. I have a business proposition which concerns her deeply.”
Darcy walked away from Wickham—away from the temptation to strike him—positioning himself so a chair stood between them. He grasped the back of the chair so tightly that his fingers turned white. “A business proposition?”
“Indeed.” Wickham stood. They were almost of a height, putting him at Darcy’s eye level. “I will agree not to make Elizabeth Bennet an offer of marriage if you will pay off my gambling debts.”
“You bastard.” It was amazing how quickly anger could turn to fear. Darcy’s breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands were slick with perspiration against the wood of the chair. “Elizabeth would not accept a marriage proposal from you.” He intended to toss the words out with force and scorn, but with such uneven breath behind
them, they sounded weak and strangled.
Wickham laughed. “Shall I test that assertion?”
Darcy’s trembling fingers clutched the chair more forcefully. Wickham had visited the Gardiners’ house twice in five days. He had danced with Elizabeth at the Marlowes’ ball and kissed her there. He had kissed her under the oak tree…
Have I already lost Elizabeth? My Elizabeth?
Darcy teetered on the edge of a precipice, in danger of falling into complete despair.
“I kissed her…and more…” Wickham’s voice drawled suggestively. “Yesterday, in the Gardiners’ drawing room when we were alone for a few minutes. She smiled at me…such a sweet smile…”
As the other man spoke, Darcy could envision it all too easily: Wickham’s head bent over Elizabeth’s, his hand under her chin. Her head raised to receive his kiss…
“Stop!” Darcy cried, provoking a knowing smirk from Wickham. “You should not speak so disrespectfully about a well-bred lady.”
Wickham spread his arms wide. “It is but the truth.”
“And you are a proficient liar.”
“I do not lie about everything.”
With no easy response to this, Darcy stared at the floor, silent for a long minute. Hopefully his breaths were not as loud to Wickham as they seemed to him. “How much?” Darcy finally asked in a voice that seemed scraped over rocks.
“Fifteen thousand.”
“Fifteen thousand!” Darcy’s head jerked up. Wickham grinned lazily. “You could not possibly have accumulated so much in debts.”
The other man shrugged. “I gamble frequently.” No doubt Wickham intended to realize a tidy profit from this scheme.
I could do it, but it would hurt. It would mean delaying plans for improvements to the western cottages at Pemberley, halting construction of the new bridge, canceling the gift of Georgiana’s pianoforte…
Wickham was still smirking at him, pleased to have him at a disadvantage. The officer had no plans to make Elizabeth an offer, Darcy realized. He wanted to extort money to prevent an action he never planned to take. A pretty scheme indeed.
Christmas at Darcy House Page 4
