Page 11 of A Cleverly (Un)contrived Compromise (Love’s Little Helpers #3)

CHAPTER 11

E lizabeth bit her tongue. She had refused him! Why on earth had she done that? Elizabeth was not mercenary, but neither was she so foolish to think she or her sisters could survive this scandal unscathed. Her only hope was that one extraordinarily discreet person came to their rescue, or at least someone bribable. But now Elizabeth’s sharp tongue had put paid to that.

If only she had more options, more choices! Apparently, Mr. Darcy had already made his choice, and like the men of his station accustomed to always getting his way, he expected her to acquiesce. Well, while there was still hope that a lenient, accommodating person would free them from this wretched room, Elizabeth would not yield without a fight. She could never be happy with haughty, selfish, disdainful Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“I did not phrase that right,” he said. “I wished to assure you that I shall do what must be done to protect your honor. I could do no less.”

His explanation was unexpected—and Elizabeth had to admit, kind—but she did not trust him. She hardly knew him! “Do you always place such a high value on honor?”

“Yes!”

She had offended him. Given all the times he had offended her, her neighbors, and her family, her conscience did not suffer much. Had he been more gentlemanly, she would have extended him more mercy.

But she must also remember he had been kind to her. Although Elizabeth did not want to marry him, if she had no choice, she would do well to understand Mr. Darcy better. “I have heard reports to the contrary which puzzle me.”

He took a deep breath, the kind her father often took when he had had his fill of nonsense. “You question my character?”

Elizabeth would love nothing more but to unleash the profoundness of her discontent on Mr. Darcy, to spar with him until he felt the blow as intensely as she did. But she must think beyond this moment if Mr. Darcy was to be her future.

She knew she was perhaps the only person to question Mr. Darcy’s character… to his face, that is. But she truly did not know what to make of him. One minute, he charged into a room breathing threats, and the next, he cradled her hands so tenderly, her stomach fluttered.

Before she could reply, he whispered, “What reports?”

He sounded so downcast, she almost regretted the question. Almost. She must have some answers or believe herself to be shackled to a contemptuous nob. Lifting her chin, Elizabeth met his gaze squarely. “Did you deny Mr. Wickham the living your father promised him in his will?”

Crossing his arms over his wide chest, the fabric covering his arms straining, he spat, “Wickham.” His eyes hardened, his eyebrows lowered into a deep V, and his lip curled.

Elizabeth’s curiosity rooted her in place. She was not afraid of Mr. Darcy. As little as she liked him, she knew he would not raise a hand against her. Mr. Wickham, on the other hand… Well, he might be the trained soldier, but Elizabeth would wager every penny she had saved that Mr. Darcy could easily best him in a fight.

As barbaric as her thoughts had become, the image of Mr. Darcy looming over Mr. Wickham in a boxing ring thrilled her. Which could only mean that she had been reading too many novels. There was nothing thrilling about boorish Mr. Darcy.

And then, in the next breath, he loosened his arms, at first letting them dangle at his side as though he did not know what to do with them. Then he raised one to rake his fingers through his hair, a gesture he had done repeatedly in the time they had been trapped together. Dropping his hand, looking almost humble, he finally responded to her question. “My father loved Wickham. He regarded him as dearly as the second son he had always wanted.” His voice wavered. “At one time, Wickham was my closest friend.” He paused and ran his hand through his hair again. “My father gave him many advantages, among them a gentleman’s education and a guaranteed living at the parish church. That much is true.”

Elizabeth had wanted answers so badly, but seeing how uncomfortable Mr. Darcy was, how hesitant he was to speak in his own defense when Mr. Wickham had been so quick to throw accusations against him… it made Elizabeth feel wretched for bringing up the subject.

Why had it never occurred to her to doubt Mr. Wickham until now? Had she pressed him for details, he gladly would have supplied them, his speech oily-smooth and practiced.

Unlike Mr. Darcy, whose raw speech proclaimed his honesty. She would hear no more. “Please, Mr. Darcy, you do not owe me an explanation.”

He continued as though he had not heard her. “I honored my father’s wishes. Wickham was granted his living, but he had no interest in the living or my father’s wishes. He sold it for the sum of three thousand pounds.”

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She nodded, seeing with no great difficulty how Mr. Wickham could be the kind of man Mr. Darcy described.

Far from boastful, Mr. Darcy sounded sad. “I agreed with Wickham that he was ill-suited to the church, and I gladly paid the sum.” He shoved his hand through his hair again. “There is more—much more—but I beg you to be patient.”

She nodded again, stunned. He did not owe her an explanation, and yet he gave her one, offering her more if she would but wait.

Elizabeth knew what that meant, and the realization made her stomach sink. Mr. Darcy would not feel compelled to reveal anything more to her unless he felt himself under obligation. To her.

Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to insist on her freedom, but how could she be so doggedly stubborn when her family would pay for her decision? But neither could she accept her circumstance without struggle or pretend she did not care what would become of her.

She imagined living like her own father—without any interest besides his intellectual pursuits because nothing he could do now could ever undo the past. He had agreed to the entailment, confident in his ability to produce an heir. That confidence had eroded with every daughter borne to him. He had not always been so indolent and sarcastic, though it was difficult for Elizabeth to remember so far back. But she cherished those memories and hoped that the kind, attentive father who had taught her and Jane, and whom she had loved so dearly, was still there somewhere. She could not live as he did without becoming bitter and tetchy, just as he had become.

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat, reminding Elizabeth of the precariousness of their predicament and her deepest desire to be free of it. He said, “Disguise of every sort is abhorrent to me, but in this circumstance, I believe it might be our only salvation.”

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, although she supposed that she ought not be. He had said that he was thinking of a solution, and he must have meant it. She could have embraced him for the sliver of hope he offered, but she restrained herself.

He continued, “The room is dark and the curtains behind Bingley’s desk reach the floor. Someone is certain to look for one of us, and when they eventually search here, they will find you, alone. I shall simply hide behind the curtains quietly until you leave.”

As much as Elizabeth wanted the plan to work, she had to point out the flaws. “We could still be here for hours! What if they are searching for you? They will ask me about you.”

He hesitated to reply, and she sensed his struggle. There would be nothing more to do but lie and say she had not seen him or some other misleading statement.

“You are clever and will think of something appropriate.”

The last thing she had expected from Mr. Darcy was a compliment. “Thank you,” she replied, although between the two of them, he was the first to think of a solution which might actually work. “You are clever, too.”

Mr. Darcy laughed. “I do not feel clever right now, I assure you.”

She smiled. They were not out of danger yet, but hope (and Mr. Darcy’s humor) lent her cheer. “Nor do I.” She twirled a curl around her finger, her neck warm under the curtain of hair. Her hair. As quickly as Elizabeth had relaxed, she panicked. Reaching up to pat what remained of her coiffure, confirming that the damage was just as bad as she suspected, she exclaimed, “I am a mess! What will they think when I am found?”

“That you were motivated to gain your freedom and use your hairpins to pick the lock.”

She shook her head vehemently. “If I were truly alone, I would have merely sat in one of the chairs, perhaps fallen asleep to pass the time, and waited once it became clear that I could not escape otherwise.”

“Can you not claim a fear of the dark or of confined spaces?

“I do not fear the dark or small spaces, Mr. Darcy, but I fear for my sisters’ reputations and the bleak future that would cast upon us. My family and closest friends, of whom most are present this evening, all know this about me.” And now, Mr. Darcy did too. She grabbed a lock of hair, twisted it, and tried to stuff it into place, but her rebellious waves refused to comply. “I never would have attempted to pick the lock and ruin my hair unless—”

“Unless you were trapped here with someone. With me.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Mr. Darcy. I would have reacted the same way had I been trapped with anyone else.”

He chuckled, as she had hoped he would. “I suppose that is some consolation.” Rubbing his hands together, he looked toward the window. “If you stand closer to the light, I shall be able to see better how I might help.”

Elizabeth felt her eyebrows raise. Was Mr. Darcy offering to arrange her hair? He did not appear to be teasing.

He must have sensed her skepticism. For the briefest moment, he looked down at the floor. Then, as though to defy his vulnerability, he straightened himself to his full height. But she had seen a new side to him, brief as it was, and it loosened what had been tight in her chest. “One of the few things that soothed my mother during her illness was to have her hair brushed. Her maid had so much to do to see to her care, I often took over the task.” His defensive tone softened as he spoke. “When she passed away, I missed her so much, I offered to brush my sister’s hair.” He shrugged, as though the tender image he had shared was not the most endearing story Elizabeth had heard in a long while.

“I fear that what I require is much more than an expert brusher,” she teased, appreciating his offer all the more for his embarrassment.

He folded his arms over his chest and grumbled, “When Georgiana’s hair grew long enough, I had the nurse teach me how to braid it. I braided it every night until her maid took over the task. I am qualified for the task.”

Elizabeth pressed her hands against her heart. As much as she wanted to tease him about his expertise, she could not add to his discomfort. She imagined Mr. Darcy’s thick fingers trying to smooth and twist his little sister’s hair without snagging or tugging. It challenged every assumption Elizabeth had formed about Mr. Darcy. Did she know him at all? “Your sister must have appreciated the special attention from her older brother. That was kind of you.”

“I am a poor replacement for our mother.”

Elizabeth’s lungs seized in sympathy. “Does Miss Darcy remember her?” she murmured. Oh, she hoped so. As troublesome as Elizabeth’s own mother was, Elizabeth could not imagine her life without her mother’s affection and concern. Perhaps Mama cared a great deal too much about her daughters’ prospects and futures, but the fact remained that she cared.

“Our mother died when Georgiana was only a year old. My sister became the apple of our father’s eye. She felt his loss intensely when he passed away five years ago.”

Mr. Darcy’s snub from the assembly lost some of its sting in that moment, and Elizabeth found it easier to overlook his proud, taciturn manners. She was not ready to forgive him completely, but Elizabeth felt the quickness and harshness of her own premature opinions. Although Mr. Darcy was still the proudest man she had ever met, he might not be as arrogant as she had believed him to be.

At that moment, Mr. Darcy was not the enemy. He was her partner.

Moving closer to the window, she turned so that her back faced Mr. Darcy and lifted her hair off her neck. “Is it very bad?”

It seemed like an eternity passed before he joined her at the window. His breath tickled the back of her neck, and she shivered even as heat spread over her skin.