Page 9 of A Cleverly (Un)contrived Compromise (Love’s Little Helpers #3)

CHAPTER 9

D arcy ground his teeth and clenched his fists, his surroundings a blur as he stomped down the hall. How dare Wickham appear at Bingley’s ball? Had the man no sense? What did he hope to gain? If he attempted to exploit Darcy or any of his friends again, the only prize he would get would be a busted nose. Darcy had been patient and charitable for Georgiana’s sake, but Georgiana was not here, and Wickham had no claim on Darcy’s lenience. Not anymore.

Shoving the study door open, he closed it behind him with a firm click. He did not want their conversation overheard by anyone.

A feminine squeak and a shuffle by the cold fireplace made Darcy’s blood boil. Dear Lord, not only was Wickham here, but he had already lured a lady into a compromising position. “Wickham!” he demanded.

“Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy froze, chilled to the bone. He did not need a candle to recognize that voice.

“What are you doing here?” Miss Elizabeth behaved as though he were the intruder.

Darcy could hardly breathe, could hardly think straight. Wickham had a particular talent for winning people over with his easy manners and false charm, but that he might have succeeded in winning over Miss Elizabeth… It had to be a trick. Miss Elizabeth would not be the first to mistake Wickham’s character, but she was not so foolish to allow such a man to ruin her. He blinked hard several times, wishing his vision to adjust so that he might haul Wickham out of the study by the collars. “Where is he?”

“Where is Wickham? You think he is here? With me?”

Darcy heard the offense in her speech, and he felt the faultiness of his thinking. Miss Elizabeth’s character was too strong to yield to vice. He ought to know better. But Wickham was crafty. He had so nearly ruined Georgiana. Darcy had to be certain. “Wickham is not here?”

She stood close enough to him now for his skin to tingle. Cloves and orange blossoms. He braced himself for the kick. “You think me capable of being alone in a dark room with an unmarried man?”

Darcy could have pointed out that that was precisely what was happening, but he knew better than to provoke her further than he already had. “No.”

“Then why persist in this questioning? If I am above fault in your opinion, you would have accepted my word immediately and departed.”

He bowed his head. “I apologize for causing offense. You have never given me reason to doubt the strength of your character or the integrity of your virtue.”

“And yet you accuse me of being ensconced in this study with Mr. Wickham? You have a strange way of displaying your confidence, Mr. Darcy.” She sucked in a breath. “Perhaps that explains your behavior toward Mr. Bingley. You must trust him a great deal, or else you might make the mistake of allowing him to dance and speak with whom he pleases at his own ball.”

Bingley. A small voice in Darcy’s mind wondered why Bingley had sent him on a fool’s errand when Wickham was not present.

The louder voices demanded justice. He had apologized. Instead of gracefully extending him forgiveness, Miss Elizabeth used it as a weapon against him. Such impudence was not to be borne. He leaned closer to her. “You would criticize me? From the moment you arrived, you have done little but watch over your mother and sisters. Would you have me believe you do so out of trust? ”

At first, her silence gratified Darcy. But victory soon ceded to uncertainty. Darcy could be certain of nothing in Miss Elizabeth’s presence.

He heard her take in a deep breath, felt her exhale against his cheek. “I admit the injustice of my accusation when I am guilty of the same. I have my reasons, as I am certain you have yours. However, here we both are, neglecting our duty to the ones we wish to protect.”

Darcy’s heart skipped a beat. That she ascribed proper motive to him in protecting Bingley should have appeased his palpitating pulse. Had her family not been the very ones from whom Darcy wished to protect Bingley, had she been ignorant of his aim, he might have returned the compliment. Instead, her insightfulness proved her to be an even stronger foe than he had imagined. As paradoxical as their predicament was, he had to admire her.

She continued, “I would not be alone in the dark in this part of the house without a reason. I have been sitting here for about twenty minutes waiting for my friend, Miss Lucas, who was supposed to meet me. Then you barged inside shouting Mr. Wickham’s name.”

“I did not shout,” Darcy whispered. He could see her now. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, her lips a dark contrast. He knew he should look away. As God was his witness, he tried.

“I beg to differ, sir.” Had they spoken louder, perhaps he might have achieved some distance, but her whisper pulled him closer. His gaze snagged on her curvy lips as she spoke, “Now, while I appreciate the irony of this moment given the subject of our argument, I beg you to open the door. It is inappropriate for us to be alone together. I would rather wait for Charlotte in the hall.”

She was right. Of course she was right. What foolishness had come over him? Rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair, trying to get rid of the lingering smell of cloves, Darcy said, “No, I should be the one to leave. My apologies.” Turning to the door, he saw it shut and heard the lock turn.

He blinked hard and shook his head, disbelieving what he had clearly seen and heard. He distinctly recalled closing the door himself, and yet, someone must have opened it only to shut it again. This bode ill. In the next instant, he ran to the door, rattling the knob. Panic rose in Darcy’s throat. He raised his hand to bang against the barrier.

Miss Elizabeth was at his side, her hand cradling his fist. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Do you want whoever locked us in here to know we are trapped together?”

Darcy knew he must pound against the door if they had any hope of escape, but her touch sent shivers through him.

Her hands were soft, warm. Where were her gloves? The fire had burned out long ago in Bingley’s study; she might catch a chill. He turned his wrist and slowly opened his fist, her fingers gliding over his palm. He would have clasped her hands in his to keep them warm had she not snatched them away.

He gritted his teeth. What devilry was coming over him? Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared at the door.

Miss Elizabeth cleared her throat. “There is a perfectly good window behind us. You can lower me from it.”

He knew what he would find at the window, but he tried anyway. Gripping the casing, he thrust his weight upward with a mighty shove. The paint did not even crack. Not one to give up easily, Darcy tried again. And again.

He considered breaking the window. He imagined tossing one of Miss Bingley’s painted tables through the glass, but then what? Miss Elizabeth would have to scramble over sharp shards through the opening. She was certain to be injured. The height was too great for either of them to leap from, and there was no convenient trellis or ledge to climb down.

He already knew the layout of the room. He had seen the drawings and inspected every room with Bingley and his agent. There were no other doors, no secret passageways.

The only way in or out of the study was through the locked door made of sturdy English oak.

They were trapped together.

* * *

Mr. Darcy turned away from the unopened window. The look on his face filled Elizabeth with horror. “We are trapped?” Her words sounded too small for the enormity of their problem.

Turning to the door, she began pounding. This could not be happening. How had this happened? Why had Charlotte not come before? If she was the one to discover them, Elizabeth knew she could count on her dear friend’s discretion.

But what if Charlotte did not come? What if she had never intended to meet Elizabeth in the study? She kicked the door, her toes no match for the unmovable barrier. Had Kitty lied? Had there even been a message? Or was this part of Lydia’s plan to get even? Elizabeth kicked the door again, her breath heaving, her palms sore, and her toes throbbing.

Strong hands pulled her away from the door. Had they not belonged to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth would have been more tempted to melt into them. The depth of her distress left her feeling weak.

Lydia had won. Oh, she had won. Elizabeth imagined her sister prancing and giggling and making a spectacle of herself while their mother proudly bragged of Jane’s success. She imagined Jane, cheeks flushed with mortification, watching helplessly as the shameful behavior of her own family stamped out her hopes.

Elizabeth seethed. “I am going to kill Lydia.” If I ever get out of Mr. Bingley’s study .

Lydia was silly and selfish, but Elizabeth had never thought her so malicious to compromise her with a gentleman she knew Elizabeth did not like, and who despised her in turn. This was the height of cruelty! As soon as Elizabeth gained her freedom, she would march downstairs and drag Lydia back to Longbourn by the hair if she must. She would lock her in the nursery and toss the key in the outdoor privy where not even Kitty had the stomach to search.

Elizabeth was tempted to continue plotting her revenge, but first she must escape. She pulled against Mr. Darcy’s hands. “We could break the glass! There are several sturdy tables we could use—”

The look he gave her silenced her.

“Have you heard nothing I said?” he asked.

She stopped tugging. He must think her mad, which at least explained why he still held her shoulders. Truth was, she had not heard Mr. Darcy say a word, which meant that her agitation was too great to think clearly. She must calm down or she would be completely useless.

Taking a few steadying breaths, she said, “What did you say?” She raised her chin and looked him steadily in the eyes to better convey her sanity.

She must have been convincing, for he dropped his hands and gestured at the window. “The glass is too problematic.”

“We would be careful—”

“I cannot allow you to injure yourself any further.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but her hands were bruised where she had beaten the door. As were her toes.

Softly, he said, “I swear on my honor I shall do you no harm. You are safe with me. Pray do nothing more to cause yourself injury, I beg you.”

Maybe she had not been entirely convincing. He spoke as though he still thought her mad. He held his palms up for her to see how harmless he was. Such a tall, strong man with such a gentle expression. Truth be told, Elizabeth had not once felt herself in danger from Mr. Darcy. Until he mentioned it, the thought had not entered her mind. “I am not afraid of you, Mr. Darcy.”

Still, he held his hands up, moving her to add, “You have never given me cause to fear. We have had our differences, but I trust that you will not take advantage of this situation.” She said the words and, to her amazement, she realized how much she meant them.

“Do I have your word that you will not do anything which might harm your person? I cannot allow it.” He swallowed hard, his hands slowly dropping. It occurred to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy must often find himself in the role of protector. Mr. Bingley, his younger sister, no doubt, his tenants and household staff… and now her.

While Elizabeth appreciated his gallantry on her behalf, it frustrated her logic. Her freedom was worth a few cuts, scrapes, and bruises. But his tone brooked no argument, and she knew from previous debates that she would be wasting her breath to attempt to convince him otherwise. “I promise. Are there any other doors?” She squinted at the bookshelves, trying to see a door frame or a latch.

“No.”

“Any secret passageways?”

“No.”

The air around them grew heavier and harder to breathe. She closed her eyes and composed herself. She must think logically, rationally. She always found a way; this was no different.

Opening her eyes, she glared at the barrier separating her from independence. She had promised she would not cause herself any harm, so she could not very well attempt to knock the door down. There had to be another way. The keyhole. The lock did not look new, which meant she might be able to pick it open.

With a silent apology to Sarah, who had spent the better part of an hour coaxing Elizabeth’s curls into submission, Elizabeth pulled out a hairpin. A curl tumbled down her back. Oh bother! A weight-bearing pin. She had hoped to avoid one of those.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Darcy grumbled beside her.

“I am going to pick the lock.” She spoke with as much confidence as she could muster.

“Do you have experience picking locks?”

“Not especially. Do you?”

“No, but I fear how your hair will look when we are finally discovered.”

As if she had not considered that! Of all the pompous, know-it-all… A quick reminder of Mr. Darcy’s kinder qualities curtailed her irritation and bolstered her forbearance. Good heavens, the man tried her patience! “You would have me cross my arms and wait for someone to discover us? How long might that take? Does Mr. Bingley even use this room?” She had appreciated the comfortable seating area around the fireplace, but she had not failed to notice the lack of glowing embers as well as the desk’s lack of a chair.

“I only mean that it is to our advantage not to appear disheveled when we are finally found.”

She turned to face him directly, one hand holding her pin, the other fisted on her hip. That he was right only irritated her more. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I am thinking.”

“Excellent. While you think, I shall attempt to pick this lock.” Returning to the door, she twisted her pin with too much enthusiasm. The pin bent and snapped. Confound it! Defiantly reaching for another, she pulled one free. No hair tumbling. She smirked at Mr. Darcy. He could think all he wanted. She preferred to act. “I would rather escape before anyone notices our predicament. My hair can be fixed more easily than my reputation.”

Snap!

“Blast and botheration!” she mumbled, reaching for yet another pin. She refused to look at Mr. Darcy. Oh, how she hated to admit he was right! Too stubborn to admit her error, too determined to stand by doing nothing, she pulled the pin out of her hair.

Another curl tumbled down. She gestured heavenward, wondering what she had done to deserve this. She was the Bennet who got her sisters out of scrapes, who exerted herself the most to compensate for their faults, and yet, unless a miracle happened, she would be their ruin.

She raised her eyes to the heavens. Did God still do miracles? She prayed for one, but the door did not burst open. She prayed again and tried the handle. It was still locked. Evidently faith the size of a mustard grain could move mountains, but it did not open study doors.

The ridiculousness of their situation tickled Elizabeth’s humor, but now was not the proper occasion to laugh.

“Pray, allow me.” Mr. Darcy sounded so calm. Did nothing catch him off guard?

Her first thought was to assure him that she had, indeed, been praying. Most fervently. But he made his meaning clearer when he held out his hand.

She dropped the pin in his palm, his gravity threatening her light humor, which she could not allow. If she did not laugh, she feared she might cry. “We would make terrible thieves,” she teased.

He did not laugh. Not so much as a crinkle of the eyes or a twitch of the lips. Did Mr. Darcy feel anything at all? Was his impassive composure the result of years of repression—heaven forbid a highborn gentleman show any feeling!

Or did he believe himself above obligation? She did not want to think it of him, but had not Mr. Wickham’s history with the man suggested that Mr. Darcy was capable of dealing as selfishly with her as he had with his childhood friend? She could never be happy attached to such a dishonorable man.

A promising click sounded inside the lock, and Elizabeth held her breath with every scratch and tap she thought she heard. To think that her entire future depended so fully on the strength of a hairpin...