Page 56 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

E lizabeth had felt it at once—the shift in Darcy as he turned his head sharply away from her.

The warmth that had filled his gaze during their dance, the glimmer of softness that had sent butterflies unfurling in her stomach, vanished as if snuffed by a cold wind.

In its place was something steely and grim.

As the second dance of the set began, her hand tightened reflexively around Darcy’s. She followed his gaze across the room. Her own breath caught when she saw a familiar figure in regimentals through the dancing couples.

Mr. Wickham.

Clad in his uniform, polished and grinning, he moved amongst the people as though summoned by some cruel twist of fate.

He looked composed, confident—even charming, as he greeted a pair of ladies with a dazzling smile.

The bright red of his coat seemed almost garish under the chandeliers, and the gleam in his eyes chilled her blood.

The elegant lines of his face seemed carved from marble, and the hand clasping hers—so gentle a moment before—curled ever so slightly, the tension rising like a wave against her palm.

His entire body radiated coiled fury, and yet, remarkably, he did not falter.

They moved together in perfect rhythm, every step executed with fluid precision, even as the muscle in his cheek twitched with barely restrained wrath.

Her own pulse quickened, but it was Darcy’s silent fury that held her attention—more chilling than any outburst could have been.

He did not speak, but the intensity in his eyes, fixed on his old friend turned enemy, was a storm unto itself.

Elizabeth’s voice, low and steady, slipped into the space between them. “It is better this way,” she murmured. “If he is here, then he is not at Longbourn.”

He turned to her, still visibly seething.

“If he is here, we know where he is,” she continued, steadying her tone. “We can watch him. That is safer than him lurking unseen.”

Darcy did not respond immediately. But his jaw worked once, twice—then finally he gave a single, taut nod. “You are right,” he said, his voice so low she felt the rumble of it through his hand before she heard it. “But I do not like it.”

“Nor do I,” she replied gently, guiding him with a touch as the set turned again. “But Georgiana is safe. That is all that matters right now.”

And still, though his movements remained flawless, she could feel the storm within him brewing darker with every glance toward the red-coated man across the room.

The music was nearing its final measures, and they moved through the concluding steps of the dance. Her heart beat with painful force against her ribs—so many revelations, so many emotions, she scarcely knew what to feel. But one certainty pulsed strong beneath them all: Wickham was dangerous.

Darcy bowed over her hand once more, and with care, led her back to her parents. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Until later.”

She curtsied and watched him retreat across the room, moving swiftly to where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood near the windows.

Darcy leaned in and spoke urgently. Elizabeth watched the brief exchange.

No raised voices, no alarm, but the colonel’s brows drew sharply together, and he soon scanned the room with a soldier’s alertness until they landed on Wickham.

Elizabeth followed his gaze.

Wickham was now engaged in conversation with Sir William Lucas and a pair of young ladies—Kitty among them. His bearing was easy, his smile charming. He gestured once, and Kitty laughed aloud at something he said. To any observer, he looked merely like a handsome officer making social rounds.

But it was his expression—his eyes—that caught Elizabeth’s attention. He looked past the ladies every few moments, gaze flicking toward Darcy.

Not with hatred.

Not even with disdain.

But something deeper. Something sharper.

Elizabeth’s stomach turned cold.

She could not watch long, however, for her next partner had already bowed before her. Elizabeth smiled politely, curtsied, and allowed herself to be led out. The music began.

Her mind, however, was not on the dance.

Between each pattern of movement, each turn and step, her gaze darted discreetly across the floor. Mr. Darcy was posted near the far wall now, standing tall beside Colonel Fitzwilliam, eyes never straying far from Wickham. His mouth was tight, his shoulders stiff with vigilance.

Wickham had moved again—now near the punch table. He seemed to make a deliberate show of paying attention to the young ladies clustered near it, but twice—no, thrice—Elizabeth saw his gaze shift back to Mr. Darcy. Not casual glances. Fixations.

It was not envy.

It was something darker. Possessive. Intimate.

The words of Alexander Pope came to her mind: “Love and hate are nearly the same passion, only the direction differs.”

Her breath caught as the realization took root.

Wickham did not hate Darcy; he still loved him.

And in that moment, every piece fell into place.

The letters.

The floral scent on the pages, as if to mask something unnatural.

The perfect penmanship.

The forced femininity of the script.

The desperate, near-violent declarations of love.

I need you now just like I needed you then; I vow, Darcy, that we will meet again .

I am coming.

I will finish what we have begun .

She drew in a sharp breath.

It had never been a woman. That assumption had always troubled her—but she had clung to it, because anything else seemed too far-fetched, too dark to consider.

But now… now she saw it.

The intensity in Wickham’s stare. The familiarity. The raw emotion.

He was watching Darcy.

And it was not mere rivalry. It was not ambition or envy or wounded pride.

It was desire .

Wickham was the author of the anonymous notes.

Elizabeth’s hand shook slightly as she reached for the glass a passing footman handed her. She took a long sip of lemonade and forced her features into composure, though her heart was pounding.

She had to tell Darcy.

The supper dance. That would be their only opportunity.

∞∞∞

Darcy could feel the air buzzing against his skin. The set had ended, but the tightness in his chest remained. His bow to Elizabeth had been perfectly executed, his retreat composed, but it had taken everything in him not to storm across the ballroom the moment Wickham entered.

He found his cousin near the window, as expected. Fitzwilliam’s easy posture straightened at once when he caught sight of Darcy’s face.

“He is here,” Darcy said, too low to carry. “Wickham.”

The colonel’s jovial manner vanished. “Where?”

Darcy tipped his head toward the far end of the ballroom. “There, in uniform. Smiling. As if he belongs here.”

Richard followed his gaze and let out a quiet, bitter noise. “Well, that is bold of him.”

“I nearly lost control,” Darcy admitted, jaw clenched. “Elizabeth prevented me from confronting him.”

The colonel’s gaze flicked to her across the room. “Good woman.”

“She warned me. She knows the whole story now—Ramsgate, everything. And she was the one to tell me Wickham’s joined the militia and is stationed in Meryton.”

Richard muttered a curse under his breath. “Georgiana?”

“Safe. At Longbourn.”

“But he knows she is there?”

Darcy nodded. “Which is why I must keep my wits about me. If he is here, then he cannot be there .”

Richard gave a short nod. “We shall keep watch tonight, you and I.”

That should have calmed him, but it did not.

The sight of Wickham among so many unwitting guests, bowing and smiling, laughing with girls like Kitty Bennet and Miss Lucas—it sickened him.

He wanted nothing more than to sit in a corner and fix the man with a stare so cold it would wither him on the spot.

But he had obligations. Blast it all.

He had promised dances.

Jane Bennet first, for her gentle sweetness deserved the honor. Then Miss Kitty—he had accepted at Mrs. Bennet’s request and could hardly rescind now. And of course, he would need to ask his hostess—Miss Bingley—at least once. If he did not, she would never let him hear the end of it.

As the supper dance approached, he crossed the room to where Miss Bingley held court near the card tables, wearing a new dress of burnished gold silk and a smile that did not reach her eyes. When he approached, her entire countenance brightened.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with affected delight, rising to meet him. “I was wondering if you had forgotten me entirely this evening.”

“I could never forget my hostess,” he said, inclining his head. “Might I request the—”

Her breath caught, and her eyes gleamed. “The supper set?”

“—the second set after supper.”

The disappointment that flashed across her face was immediate and undisguised. “Oh,” she said stiffly. “Yes. Of course.”

He made the request with the utmost courtesy and retreated quickly, stifling a sigh. That was done, at least. One more duty fulfilled.

Now—Elizabeth .

He turned, scanning the room with a building anticipation.

The supper set was nearly upon them. He had not seen her since returning her to her parents after they had danced the first set, but that had been over an hour ago.

He expected to find her standing near Jane—perhaps resting her feet or sipping lemonade—but there was no sign of her.

He searched the periphery of the ballroom. No Elizabeth.

A furrow drew between his brows. He crossed to the musicians’ side of the room for a better vantage. Still no glimpse of a cream gown or the familiar sweep of her curls. His heart quickened.

He found Mr. Bennet instead, seated in a corner beside Jane and a pair of matrons. “Forgive the interruption,” he said quietly. “Have you seen Miss Elizabeth?”

Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “She was here just after her last dance. I believed she went to find Jane.”

But at that moment, the eldest Bennet daughter appeared at her father’s side on Bingley’s arm. “Did you say my name, Papa?”

“Have you seen Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked urgently.