Page 1 of Disarmed

D arcy had not intended to ride to Longbourn; he had just wanted to get out of the suffocating claws of Miss Caroline Bingley.

That lady’s intentions towards him were so obvious, so excessive, that they were almost amusing.

Almost. The sharp glint in her eye when she was speaking coyly or fluttering her eyelashes at him spoke of her avaricious tendency, and it made him shudder.

He shuddered now, perched high up on his horse as he rode alongside the wall at the front of Longbourn House.

His mount was tall enough for him to look over the wall, and he did so surreptitiously, not wishing to attract the attention of the mercenary matron within or her unruly younger daughters.

Part of him did hope, of course—not that he would admit it—that the second-eldest daughter might be out in the gardens or perhaps just leaving for a walk, her bonnet ribbons flying, her cheeks glowing from the autumn wind, her eyes bright and sparkling from her anticipation of the exercise.

Elizabeth Bennet. The woman was a siren.

Her beauty was not flawless, and neither was she exceptionally accomplished—the two traits he had once believed would be the most important when gauging a lady’s attractiveness.

But what a na?ve fool he had been. Little did he know before it brutally hit him, knocking him not only off his feet but off the lofty pedestal on which he had placed himself, that the heart was not a rational organ.

His head was entirely certain that an impertinent country miss with no wealth and no connections was not the kind of woman he, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, should be contemplating.

But his heart, it turned out, had a mind of its own. And it was a recalcitrant beast.

Ever since that first damned assembly in the local town of Meryton, when she had looked at him with such mirth as she crossed the floor to find her friend and no doubt tell her of his outrageous insult— not handsome enough to tempt me!

Lord, what had I been thinking? —he had been unable to evict her from his thoughts.

Her light and pleasing figure, her tinkling laughter, and her fine eyes plagued his days and nights.

Such a notion was deplorable to him. He was rightfully proud of his self-control, his reasoning, his patience. What on earth had happened to him?

Had the anguish of the last few months addled his mind? It was entirely possible. The dreadful events of the summer had been trial enough, but then fate had seen fit to deliver the very man responsible for them into his path once more. Wickham. The cur! Would Darcy never be free of him?

He turned abruptly away from the house; he must get himself back under regulation!

Pulling roughly on the reins, he tugged his poor horse around and set off at a canter down a path that led towards Meryton, just one mile distant.

Unlike the road to the town, which wound a longer route between grassy fields with open views on all sides, the somewhat shorter path took one through the edge of a wooded area that belonged to the Netherfield estate.

The path was muddy after several days of rain, and the fallen leaves made it slippery underfoot.

He slowed his mount to a walk, mindful of not wishing to meet with an accident.

As he approached the small market town, the wind picked up considerably.

Peering through the branches above the path, he was able to see that the sky had also darkened, threatening yet more freezing November rain.

Darcy sighed. He would need to ride quickly back to Netherfield lest he and his horse be drenched.

Of course, it may already be too late for that.

Just as the first spot of rain landed on his nose, an overgrown track to his right caught his notice.

He peered between the trees. There stood an abandoned tenant cottage that he and Bingley had remarked upon during a ride several weeks earlier.

They had ridden around the building and deemed the roof to be sound, though there were large cracks in the walls, and it would need significant work if it were to be made habitable.

Outside the little cottage was a wooden shelter, and leaping from his horse, he led the animal underneath it and tied him up, giving him a reassuring pat before striding towards the house.

The rain was now falling more sharply; with luck, it would not last long.

He would wait it out in the cottage, which was a far more tempting prospect than either riding through the rain or returning to Miss Bingley’s clutches.

The splintered door stood ajar, and Darcy was about to push it open when voices came from within, one of which made his body tense and his face heat with rage. He stood on the threshold as the voices continued.

“George! You are so wicked. You should not say such things. Mary cannot help it that her face is not as beautiful as mine.” Giggling ensued, and Darcy wondered who the owner of the voice was.

“No indeed,” Wickham replied in that ingratiating tone that made Darcy want to knock his teeth out. “I have rarely seen a face so fine.”

“Rarely?” The reply was petulant, its speaker obviously wishing for further compliments. Darcy huffed.

“Never!” Wickham said with a laugh. “Never have I seen such pretty eyes, such a perfect little nose, such kissable lips—”

Darcy had heard enough. Plunging through the door, he cut off his nemesis’s sickening flirtation.

At the far end of the dark room, the couple leapt apart. Wickham’s face, which had turned almost white initially, flushed red with anger as he recognised the interloper, but it was the lady next to him who caused Darcy to shake his head in disappointment. Miss Lydia Bennet.

Darcy had never said so much as a word to the youngest Bennet sister.

To his mind, she was too young and far too undisciplined to be out in society.

She was his sister’s age for God’s sake!

His ire cooled at this thought. She may be tall with a womanly figure, and by God she had the behaviour and mouth of a tavern wench, but she was only fifteen.

His own sister just a few short months ago had also allowed herself to be almost disgraced by the same man.

Wickham pushed his shoulders back, his swagger returning after the surprise of being caught, and he met Darcy’s eye without flinching. Darcy’s teeth were clenched so hard his jaw was aching.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Darcy,” the scoundrel drawled.

“Wickham,” Darcy growled. “What possible reason could you have for being alone in an abandoned cottage with a gentleman’s daughter?” He curled his lip. “As if I need to ask.”

The sulky miss stepped forwards, her eyes flashing in a manner not unlike that of her most compelling sister. “Why do you care, Mr Darcy?” she asked, her hands on her hips and her chin lifted in defiance.

Darcy did not even acknowledge her, his eyes locking with those of his adversary, who shrugged. “It is raining, Darcy, as I am sure you noticed. Being a gallant gentleman, I sought shelter for Miss Lydia until it stopped.”

A derisive sound issued from Darcy’s throat. “With no care for her reputation, I see. And what reason did you have to be out with an unaccompanied young lady in the first place?”

Miss Lydia huffed. “Oh, nobody cares for your stiff propriety in the country, Mr Darcy. Besides”—she smiled sickeningly at the man at her side—“George and I shall soon be married, so it does not signify.”

“Lydia!” Wickham said, his wide eyes darting between the young lady and Darcy. “I never said—”

Miss Lydia interrupted him. “If you are so concerned with being proper, Mr Darcy, you could pay George what you owe him so we can wed sooner. What a joke it will be to be married before my sisters.”

Darcy sighed and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Wickham,” he said in a tired voice, “do you intend to marry this young lady?”

Wickham shifted nervously on his feet. “Well…I…I do not think this is the time or the place to be discussing such things, do you? In fact, I must get back to my regiment. I have been gone too long already. I shall be missed. Good day, Miss Lydia.” He bowed quickly in the lady’s direction and hastily stepped around Darcy and out of the door.

“George!” Miss Lydia cried, running after him, but she was stopped short by the veritable downpour. Since Darcy had entered the cottage, the rain had arrived in earnest, coming down in steady sheets. Wickham’s retreating back was now just a haze of red through the trees.

Miss Lydia huffed and rounded on Darcy, the expression in her eyes hard.

“You!” she cried, poking him in the chest and causing him to step back in shock and disgust. “Why do you have to be so cruel? Are you so unhappy in your stately position that you must make all those around you suffer? Everyone hates you. I wish you had never come to Hertfordshire!” She stamped her foot, looking every bit the child that she was, and Darcy had to bite back a laugh.

“You and me both, Miss Lydia,” he said with a sigh, casting one last despondent look at the curtain of rain before stepping back into the room and sinking into one of the moth-eaten armchairs by the unlit fire.

It was cold, but at least he was only a little damp, and it seemed like the young lady had escaped the rain entirely and was wearing a warm pelisse.

He was grateful he would not need to light a fire to ward off a chill.

Miss Lydia wore a thoughtful expression; she appeared to be contemplating whether to take her chances in the rain to get away from him.

He honestly could not find it within himself to care, but he reminded himself that he was a gentleman, and he ought to behave as such, even though the only witness was a fractious child.

His sister came to mind again. She was so different from the young woman in front of him.

Shy, uncertain… Yet both had been duped by the same trickster.