Page 52 of Hidden Desires

ELIZABETH KNEW HER FATHERWAS ANGRY, despite his calm demeanor.

When they climbed into the carriage, he pointed to the seat opposite him, a gesture he had used before when one of his children faced punishment.

It forced the guilty party to reflect on her behavior beneath his silent, unwavering stare.

This time, though, he said nothing. Since Mary had taken her seat, he had not spoken a word. After a brief nod and the hint of a smile to Elizabeth, he turned his gaze to the passing houses, leaving her sister to sit in silence and consider the consequences of her choices.

Despite the silence, Elizabeth could read her father’s mood with perfect clarity because she understood him better than anyone.

Though he stared out the window with an unfocused gaze that gave the impression of calm, the steady tapping of his fingers against the seat betrayed him, proof he was not as composed as he appeared.

Beside her, Mary shifted, her unease evident in a fidgeting manner uncharacteristic for her. To Elizabeth, Mary had always been the resolute sister, quick to call the others to repentance whenever she believed it necessary, which, judging by the frequency, was every time they drew breath.

Elizabeth took responsibility for her sister’s unexpected change, knowing it began with the transformation she helped with. From that day on, Mary had become a frequent visitor to Meryton, seldom asking permission and always ready to join Lydia and Kitty at a moment’s notice.

She meant to bring her concerns to her father, but the incident with Georgiana had pushed the matter to the back of her mind. Now it sat in her conscience like a burr, made worse by the jostling of the carriage and the silent reminder of Mary’s flight and the effort it took to bring her home.

“I am sorry, Papa,” Mary said at last. “I did not mean to upset you.”

He did not move for nearly a minute. When he did, his gaze settled on her, and he sighed. “It seems you failed.”

He turned back to the window, shaking his head before facing her once more. “I expected better from you. Of all my daughters, you were the one I worried about the least. You were the Bennet family conscience, always ready with a scripture or sermon to correct our sinful ways.”

“I suspect you are more familiar with the Good Book than our parson. Have you heard of those ten commandments in the book of Exodus? The ones about honesty, faithfulness, and what was that other?

He tapped a finger against his temple, as though trying to recall. “Ah, yes. Adultery. Granted, you are not married, but I believe the restriction applies to unmarried young women as well.”

Mary dropped her eyes to the floor. “I know, Papa, but I had no choice.”

Bennet sat back, his eyes wide. “No choice? What possible reason could you have for throwing aside your beliefs? And over someone like Mr. Wickham? If Lydia were sitting there, I would not be surprised. But you? Could you not see that his promises, every one of them, were lies?”

Mary straightened and raised her head to meet her father’s eyes. “I knew,” she said, her voice steady. “But I also knew his invitation might be my only chance at marriage.”

Her gaze dropped with a short laugh, followed by a shake of her head. “I know I am not beautiful. I have heard the comments, including from my sisters, when talk of suitors arises.”

She turned to Elizabeth. “Unlike Lydia and Kitty, I am neither lively nor popular. Making friends is a struggle. I dislike assemblies because everyone dances, and I cannot. The thought of making a fool of myself trying does not appeal to me.”

“But a man like that…” Bennet stopped, as if the power of speech had fled.

Mary smiled and laid her hand on his cheek. “His attention surprised me. I had not asked for it. He was attentive and patient, and seemed unbothered by my plain appearance. In his company, I felt appreciated and admired, despite my lack of beauty.”

“He never meant to marry,” Elizabeth said, drawing both Mary’s and Bennet’s attention. “He sought only to take your virtue and cast you aside without a second thought.”

“I knew that.” Mary gave a dismissive wave and smiled, though Elizabeth saw tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I saw through the lies. But they were kind lies, and for once, they were meant for me.”

Her sudden, sharp laugh filled the cabin. “He claimed to count every minute until we met again, and that our time apart tortured him. According to Mr. Wickham, his tears left his pillow wet in the morning, so deep was his love.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw her father roll his eyes and heard him snort in derision. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gave a slight shake of her head, and turned back to Mary.

“I took a bit of guilty pleasure in the compliments, even though I recognized them as lies.”

“Papa,” she said, drawing Bennet’s gaze. “Mr. Wickham did not deceive me. I enjoyed the deceit that fell from his silver tongue.”

“You knew he was lying, but you ran off with him anyway?” Bennet shook his head, his mouth tipped in a frown. “I think it took little effort on his part to convince you of his love.”

“Oh, his words were enticing,” Mary agreed, her eyes fixed on her father without flinching. “So were his promises of a blissful life if I eloped with him. But I knew from our first meeting that I could not trust the man.”

“Then what attracted him to you?” Elizabeth asked, spreading her hands. “That is what I cannot understand.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, and a cold smile settled on her lips. “Mr. Wickham thought I had a substantial dowry. He believed he would have control of it once we married.”

“You, Mary, told a lie?” Elizabeth clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes wide. “I cannot believe you would consider such a thing. How many times have you warned me about committing that sin? And now I hear you confess to doing just that. Forgive me, but I find that amazing.”

Mary chuckled and shook her head. “I told him no lies. I simply chose not to correct his false assumptions.”

“You played a dangerous game,” Bennet said, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowing. “If he had discovered your treachery, there is no telling what might have happened. What if he had decided to force himself upon you in revenge?”

“He tried,” she said, waving her hand as if to brush away his concern.

“He stopped at the next inn and took the room where you found us. When we were alone, he promised to make me regret what I had done. He tried, but I said if he touched me, I would scream loud enough to rouse the innkeeper and everyone in the building.”

Elizabeth glanced at her father, whose mouth hung open. With a chuckle, she put a finger under his chin and lifted, pushing his lips together again. Mary waited until she finished before continuing.

“By the time you burst into the room, he had realized the trap he had walked into and thrown himself into the chair.”

Bennet sat slumped in his seat, staring at the floor. Whether he was unable or unwilling to look at his child, Elizabeth did not know. His clasped hands had not stopped their wringing since Mary’s confession began, and each revelation seemed to deepen the misery in his eyes.

“Do you love him?” His words were soft, difficult to hear above the sounds of the coach.

Mary shrugged. “I think someday we can have a mutual regard for each other.”

“For your sake, I hope you are correct,” he sighed. “Because of your foolishness, you will be together for the rest of your life.”

“He is the best I could expect, Papa. I am willing to settle for him.”

“I disagree,” Bennet said with a shrug of weary resignation, “but arguing the point gets us nowhere. Leave me alone when we get home so I can make the necessary arrangements.”

The exertions of the previous night seemed to catch up with him, and he tipped his head back against the bench. Within minutes, he was asleep. Elizabeth bent forward and covered his lap with a blanket. Looking to her side, she saw that Mary was also sleeping.

With her companions resting, her thoughts turned to Georgiana and the events that had led to yesterday’s madness.

Although both she and her brother had assured Elizabeth they held no ill will over the discovery of Mr. Wickham, which had so frightened Georgiana, their claims did little to ease the guilt she carried.

In her mind, she replayed Mr. Darcy’s hurried return and his insistence on joining her father in pursuit of Wickham. His concern with exposing her to violence had touched her, as had his worry for Mary and the pain she had suffered from his deception.

She shuddered at the memory of Mr. Darcy’s hands wrapped around his enemy’s neck, tight enough to choke him. The uncontrolled rage on his face still haunted her.

When he told me what happened to Georgiana, I almost cried. I had known it was serious, but hearing that Mr. Wickham would dare try such a thing, and with someone so young, made my blood boil. And then to think that Mary had nearly suffered the same fate. How close we came to tragedy, again.

Even Papa had hinted that he meant to do violence if he caught the man. I cannot remember a time when he spoke that way. If his anger was justified, and I believe it was, then perhaps Mr. Darcy’s was too.

But who is he? Until last night, I thought I knew.

I believed him to be a fine, upstanding gentleman—proud and reserved, perhaps—but honorable.

Then I saw him with his hands around Mr. Wickham’s throat, his face contorted with fury.

I had never seen that kind of rage before.

Is that his true nature? Is he cruel, vindictive, dangerous?