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Chapter Ten

D arcy had retreated to the library the moment they returned.

The house was quiet—Bingley had gone off humming, no doubt drafting dance cards in his sleep—and Caroline Bingley’s footsteps had faded toward her rooms after only a single, barbed comment about how “rural society did insist upon so many elbows.”

He sat before the fire, coat still on, one boot braced on the hearth tile, letter unopened on the side table. He knew what it would say. Another delay from the steward. Another set of figures from Ramsgate. Another silence from Georgiana.

He should have gone to London.

That had always been the plan. This final year—his twenty-ninth—was supposed to be his decisive season.

Four years to learn his new place in the world, manage his affairs, and one to secure his future.

A clean search. A respectable match. The courtship of a future Mrs. Darcy conducted with the dignity his name and station required.

Instead, he had spent the entirety of the Season behind closed doors, managing the chaos left behind by a man who ought to have been in debtor’s prison.

Wickham.

Even now, the name was enough to sour his stomach.

Every letter, every step, every conversation for the past nine months had been dedicated to shielding Georgiana—from shame, from exposure, from herself.

And it had worked. For the moment. But it had cost him everything else.

Now the season for house parties and quiet courtships was over.

The best prospects, those with connections, some maturity, and a bit of readiness to wed, were already betrothed or married.

This year’s debutantes, still wet behind the ears and unbearably fresh upon the social scene, would surely be too surrounded by new suitors to consider settling for him before the ball season had truly begun.

Parliament may have just reconvened, yes—but society had not. The drawing rooms were still shuttered, the invitations unwritten. The most eligible families remained at their country estates, not yet lured back by politics, parties, or pressure.

He could go to London, certainly. He could stalk the echoing corridors of his club, make empty calls on half-deserted households, and endure thin conversation over cold tea. But it was a waste of time for at least another month.

Futile as it seemed, his best chances at the moment seemed to be here. In Hertfordshire, with only… well, one or two prospects who looked remotely conceivable.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead.

It was Bingley’s voice he heard next—a memory from earlier that afternoon. “She does seem to have a particular talent for managing you. Most cannot get a word out of you, but Miss Elizabeth has you arguing before you have even sat down.”

It had been said with a grin, meant only as amusement. But the words had stuck.

Managing him.

And then, before he could stop himself, the thought had taken shape.

What if I married her?

It was absurd. It was desperate. It was exactly the sort of notion a man had when the walls were closing in and the deadlines were loud and the only woman he could not stop thinking about had once promised to marry him as a joke.

Just marry Elizabeth Bennet.

She could hardly refuse him. After all, her circumstances were even less lustrous than he had imagined, and she had promised. A pact made in the heat of a foolish afternoon in Derbyshire. If neither was married in five years...

Well. That December deadline now loomed like a gallows.

She had laughed when she said it. But she had meant it. Or had meant it enough.

And if he were desperate—

Darcy stood abruptly and crossed to the window.

The thought should not have stuck. But it did. It should have passed. But it lodged.

Sharp as a hook.

And every heartbeat tugged on the line.

It clung, not because it was reasonable—it was not—but because she would not leave his mind.

She was there, vivid as ever, standing across that miserable parlor this afternoon, meeting his gaze like she wanted to strike him and then write about it in that infernal journal of hers.

She had seen too much already. The cracks.

The edges. The fury he thought he had buried.

And she had laughed—and then leaned closer. If he let her in—even an inch—she would find the rest.

The shame. The fault lines. The fire.

He could not breathe properly when she was near.

And worse, she looked at him as if she could not, either.

Marry Elizabeth Bennet?

He exhaled slowly, hand resting against the window frame. With a family like hers and connections that would do nothing to pull the Darcy name out of the potential scandal that Georgiana had created?

The idea was absurd. Dangerous. Almost tempting.

But it would never work. They would kill each other. Or worse— not kill each other.

He needed to find someone else.

And he needed to do it before Elizabeth Bennet smiled at him again and he made the greatest mistake of his life.

18 November

T he day was too fine to remain indoors.

That was the general consensus, and since the arrival of the militia had ignited Lydia and Kitty like paper lanterns, there was little use resisting the current.

Mrs. Bennet had waved them off with an indulgent sigh, reminding Jane to fix her bonnet and Mary to avoid “whatever it is that makes your expression so unpleasant.”

Which, Elizabeth suspected, was usually conversation.

They were halfway to the shops when it happened.

A sharp laugh from Lydia, a tug at Kitty’s sleeve, and suddenly they were stopped. Elizabeth looked up to find herself being introduced—poorly and loudly—to a man in uniform.

Captain Denny was saying something—he was always saying something—but her attention drifted when the second officer stepped forward.

He was tall. Fair. Smiling in that easy, well-bred way that promised he knew exactly how attractive he was and had spent the last five years collecting stories about it.

“Mr. Wickham,” introduced Denny, gesturing grandly. “Late of the regulars. Here to lend us some dignity.”

“Only the illusion of it,” said Wickham. His smile was not dazzling—it was practiced. Smooth. But Elizabeth felt the warmth of it all the same.

Introductions followed. Jane was her usual mild-mannered self. Lydia and Kitty giggled themselves into uselessness. Mary attempted a quotation and was ignored.

Wickham, however, kept his eyes on Elizabeth.

“I believe I shall enjoy Meryton very much,” said Wickham, after a pause. “It has already proven itself far more welcoming than certain towns I could name.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “And what does one require for a proper welcome, Mr. Wickham?”

He pretended to think. “Good company. Good weather. And a quick wit to keep one from growing complacent.”

“A high standard.”

“Then I am fortunate. I believe I have already found all three.”

Before she could reply—before she could decide if he was merely charming or too much so—hooves struck the cobblestones ahead.

The street bent just slightly, and around the curve came two riders.

Oh, dash it all. Was she never to be rid of him?

Mr. Bingley was smiling, like he always did. Mr. Darcy was not, for… well, that bit was rather obvious.

They slowed as they approached, Bingley lifting one hand in cheerful greeting.

“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice bright. “Out enjoying the town?”

Elizabeth curtsied. “We were not aware we needed permission.”

Bingley laughed. Darcy did not.

His eyes landed immediately on Wickham, and the air changed.

Wickham’s smile shifted, just slightly. Polished, still. But with a glint now—measured. Knowing. And just a bit anxious.

“Well,” Elizabeth said lightly, “how fortunate. Mr. Darcy, we were just meeting a new friend. I do not believe you are acquainted with Mr. Wickham.”

Darcy’s jaw flexed. “We are… known to one another.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Are you? Well. I must confess, Mr. Darcy—I am surprised. I had not thought you the type to collect amiable acquaintances. Apart from Mr. Bingley, of course.”

That earned her a very flat look. “I make rare exceptions,” Darcy said, “often to my regret.”

Beside her, Wickham only emitted an inarticulate grunt of laughter. But he was watching. Closely.

“I shall take that as a warning.”

“I meant it as one.”

Lydia let out a muffled giggle. Kitty elbowed her sharply and tried to look serious.

Mr. Bingley leaned forward on his saddle. “Miss Bennet, you must forgive my friend. He rarely means half of what he says.”

“Only the regrettable half,” Elizabeth said sweetly.

Wickham chuckled, and the sound drew every eye for a moment.

“Well,” he said, glancing from one gentleman to the other, “I do hope I shall see you all again. Some other time, perhaps.”

Bingley smiled. “No doubt you will.”

Darcy gave a short nod. No “Good day,” or “A pleasure to see you again, old friend.” Just a nod.

The horses moved on. Elizabeth watched them disappear around the bend, then let out a long breath.

“Well,” said Wickham, after a pause, “that was… instructive.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Bracing, I believe, was the word you wanted.”

“Bracing, then.” He smiled again, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

He was still watching the corner where the riders had vanished.

H e had not spoken on the ride back.

Bingley had tried, of course. There had been something about French gloves and Miss Bennet’s fondness for lemon bonbons, and Darcy had nodded once—or perhaps not at all—but had given no encouragement. At some point, Bingley had wisely given up.

The fields blurred past. The reins bit into his gloves. And that image would not leave him.

Wickham. Standing in the street like a man welcome anywhere.

Wickham, with his head tilted and his smile turned slightly to the side—like he knew the glimmer of it. Like he always did.

And Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet—smiling back.

Not as a girl in danger. Not as a woman alarmed.

But as someone… interested .