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CHAPTER 1

U nmarried gentlemen who wish to remain single know better than to stand in the same place for too long.

Being such a man and bearing a target enlarged by my fortune, privilege, and societal connections, I had, by necessity, become accomplished at avoiding the usual snares, ploys, and ambushes to be found at a ball. Weaving around servants carrying trays, gossips whispering behind fans, and flowers sprouting from vases, I crossed Netherfield Park’s entrance hall without stopping. I noticed everyone without making eye contact with anyone.

I had hoped a sojourn in the country would release me from the obligation to attend any such gathering, but I had underestimated my friend Bingley’s sociable nature. His neighbors begged for a ball, and he had eagerly complied. He enjoyed them.

I did not. Balls were society-approved traps, and I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, would be no one’s prey. I had become adept at anticipating the conniving matrons’ snares and foiling their schemes. Not even in the country could I be complacent. My feet continued moving, my gaze watching, my senses alert for the next deception. The night was young, and already I was weary.

Spotting one particularly ambitious mother with no less than five daughters to marry off, I crossed the room to avoid her. Her ruddy complexion and slurred speech were evidence that Mrs. Bennet must be well into her cups. Mr. Bennet was nowhere near; his apathetic indolence was the direct opposite of his wife’s vulgar determination. I did not understand why he had accompanied his family this evening when he would not trouble himself to check their behavior.

The Bennets’ two youngest girls, Miss Kitty (as I had heard her family call her) and Miss Lydia, giggled and bounced about. Their juvenile attempts to display their supposed desirability to all the men in attendance exemplified how unfit they were to be out in society.

The third Bennet daughter, Miss Mary, was no coquette, a point that ought to have done her credit. I usually applauded a young lady’s efforts to improve herself. However, after only one turn at the pianoforte, it was painfully apparent that Miss Mary possessed more vanity than good taste and more self-righteousness than grace. She sat against the wall, biding her time until she could assault the ears of those assembled with a performance no one else desired and neither of her parents would prevent.

Miss Jane Bennet, the eldest daughter, danced with Bingley, adding kindling to Mrs. Bennet’s increasingly vociferous claims that there would soon be a wedding at Netherfield. I realized that I must warn my friend. Miss Bennet’s smiles were plentiful, and her pleasant character seemed genuine, but did her quiet charm outweigh the uproarious deficiencies of her family? More importantly, I doubted that she had a strong attachment to Bingley.

Four couples down the line stood the second-born Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. Like her eldest sister, I had found her conduct above reproach, far superior to that of the rest of her family. Presently, Miss Elizabeth looked as though she wished to be anywhere but where she was, dancing with an oafish clergyman whose unfaltering gaze followed her. He spoke as she bobbed her head to the rhythm, her lips looking to count the steps until her partner turned the wrong way and they collided. Perhaps I would do her a kindness and ask her to dance with me. I dismissed the thought immediately, disturbed that it had even occurred to me.

Her gaze looked past her partner through the crowd, seeking someone. Despite my better judgment, I stood taller, though I towered above everyone. For a moment, our eyes met and before I could stop myself, I smiled. Her brow furrowed, and she continued her search.

I scowled and turned away, feeling foolish. My vanity felt the blow keenly, and the suspicion that she overlooked me in favor of George Wickham burned in my gut. She thought him a fine cut of a gentleman—such was the perfidy of his deception. But I knew him for the unrepentant reprobate he was.

If Wickham thought he could sneak uninvited into Bingley’s ball and I would not notice, I would prove him wrong. He had been warned.

Wolves travel in packs, so I kept an eye on Wickham’s friends Mr. Denny and Mr. Chamberlain. When Mr. Denny left his partner and looked over his shoulder before stepping onto the balcony, my instincts told me to follow. Nothing good ever happened on a dark balcony.

Skirting around the lines of dancers, I left the ballroom and found my nemesis in a dark corner, leaning against a giggling mass of muslin. Nausea surged through me, quickly squelched with pure, fiery rage.

Her gloveless hands circled around his neck in a manner similar to what I had seen that odious day I had chanced upon Wickham attempting to seduce my little sister. I had sworn that I would never waste another second on that wastrel, but I could not allow him to ruin a lady at Bingley’s ball.

Mr. Denny stood guard to my right, no doubt to dissuade anyone from drawing near and spoiling Wickham’s fun. I came at him from the side. After one look at me, Denny held his hands up in surrender and retreated without argument. Wickham made friends easily, but he did not keep them long enough to earn their loyalty.

“Come with me,” Wickham mumbled between kisses at the lady’s neck, “to the pretty little gazebo in the garden?—”

Without hesitation, I grabbed him by the collar and pried him off the lady. So inappropriately close as Wickham was to her, he tripped over her skirts and fell to the ground. His feet kicked free of the fabric wound around his ankles while Miss Lydia Bennet whined.

Miss Lydia! She was but a child! My grip tightened around his collar, my fury boiling. Quickly, before I was tempted beyond reason to respond in an ungentlemanly fashion and attract attention that would ignite a scandal, I hauled the despicable fiend to his feet and dragged him toward the garden steps that would take him away from the house. “You will leave immediately.”

He stumbled forward. “You twisted my ankle!” How easily he made me the villain! Wickham had never learned to accept the consequences of his actions when he could cast the blame elsewhere.

“You should not have come!” I was done with him.

I released my hold, and he stumbled forward. He held on to the ledge surrounding the stairs, holding himself up. “Is this how it is to be? You follow me around and ruin my life?”

“You do that well enough on your own.” As if I did not have better things to do than center my life around him.

I took a threatening step toward him, willing to walk him all the way back to his regiment’s camp in Meryton, if necessary. Fortunately, he scrambled down the steps on his own and staggered away into the darkness. Only a coward would have misinterpreted my gesture, fearing what he deserved. Wickham would call me a menacing bully—not to my face, of course, but to whoever would listen to him. My reputation as a gentleman would protect me, as would the satisfaction that I had spared an ignorant juvenile from his destructive seduction that night.

Once my hands ceased shaking, I returned up the garden path to the stairs.

Miss Lydia paced and complained to Mr. Denny until I came into her view. She lunged at me and might have done considerable damage to my cravat and waistcoat had Mr. Denny not grabbed her shoulders to hold her back. “I hate you, Mr. Darcy!” She lashed out, yowling like an angry cat. “Look what you did to George! He will be maimed, and it is all your fault!”

I sighed, weary and dissatisfied. Lydia Bennet had no more sense than a petulant child. My counsel would be wasted on her.

Instead, I turned to Mr. Denny. “I intend to inform your superior officer about the kind of conduct he is allowing in his ranks. If I ever hear of you helping Wickham or any other man accost a young lady, I will make certain you feel the consequences. Wickham is trouble. You would be wise to distance yourself from him.”

Miss Lydia shook free of Mr. Denny’s grasp. “Mr. Darcy would spoil all our fun,” she stated with a pout.

Fun? What sort of fun did she refer to—the sort Wickham taught? I found the suggestion repulsive. “Have you no respect?”

She jutted out her chin. “I am old enough to marry.”

I bit back the sharp retort on my tongue. Wickham would never settle for a penniless girl with no connections or advantage to him. “You are not ready to marry if you would exchange your affection for a man’s empty promises.”

“George is going to marry me.” Her tone was proud, defiant. They were the exact words my own sister had uttered to me only months ago, but Miss Lydia shed no tears of remorse or doubt.

“Why would he marry you if you give him what he wants without the obligation of marriage?”

“He would never!”

“He would.”

“He would not!” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Do you know how many maidens he has ruined?” I did not need to know the precise number. One was too many.

“He did not love them like he loves me.”

Her overconfidence was so ridiculous, I pitied her. I pitied her family and the lives she likely would destroy with her thoughtlessness. “You are willing to subject yourself, your family, to ruin for him?”

“I will be the first among my sisters to marry,” she replied boldly.

Foolish child! The last of my patience vanished. “Tell me, Miss Lydia, how long will he wait before he finds another young girl to divert himself with when your belly is swollen with his child?”

From the look on her face, it was apparent she had never considered that possibility.

“Go to your mother,” I ordered.

Her bottom lip stuck out, but she did not argue.

To Mr. Denny, I added, “Take her to Mrs. Bennet.”

I hoped I had scared enough sense into the thoughtless child to keep her away from harm until I could find her father. It fell to me to warn the man or have the loss of his family’s reputation on my conscience. I could not rely on Colonel Forster to keep every soldier in his regiment under firm regulation. Miss Lydia was too much under Wickham’s spell to resist another attempt, and I had no intention of following either of them around like a nursemaid.

After watching Mr. Denny lead Miss Lydia to Mrs. Bennet, I began my search in the ballroom. Mr. Bennet was not there, nor was he in the card room. He was not in the dining room or at the refreshment table.

Having exhausted all the rooms open for the ball on that floor, I went upstairs to Bingley’s library, walking the length of the dark hall until I came to the last door. It was slightly ajar.