Page 5 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“I t all still seems surreal,” Mrs Wickham murmured—more to herself than to him, he suspected. She stared through the carriage window as they rolled away from the solicitor’s offices, and then she sat back with a dazed expression.

“Perhaps it is a touch novel,” he confessed, “but I daresay you will accustom yourself to the sensation soon enough.”

Her lips parted as she surveyed him. “How so? I never even knew what it was to be a wife, and now I am to learn what it is to be a widow—and a widow with a healthy endowment, besides. It feels unjust, for I have done nothing to deserve this man’s entire inheritance.”

“Trust me when I say that you would not have wished to learn what it would have been to live as Bernard’s wife,” he retorted with a jerk of his waistcoat.

She fell silent, her dark, brooding eyes fixed on the window. Better the window than himself. There was always something frightful about locking eyes with her. His stomach would flutter, his pulse would jump, and his tongue routinely grew barbs it did not normally possess. What was it about her that set him so ill at ease?

It could be that spark in her countenance. Most women—nay, most people in general—had the light and living crushed out of them by the time they had reached their majority. A weary callous grew over their true selves—a certain hardness of feeling and expression that spoke of worldly thoughts and cares. Mrs Wickham’s look was still fresh and honest as a girl, but tempered with… what was that about the edges of her eyes? The soft corners of her voice? Sadness, perhaps, and not a little hard-won wisdom.

“Mr Darcy, is there something wrong with my bonnet?”

He drew a quick breath, snapping from his musings. “Wrong?”

“You were staring in the oddest manner. Should I have worn something more modest? I am afraid I do not know what is suitable for my station as the widow of Mr Wickham.”

“You are perfectly suitable.” He purposely turned his gaze somewhere else.

“You are certain? You looked rather curious just now.”

He shook his head, wishing she would dismiss the matter.

“Was he a gentleman?”

“What?”

She looked down and straightened her skirts. “A gentleman. I could not be certain. Miss Darcy told me that Mr—that ‘Bernard’ was the son of your father’s steward, but that the elder Mr Darcy had taken great pains to secure a gentleman’s inheritance and education for him.”

“Do you particularly object to being the wealthy widow of a steward’s son?”

She blushed and turned her gaze away. “I am hardly wealthy.”

“You have an unencumbered estate to your name, and that is a handsome dowry, even if it is small.” He nodded towards the window as the carriage drew up before a familiar townhouse. “And to that end, there is someone I desire for you to meet.”

She looked sharply up and glanced outside. “Where are we?”

He did not answer but waited for the footman to place the block and then assisted her down. “We are already expected. Ah, there he is.”

Charles Bingley stood in the hall to greet them. “Darcy! About time, old friend. I missed you entirely when last you were in London.”

Mrs Wickham was tilting her head and scrutinising him curiously. Darcy gave each a tight smile. “Bingley, may I present Mrs Elizabeth Wickham. Mrs Wickham, this is my good friend Charles Bingley.”

“Delighted, madam,” Bingley greeted her.

Mrs Wickham’s brow creased, and then her eyes widened, and she turned an accusing glare… at Darcy.

“C harming girl, Darcy. What do you know of her?”

Bingley sipped lightly at the brandy, probably trying to give the impression that he was imbibing more than he truly was. Darcy was less circumspect. After four days of travel and another day of business in the same coach as Elizabeth Wickham, he needed a drink.

“Very little. Her father died two years ago, and the heir to the family estate assumed possession at once. Oddly, he had been Lady Catherine’s rector for some months before he inherited. I cannot confirm, but there were hints that he offered marriage to one or more of the daughters—possibly even our Mrs Wickham—but was soundly rejected.”

“Surely you know more of her by now. She has been Georgiana’s companion since November. Does she play or sing?”

Darcy frowned. “Yes, but I try to absent myself from those performances.”

“Whatever for? Is she that dreadful on the ear?”

Darcy swallowed another drink. “Quite the opposite.”

“Well, what of her family? You said she has four sisters and her mother with her?”

“One sister has not yet come. There is also an uncle in Meryton and another in London. I gather both had sheltered the family to the extent of their abilities. Tradesmen, both—she does not boast an unbroken pedigree.”

Bingley chuckled. “And what of my own lineage? You know that would not trouble a man of my station. But I am dreadfully curious about her marriage. Even with the house, how the devil did you persuade her to take that old reprobate?”

“I gave her no other choice. She still has not forgiven me entirely, but I hoped to do better by her this time.”

“This time? Oh, Darcy, you do not mean to force her to marry me, do you?”

“What—force? Many are they who would swoon at your feet simply to gain your notice. Mrs Wickham will count herself fortunate.”

“And certainly, I would count myself a fortunate man if we learned to like each other well enough, and you know I would always take your advice. If you told me I ought to marry her, I would do my best to win her affections, but the lady must agree.”

“It would suit both of you. She is like to have a dozen rascals sniffing about her skirts before her year of mourning is up. I would see you first in line.”

Bingley laughed and gestured with his glass. “You ought to ask her about that. The last time I saw a woman glare at a man the way she stared you down was when Lady Catherine found out about—”

“Yes, yes,” Darcy interrupted testily. “She may not see the merits of the arrangement yet, but we have a year.”

“Hmm. A great deal can happen in a year.”

Darcy set his empty glass aside. “A great deal has happened in just two months.”

April, 1813

N ot all facets of her new position were disagreeable. Very few, in fact. Rather, everything but her employer himself suited her perfectly. Even Mr Darcy was a good enough man, but she had never met anyone quite so provoking. Most encounters ended in some clash of wit and will, and she never could quite determine whether he found it sportive or merely irritating. For that matter, she could not decide which it was for herself.

One of the most charming qualities of her position was that each Sunday, Elizabeth was permitted the entire day with her mother and sisters. For one day out of seven, she would put aside the disingenuous mourning garb and return to a semblance of her old self: Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. On such days, the book room often called to her, and she would retreat there for hours at a time with something she had borrowed from Pemberley’s library.

On this day, however, the stirrings of spring tingled in her limbs, and she determined to make what she could of the neglected rose hedge bordering the front of the house. With a sharp pruning knife in hand and wearing her oldest dress, she appointed the whole of the afternoon for her task. She had been happily working nigh an hour when a masculine voice interrupted her.

“I beg your pardon,” said a very agreeable-looking young man. “Would you by any chance know if the mistress is about?”

“Of course, I know,” Elizabeth returned. She watched him cautiously and clipped another thorny stem.

He smiled—a winsome expression if she had ever seen one. “Perhaps I beg the wrong question. If your mistress is about, would you ask her if she can spare a moment for her brother-in-law?”

“I am afraid I cannot ask such a question, lest I be accused of madness.”

“Madness?” he asked innocently.

“Indeed, for when one talks to oneself, it makes others uneasy.”

“Ah!” He doffed his hat. “Then I do have the pleasure of addressing my sister-in-law? I must beg your forgiveness. My name is George Wickham, and I presume you must be…?”

“Elizabeth Wickham. Charmed.”

“The honour is entirely mine, madam. I was very sorry to hear of poor Bernard’s death. I was in Brighton, you see, and word was slow to reach me. I thought to look in on matters and fancy my surprise when I learned that my good brother had left for me a sister. I trust you are bearing up well in your grief?”

“Well enough, thank you,” she answered. “May we offer you something after your travels, sir?”

“No! Goodness, no, thank you. I would not wish to intrude on a widow’s home. Ah, but the old house does look fine. I see a deal has been done since last I was here. You are to be commended, madam, for effecting such a change.”

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “Mr Darcy’s men did most of the repairs.”

Mr Wickham looked grave when she turned back to him. “I see. Of course, it would only be his duty.” He offered a forced-looking smile. “Always duty with Darcy. I am sure he was doing his duty by my poor brother as well.”

“I cannot speak for that,” she confessed.

“Of course, you cannot. You would have only heard what Darcy wished—but no! I swore to myself that I would not speak ill of the man. It is a time for mending the past, is it not? And just when I thought I had no family left, I am pleased to find I was mistaken. I hope you will think of me as a friend, Mrs Wickham—indeed, it does sound odd for me to call you thus.”

Elizabeth looked into the hedge and cut another stem. “As you are my brother, you may call me Elizabeth.”

“How very kind! And you may call me George if you wish. I am staying at the inn at Lambton, and I hope I will see you often while I remain in town. I had other business in the area,” he added in answer to the question in her eyes. “I expect to be some days at least.”

“I hope it is nothing serious,” she replied neutrally.

“Well, now that depends on the other party. As you are acquainted with him, I expect you know just how obtuse and trying he can be. There I am again! Forgive me, Elizabeth, I shall not speak slander when I came to make a friend. Have you met many of the neighbours?”

She shook her head. “No, for I am most often with Miss Darcy, and she does not generally receive guests.”

“Ah, dear Georgiana! I would ask you to give her my greetings, but she might find that awkward if her brother were to learn of it. Well, I should say, take care to make the acquaintance of Mrs Brown, just a mile to the east. She is but a farmer’s widow, but she makes the finest rum cake you will ever taste. Where she gets her rum, I shall not ask! And if you can, be certain to meet with Mrs Godfrey over in East Orchards. You will not find a more generous soul.”

“I thank you, sir.” Elizabeth dipped her head graciously.

“Well, then, I shall be off. I hope we shall meet again.” He replaced his hat and mounted a horse that stood nearby.

Elizabeth watched in fascination as he jogged away, reflecting that he seemed not at all the scoundrel Mr Darcy had painted. But then, Fitzwilliam Darcy seemed only to understand people well when they could serve his purpose, and perhaps George Wickham was one who had never bowed to the local royal son.