Page 9 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“N o, Darcy, my mind is quite made up. Mrs Wickham is a charming woman, but she would not suit me.” Charles Bingley stopped at the head of the billiards table, cue in hand. He straightened his back and made a hesitant posture that was likely meant to appear determined and dared to meet Darcy’s gaze.

“Nonsense! She is precisely the sort of woman you want. Capable and intelligent—she would keep you directed. You will wish for such a wife when you purchase your own house.”

“No, it is no good, Darcy. I’ve quite fallen for Miss Bennet, and is she not also a gentleman’s daughter who was taught from her infancy to be mistress of a house?”

“A small house,” Darcy clarified. “I have made inquiries, and the Bennets’ share was not a large one. However, Mrs Wickham has the rare capacity to stretch beyond her early training.”

“But Miss Bennet has my heart, and she is in no way deficient.”

Darcy snorted. “You would run yourselves into debt within a twelvemonth by letting every servant and shopkeeper cheat you.”

Bingley grinned. “Better to endure poverty with such a woman than a king’s treasure without her. I am sorry, Darcy, but for this once, I cannot heed your advice. I have had three weeks now to know them both, and though that may not be long, I am quite determined. I mean to make her an offer before I return to London.”

Darcy bent over the table to make another shot, shaking his head all the while. “Why such a rush? At least let it go until you come back again. The lady might well forget you, and if she did, you would be at no loss.”

“Miss Bennet would never!”

The billiards cracked, and Darcy straightened. “If you are so sure of her, then what harm in waiting? Come back again in September for the shooting, and then you will know for certain what sort of woman you would take to wife.”

Bingley twisted the chalk over the end of his cue with somewhat more force than necessary. His face contorted in an agony of disappointment and better judgment. “Very well.”

B ingley departed the following day, and as far as Darcy knew, he did not detour to Corbett Lodge before driving south. The house seemed quiet without him, for the man was like a great leaping hound, always exulting over life and simple pleasures. In his absence, Darcy’s own more introspective spirits felt withdrawn and languishing. Even Georgiana appeared dull.

He could not decide about Mrs Wickham.

She seemed not to care, and even went about her days in precisely the same manner as before. He was uncertain whether to be relieved or disappointed in this, and watched her all the more carefully to detect some disturbance of mind. And then, he saw it. A melancholy sigh in an odd moment; a wistful watching out the window when no one was expected; a curious frown upon her brow when she was at her needlework.

“You are very quiet this evening, Mrs Wickham,” he observed one night, about a fortnight after Bingley’s departure. “I hope your family are well.”

She looked up, and her expression smoothed. “I thank you, yes. My mother sent over a note that my sister wished for some cordial to cheer her, for her spirits are low.”

“Truly? I hope you applied to Mrs Reynolds. She would be pleased to send some to her.”

“I have, thank you.” She bowed her head again over her needlework, and that was the end of the conversation.

August 1813

T hree weeks after Bingley’s departure, Darcy was out taking the air in the garden when he happened upon her alone. She was walking without her bonnet and spencer, her dark hair shining in the sunlight and the shadowy cut of her figure softly displayed through the sheer fabric of her summer gown.

They both stopped abruptly upon encountering one another, and Darcy felt an uncommon flush through his centre. Devil take it, but she was a stunning creature, and all the more so because she seemed perfectly unaware of it. He bowed quickly to hide the sudden rush of heat to his face.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I will not disturb your constitutional.” She curtsied and began to turn away, but he stopped her.

“In fact, I would enjoy the company, madam.”

She turned back without a word and fell into step beside him. Darcy watched her surreptitiously for several paces but could not determine what to say.

“I believe we must have some conversation, sir,” she said after some minutes.

“Must we?”

“It is the established convention when one requests another’s company. It is therefore left to the requestor to initiate said conversation.”

He allowed a half smile. “What would you like to speak of?”

She gestured to the manicured hedges. “You could regale me with tales of your great-great-grandfathers all the way to Cromwell who must have designed the opulent splendour we see around us.”

“If I wished to be bored to the point of tears.”

“Why, then, you could identify for me rose varieties that I know perfectly well, but you know I will listen politely and feign ignorance because that is my part in the conversation.”

Darcy clasped his hands behind his back and tried not to allow his amusement to show. “I despise flowers,” he lied. “Sugary, fragrant things—they give me the head-ache.”

“Then perhaps we may speak of Miss Darcy and her anticipation of her coming out. I understand her aunt, Lady Matlock, is to sponsor her?”

“And Lady Matlock is the one to whom you should apply for intelligence on the matter. My only understanding of the process is that I am to pay a vast sum for the pleasure of recruiting some naif to take away my only sister and her dowry.”

“Then perhaps a matter dearer to my own heart?” she suggested.

“Have you such?”

“What person does not?” she asked with a faint edge to her voice.

“Mrs Wickham, any cares of yours are also my own,” he replied with what he hoped was more gallantry than boorishness.

She stopped and turned to him. “Let us speak of Corbett Lodge.”

“Speak of it? Whatever for? But, very well. It is a moderately sized house made of stone, approximately one hundred fifteen years old, settled in a pleasant valley with atrocious soil and poor drainage. It makes hardly enough to sustain itself in rents and will need further repairs to the chimney before winter if your family are not to die of asphyxiation.”

“So, as you once said to me, the house is no gift? Would you go so far as to say that it is more of a curse, sir?”

“A curse! No, far from it. I fancy it is a good deal finer than what many call their abode.”

“Then I have another question for you, sir. What manner of offense must a person commit to be considered undeserving of the inheritance that had been designed for him?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “If you are now inquiring about the person I believe you to be, what makes you think there was only one offense?”

“Because I cannot imagine how there could be more—or, rather, I do not understand how his crimes could be sufficient for you to be justified in all your actions. I would ask you to enlighten me, for you must know it has been a burden to my conscience.”

He gazed down at her, admiring the fire that had kindled to life in those dark, bright eyes. If he continued so, without speaking something of sense, he was in very great danger of his tongue running on without his head. He cleared his throat briefly.

“It is a credit to you that you could feel thus,” he began, “but in matters of virtue, there is no question. George Wickham is all shine and appeal, but he is bankrupt in essentials.”

She tilted her head, and Darcy’s eye was captured by the way the light shafted off her cheekbones. Several old French phrases teased his memory—both oaths and endearments, and a pounding almost-nausea passed through his being. Un trésor…

“Mr Darcy, thus far you have only assured me in the blandest of terms. If you truly expect me to look myself in the mirror and sleep the sleep of the just, I must know that I have not been used in some nefarious way to harm an innocent man.”

“Harm an innocent! Yes, George Wickham knows all about such things.”

“By his account, yes!” she answered with energy. “What was his crime? Bringing baked goods to a widow? Standing aside for another’s happiness?”

Darcy’s hands had fallen to his sides now, and his chest was strangely tight. “Deeds such as his are not fit for the ears of a maiden,” he replied flatly.

“Ah, but Mr Darcy, do you forget that in the eyes of the world, I am a widow? I have no dignity, no innocence, no reputation to risk.”

He set his teeth and looked beyond her, merely to keep himself from falling the dazzled victim of the fire in those glorious eyes. Merveilleuse… “It is not merely your innocence I would protect,” he growled.

She drew a steadying breath, visibly counting before she responded. “Is it true that Bernard Wickham was not the natural son of his father?”

Darcy stared. “He told you this? And I suppose he meant to engage your sympathies? The poor blighted younger son, is that what he tickled your ears with?”

“I am no foolish girl,” she retorted hotly. “I do not fall easily to flattery, and I resent the implication that I would mindlessly heed empty words.”

“If you listen to George Wickham, that is all you will hear.”

“Then try me.” She crossed her arms. “I beseech you.”

Darcy gazed down at her—the righteous indignation simmering in her vibrant figure, the sharp, furious words ready to pierce him should he err in his next phrase. His very body ached. Sacré bleu…

“Mr Darcy,” she sighed impatiently, “perhaps I shall ask another way. Why did you intend for me to marry Mr Bingley when my mourning is complete?”

“I thought it was obvious. He is a good and noble man and would make a fine husband. You would have answered his needs in every way—it was a perfect notion.”

“Until he announced his preference for my sister.”

Darcy blinked. “You are making assumptions.”

“I have it from Mr Bingley himself. He told me as much just before he departed—and also that you had imposed upon him to defer his offer. I cannot think why you would have done so, unless you intended to pressure him into changing his mind.”

“Bingley is often heedless,” he retorted. “Imprudent. I only wished for him to consider all the options. A marriage to you instead would—”

“Would what?” she interrupted. “Break my sister’s heart? Set your friend up with what ought rightly to have belonged to another? That is the root of it, is it not, Mr Darcy? You planned all along to use me to divert a neighbouring estate to a man you liked better than the rightful heir.”

“You are mistaken!” he cried impetuously.

“Am I? How? Why else would you be so insistent upon me marrying Mr Bingley?” She set her hands at the curve of her waist, leaning forward until she was glaring directly into his face. Darcy felt a great seizure in his chest, a final battle waged and lost. Merde.

Whatever sense had remained in his head after meeting her evaporated, to be replaced by one blinding instant of passion—stinging relief in the truth spoken, and then burning regret at the consequences.

“Because if Bingley married you,” he snapped, “then I would not be so tempted to win you for myself!”

H e did not… Elizabeth cringed and shook herself. He did not just say what she thought she heard… did he?

But the faintly greenish tinge to his complexion, the guilty look in his dark eyes, and the way he was shrinking back from his own words told the truth. Impossible! She swallowed hastily and looked from right to left, desperately hoping no other could have overheard his outburst.

He was grimacing, closing his eyes and drawing ragged breaths as he extended his hand to her. “Good lord,” he whispered. “I never meant to confess it.”

“You have confessed nothing,” she answered quickly. “Look! No harm done—nothing to be remembered. Let it all be forgotten, shall we?” She turned in a rush and would have hurried from the garden, but her hand snagged on his.

“Please, Mrs Wickham—damnation, I cannot call you that name! Elizabeth—Elizabeth, please, hear me a moment,” he begged.

He still held her hand, she did not pull it from his, but she continued backing away. “What is there to hear? No, sir, I cannot! I—I am employed in your household!”

His chest rose, and he dropped her hand. “You are perfectly right. F-forgive me.” His face clouded with baffled hurt, and he began to turn away in something of a stupor.

Elizabeth cast her gaze upward and prayed for calm. It had never happened.

“Elizabeth!” He had turned back and now stood close—so close she could see the fine weave of his waistcoat and the heartbeat pulsing at his throat. “There is something you must hear.”

She shook her head. “You have told me far more than I ever wished to know.”

“Not that. I—” He winced, even put his gloved knuckles to his mouth before continuing. “There is more. I would not have you think that pride of position would prevent me—”

“Pray, sir, desist!” she interrupted. “From our very first meeting, you impressed me with your arrogance and conceit. You have coerced, you have manipulated, you have played me for a fool. Every kindness and every consideration shown my family, they were all pawns in some elaborate game! Your motives are now clear to me, sir, and I wish to heaven I had never been the recipient of your ‘goodwill.’”

Anger flared in his cheeks. “Mrs Wickham, have a care! You do not know of what you speak.”

“If I do not, can I be faulted? I have been chosen seemingly at random and fattened like a Christmas goose, unsuspecting that my true purpose was to grace some other’s table. Or his bed! Thank heaven Mr Bingley has more character than—”

“Elizabeth Bennet!” he hissed between his teeth. “If that is the name to which you will answer, by whatever means I must, I will make myself heard!”

She froze at the name of her youth, the name she had lost the day she met him. A lump in her throat… no, it was the threat of tears. She clenched her eyes before they could flood and held up a staying hand. “I can bear no more, sir,” she said with a cracking voice. “Pray—let me to the house. I will pack my things at once.”

“And go where? Impossible! As you have said before, our… connection, such as it is, it not so readily severed.”

“And yet, sever it I must! Send me whatever papers necessary. I will deed Corbett Lodge to the first person to appear worthy, and I will take my mother and sisters back to Meryton. I—I am very sorry for Miss Darcy.” These last words were spoken in a hoarse whisper as the tears fell to scald her cheeks. She looked away, miserably wiping her eyes with her fingertips.

“No, Mrs Wickham,” he answered gently. “I will go. Of the two of us, yours is the only presence that is indispensable here just now.”

Elizabeth looked up, but he was already walking away from her. “Do not be ridiculous, Mr Darcy!” she protested. “You cannot simply leave Pemberley and your sister!”

He turned back for a moment. He said nothing, but the emptiness in his eyes… heaven have mercy, it rent something within her own heart. A few measured blinks, an indrawn breath, and then his face closed again. With a shake of his head, he took his leave.

Elizabeth sagged back against the prickling hedge, not even mindful of how the thorns tore at her gown and tender skin. Exhaustion and sheer physical agony, as pure and raw as any she had ever known, threatened to render her insensible. Somehow, she fumbled her way back to the house with a murmured excuse to the footman that she was indisposed and could not join Miss Darcy for tea. To drown herself in the great copper bathtub, to hide away under her blankets, to never see or speak to another person until this mysterious ache had vanished, these were her only hopes for comfort.

There was no solace to be had.