His expression made a sick, dirty sensation crawl down her spine.
“Why are you doing this?” she suddenly asked him. “You — you know this is wrong.”
Wickham laughed and stepped closer to her. He pinched her cheeks between both of his hands and bent as though he meant to kiss her.
She closed her eyes and tried to pull back, resisting an urge to retch.
Wickham stepped back and slapped her hard. “You slut. I know how you slobbered after Darcy. Aren’t I better than him? Aren’t I more handsome than him? You just kissed him like a slut. They say you got him to fuck you, and he still wouldn’t marry you. Eh! You slut. Don’t you want to kiss me like you kissed Darcy?”
She shook her head no.
“Wait.” Mrs. Younge paled. “What does this woman have to do with Mr. Darcy? You did not say she had anything to do with Mr. Darcy.”
“He hates her, because she tried to force him to marry her.” Wickham cackled. “I wish it had worked. I hate that man. What is it that makes him think he is better than me? What is it—”
“Miss, what is your relation to Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Younge asked with stress in her voice.
“None. I have nothing to do with him — it is what Mr. Wickham said. I acted in a horribly wrong way. And I—”
“Devil take it,” the woman cursed. “I do not care — but he’ll not seek to help you?”
She shook her head.
That unsettled look did not leave Mrs. Younge’s eyes.
She pushed Wickham towards the door and said, “You mean to marry her tomorrow. You can’t see her tonight then. It is bad luck.”
“I’ve already seen her tonight,” Wickham refused to be moved.
Mrs. Younge shoved him hard, and he stumbled out of the room, cursing Mrs. Younge as he went.
Once the door shut, there was immediately a solid click of a bolt falling into place. Caroline heard a bit of shouting between the two of them, but the thick wood blocked the words.
She looked around the room, holding the candle high.
The window was barred. There was no hope of escape. Just the bed, a single chair and a wash basin with a washcloth and a jug. Beneath it was an open seat and chamber pot that could be pulled out.
Caroline sat on the bed and stared at the moon, slowly moving in its arc through the window.
This room was a prison.
She wondered if it had been designed to imprison young women who'd been brought to this brothel, but who were not willing to share their favors with the customers.
She was cold, so she grabbed the quilt off the bed and wrapped it around her slender arms for warmth.
Perhaps she deserved this, but if she did, she was now properly paying for her crimes.
She’d tried to force Darcy to marry her, and now his father’s godson was going to force her to marry him.
There was a poetic justice in that.
At least Lydia was safe.
Caroline had a little worry for Lydia, having been left in the middle of a field five miles from her own home, but it was impossible for her to have any serious fear for the girl. There was only a miniscule chance that something might befall her that was worse than what was to happen to Caroline.
At least she’d helped Lydia.
Caroline scooted onto the bed, so she could sit in the corner of the room with her arms around her legs.
