Elizabeth lifted her chin. “You expect me to take your word over my own experience? When he has shown nothing but integrity since his arrival?”
Darcy’s grip on her waist tightened slightly as they turned. “I have known Wickham for the whole of my life. His charm masks his true nature.”
“And what, pray, is his true nature?” Elizabeth’s voice was sharp, cutting through the music around them. “I have seen no evidence of deceit.”
Darcy drew in a deep breath, struggling to convey the gravity of his words. “He squandered his inheritance, lied about his circumstances, and has a history of wild andreckless behaviour.”
“Oh! And I am certain none of your other friends have a history of wild behaviour. I am not entirely ignorant of the way young gentlemen pass their university years, Mr Darcy. Haveyouany shadows uponyourpast that might smack as unsavoury now?”
“It is not merely that,” he growled.
“Ah, yes, you claim he lied about his circumstances. Which, pray tell, are those? The same circumstances that allowed him the means to lease Netherfield? A man maysayanything he chooses, but his bank balance must agree.”
“A strange chance,” Darcy gritted through his teeth. “But the whims of fortune aside, he was always a spendthrift.”
“Why, how fortunate that he appears to have mended his ways! You saw, I am sure, sir, how he has ‘squandered’ his money since arriving here? Paying for repairs to a broken weir, helping our neighbours, hosting us all here tonight? Truly, the actions of a madman, sir.”
Darcy bit back a rather unwise retort, choosing instead to stare over her head across the room—where George Wickham was making Charlotte Lucas laugh. And a spear of white, hot…jealousy?shot through his core.
He shook his head and ground his teeth against the tight jarring inside. “I only urge caution, Miss Elizabeth. A man does not change overnight, nor so drastically.”
Elizabeth’s steps grew more hesitant, and her movements became less fluid. “And yet, he speaks of you with such respect. Why would he do that if he did not admire you or desire to win your approval after a lifetime of being looked down upon?”
“I…” He swallowed. “I do not know.”
Her expression softened for a moment, then steeled again. “And how do I know you are not simply trying to discredit him out of jealousy or spite?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched, the frustration boiling beneath his calm exterior. “Because, Miss Elizabeth, I have nothing to gain from lying to you.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, her eyes searching his face for any hint of falsehood. “You ask a great deal of me, Mr Darcy. To doubt the character of a man who has shown me only kindness, based on your word alone.”
“Yes,” Darcy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I ask you to trust me.”
For a moment, they moved in silence. Darcy’s heart hammered with each step. He had intended to speak of his own feelings, to hint at the possibility of something more between them, but now everything seemed to be falling apart. He desperately wanted to bridge the gap, to change her mind. The thought of proposing had seemed so clear—it was the perfect answer for them both! Delight and hope for his remaining days and a comfortable future for her. He could give her that, even if there was no child born after him.
But now, any such notion felt impossibly distant. Conflict flickered in Elizabeth’s eyes as she tried to reconcile the man she admired with Darcy’s accusations, and unfortunately, most of the shadowed looks she gave were reserved for him.
He had not convinced her. He would have done better not to speak at all, but what was he to do when he tried to talk to her of marriage, and she flung Anne de Bourgh in his face? All he could think of was how very much he would like to make Wickham’s headache and throb the way his was doing at that moment.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr Darcy,” she said curtly as the final notes played. She stepped back, her polite facade firmly in place. “I believe supper is about to be served.”
Darcy nodded stiffly, his chest aching with the unspoken inspiration that had somehow possessed him in the last half hour. “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. Shall we go to supper?”
Elizabeth gave a brief, noncommittal smile as he offered her his arm to escort her to the dining room. “Indeed, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elizabeth sat at thelong, polished table in the grand dining room of Netherfield, tapping her toes under the table as her eyes rolled around the room—taking in her mother near the head of the table, her father sitting as far away as possible, her sisters… She grimaced and looked away.
The room buzzed with the sounds of clinking silverware, low murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter. She tried to focus on the food in front of her, but her eyes kept drifting to the people around her, particularly to Mr Darcy sitting beside her, looking as though he were battling his own private war.
Darcy’s face was a mask of calm, but she could not ignore the subtle signs of strain. His complexion was growing pale again—the way his eyes squinted slightly as if the light pained him, the occasional press of his fingers to his temples when he thought no one was looking—all were familiar to her by now. She had seen the signs before, and whatever excuses he had offered this evening, he was clearly still suffering from that headache. Anyone could be forgiven for being a touch irritable under the circumstances.
But why he had suddenly decided to speak ill of Mr Wickham baffled her. Had the man suddenly gone dotty? Had something happened that Mr Darcy refused to disclose? Or was it just plain, ugly jealousy? He and Mr Wickham had seemed to be on such good terms. Why now? Why would Darcy choose this moment to try and tarnish Mr Wickham’s reputation, especially when Wickham was his friend and host? It made no sense.
Her frustration gnawed at her, making it hard to focus on the conversations around her. Instead, she glanced across the room. Charlotte was sitting beside Mr Wickham, her face aglow with laughter for the first time in ages. Elizabeth had hoped Mr Collins might show some interest in Charlotte, perhaps offering her a chance at securing his attentions. And what better opportunity than the supper set, complete with the most intimate, half-scandalous dance any lady in Meryton had ever performed?
But Mr Wickham had stepped in, and now Charlotte seemed captivated by his charm, a smile lighting up her face. Elizabeth chided herself for her initial frustration. Charlotte was clearly enjoying herself, and for once, she was not overshadowed by her younger sister, Maria. Mr Wickham’s easy manner only added to Charlotte’s glow, and it warmed Elizabeth’s heart to see her friend so happy, even if just for the evening.
