“Iwantto love you. I know only one way to kindle that flame, and you will not have it.”
She lifted her chin. “You have not asked.”
He stared for several seconds, then slowly crossed the room. “I am asking now.”
Something in her belly wormed and twisted. But she could not refuse him… could she? If this was all that was to be her future, then he was right—she had to let go of William and fill her hands with something else. Without even knowing how she was doing so, her head slowly nodded.
Richard’s arms came around her, and she closed her eyes. If she could just imagine, just for a second, that this was how it should be, that they fit… that he was the one she loved.
But his lips were harder, his skin a different texture, his scent all wrong. His hair was straight and clipped when her fingers ventured over his scalp, and his cadence and touch were all off-centre. She arched back, and perhaps he took it for a signal of surrender. He scooped her up and carried her to his bed, where, presumably, all would be settled.
His mouth found her throat, and his hands settled over hers, pushing them up beside her head. His weight now pressed her down—lighter than William, and not so broad of shoulder, he was nonetheless more than a match for her, if…oh, wretched, wretched fate!Her breath quickened, and for the first time in months, her own horror flooded back upon her—a memory too vicious for piecing out. Sensations only; of foreign hands, of control spiralling, of a terror so fiercely visceral that all her reason could not overcome it.
It had not been this way with William. She had craved him, melded to him. And despite Richard’s plea for her to forget William, it was far worse that she would make her own husband feel like an attacker.Think of William, she coaxed herself.Feel him, not other memories.
She hitched her head back, grateful that he was not now trying to kiss her lips, but what he wanted from her... was not his. Her body was an unruly thing, yielding only to one master, and his name was not Richard.
He raised himself just enough for his palm to spread over her stomach, then begin to work its torturous way up, tracing the ridges of her stays inside her dress. She turned her head to the side, her teeth sinking into her lip until she tasted copper. If she could not hold fast to a vision of William, perhaps she could cause herself enough pain to distract her. But then, the telling quake, the shuddering breath, and her facade crumbled. Her core clenched, and she crumpled in a wavering sob.
Richard sat up. “I knew it,” he muttered. The bed creaked, then sprang up as his weight left it.
Elizabeth was still curled in a ball, weeping, when the door slammed.
Chapter 52
New York
Darcyfeltlikehewould recognise Mrs Bennet anywhere. She would have serene cheekbones and a high brow, like her daughter Jane, and she would have lips that formed a bow and eyes that snapped and sang, like…
He stopped in the middle of the walk; his hand pressed to his chest. How long beforehername could touch his mind without lancing through him like a molten iron rod? Surely, not all who lost a love felt this pain! Why, if this misery were common to mankind, men would more frequently succumb to the despair of sweet death, rather than walking around as a living shell. His face twisted as he caught his breath, the ache subsided as his pulse slowed, and he forced his feet to move once more.
He nearly stumbled to a halt all over again when he realised that of the two remaining sisters, there might be one who was the very spectre of his Elizabeth. Egad, how would he survive even meeting the family? Yet, it gave him even more reason to protect them from Wickham. His grip tightened on his walking stick, and he hurried his steps.
They were not at the Victoria. Not unless they were using an assumed name, which was entirely possible. Fifth Avenue Hotel was another mischance. Darcy strolled out to the walk once more, a dazed calm now squeezing his chest. Those were the only two hotels Mr Gardiner had mentioned, but this was New York. He doubted if anyone could even count how many hotels and inns and holes in the wall the city harboured.
And that was presuming Wickham had even brought the Bennets to New York.
Nausea rocked his core. What sort of beast used innocent women for money? Yet, it had always been Wickham’s way, beginning when they were boys, and Wickham had tricked him out of his new pocket watch in exchange for a promise to leave the new kitchen girl alone. Fool he—he had never said a word of it, thinking his father would not believe him! Now, not only did he see the whole incident through mature eyes, but he also saw the importance of one just man who could set it all right. And this time, the man was himself.
His determination galvanised, Darcy spent two days calling at one hotel after another. He checked the Victoria and Fifth Avenue twice more, with never any luck. With great trepidation, he had asked the local police if anything had been heard and was relieved to receive a negative answer.
He also called at the passenger lines, searching for ticketing information. Rather than too little information, he found a great deal too much—more than he could ever search through to discover three women and one man travelling together. Good heavens, they could be going anywhere, but his gut told him that Wickham was taking them to London.
He had lost too much time. By the third day, Darcy boarded a train back to Massachusetts, to take his leave of Georgiana, collect his affairs, and set sail again for home. When he called at the house, she met him with glowing cheeks.
“About time you came! I have been sitting on this letter for two days already!”
He put his hat aside. “What letter?”
She went to her desk and held it up. “It’s from Elizabeth. She is in Rhode Island.”
Newport
Shewastryingtoapologise, but it was not working.
Every look and manner was humble and full of appeal, but no words escaped her lips. Instead, she scurried in and out of his presence, softly delivering a drink or a pastry, his paper or even a pipe. Each time, he caught himself exhaling in aggravation, and that only made her step more lightly and quickly... away. How could he tell her that, far from soothing his ire, she was only making him feel like more of a monster?
This was so much more than a bit of marital discord. That, they could have worked through. No man of reason could propose living with a woman the rest of his years without a few quarrels, and nor would he wish to. A woman of liveliness and stout heartoughtto put her man to the test on occasion, for that set kindling to the hearth flame. Even scarred and brittle though they both might be, they ought to have made one another stronger, burn more brightly.
