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!”
Hedidnot…Elizabethcringed 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—”
