Darcy’s jaw tightened. “If you mean to test my patience—”
“Oh, I never test,” Wickham said mildly. “I observe. And I must say, you are holding up better than I expected. All things considered.”
Darcy glanced past him—briefly, involuntarily—toward the far end of the room, where Elizabeth stood in conversation with Charlotte Lucas.
Wickham followed the look.
“Ah,” he said lightly. “That explains the mood.”
Darcy stilled. A flicker of alarm passed through him—but he kept his expression flat.
“She does have the sort of smile that invites confidences, does she not?” Wickham mused. “The clever ones always do.”
Still, Darcy did not move.
Wickham’s tone turned thoughtful. “I wonder how much she would forgive, if the story were tragic enough. Some women can be quite… receptive to sorrow, provided it is handsomely delivered.”
Darcy’s gut twisted. Not from doubt in her judgment—but from the certainty that Wickham knew exactly how to spin his poisons. Sympathy was a soft target, and Elizabeth’s heart was not shielded the way his was.
“Careful,” he said softly.
“Only admiring her virtues, Darcy. I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”
Darcy’s lip curled.
Wickham smiled. “Come now. You cannot expect me not to notice her. That would be ungrateful. No gentleman could be so ungenerous.”
“You do not know the meaning of the word.”
Wickham gave a soft laugh. “You wound me.”
“I would do more,” Darcy said quietly, “if we were not standing in a ballroom.”
That stopped Wickham, for just a moment. His smile slipped—just a fraction. “Still the same Darcy. Always ready to protect what is his.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “She is not yours to threaten.”
“Nor yours to guard.”
They faced each other, motionless, the noise of the ballroom slipping into a distant blur.
Then Wickham gave a shallow dip of the head—mockery, not manners.
“Do give my regards to Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “She seems worth the trouble.”
He turned, his boots clicking smartly on the polished floor, heading back toward the dance floor where Miss Bingley was waiting with an expectant little smile—leaving Darcy still, silent, and very nearly undone.
Darcy wanted to strike him. Just once. Not as a gentleman, not as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—but as a brother. As a man who had watched Wickham nearly destroy a girl he loved.
Enough.
This had been a mistake. All of it. Bingley’s ill-timed taking of Netherfield. His own misguided belief that he could contain the damage from a safe distance. Wickham, Elizabeth, the deadline looming like a noose—none of it could be untangled here.
He would write to his steward tomorrow. Make arrangements to return to Town by the end of the week. There was nothing left for him in Hertfordshire.
Chapter Sixteen
“You cannot hide behindthe ficus forever,” Elizabeth said gently, brushing a drooping leaf away from her shoulder as she settled beside her sister. “Even the ficus thinks you have made your point.”
