Prologue
Darcy House, London—July 30th, 1811
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat straighter in the saddle as the sea breeze tugged at his coat. Ramsgate’s rooftops crested the rise before him, and his horse quickened without command. He had made excellent time—better than expected. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He had told Georgiana to expect him at week’s end. Instead, he had finished his work two days early and had decided he would surprise her. It had been far too long since he had seen his sister in spirits as high as they sounded in her last letter. She had written of fresh air, long walks, and piano practice—and while her companion Mrs. Younge had not significantly impressed Darcy at their introduction, the woman had seemed competent enough.
The sight of the townhouse, which was their rented home for the summer, filled him with satisfaction. He dismounted quickly, handing his reins to the groom and ascending the front steps two at a time.
The butler opened the door in surprise. “Mr. Darcy! We were not expecting—”
“No matter,” Darcy said as he removed his gloves. “Is Miss Darcy at home?”
“She is in the drawing room, sir. I shall announce you.”
But Darcy waved him off, smiling faintly. “No need. I should like to see her expression when she realizes I am here.”
He stepped lightly down the hall and pushed open the door.
“Georgie?”
His sister looked up—and in the next moment, let out a delighted cry. “Brother!”
She flew to him without hesitation, flinging her arms around his neck. Darcy stumbled back half a step, then caught her with a soft laugh.
“You are in excellent spirits,” he said. “It is good to see you, dear girl.”
“Oh, you are just in time!” she said breathlessly, her eyes alight with joy. “I have the most wonderful news!”
Mrs. Younge, seated by the window, half-rose. “Miss Darcy, perhaps it is best if—”
Darcy lifted a hand, frowning. “Let her speak, madam. What has you so flustered, Georgiana?”
The girl drew back and clasped his hands, beaming. “I had hoped you would come in time. Now you shall not miss the wedding!”
Darcy blinked. “Wedding?”
“Yes!” Georgiana twirled once, breathless with excitement. “I wanted to wait until you arrived before we eloped, but now we need not delay! Here, I will send a note to Mr. Wickham to let him know the good news.”
The name struck him like a blow.
“Wickham?” he repeated, his voice flat.
Mrs. Younge had gone ashen. “Sir—please, allow me to explain—”
“You will remain silent.” He turned on her sharply. “Do not move.”
The woman’s mouth opened again, but a quick motion brought a footman to the door. Darcy’s voice was low and cold. “Do not allow her to leave this room.”
The man nodded and took his position.
Darcy turned back to his sister. “Georgiana… what madness is this? You cannot mean to marry George Wickham.”
She looked hurt. “But why not? He is kind and attentive and speaks of you with such warmth. He said he was certain you would approve. He remembered all the times you played together as boys. Even Father admired him—”
“No,” Darcy said, his tone low and dangerous. “Absolutely not.”
Georgiana’s face crumpled. “Why are you angry? Why should it matter who I marry, if I love him?”
