Lydia suspected she knew exactly where Elizabeth had gone. She had undoubtedly gone to seek out the company of Mr FitzwilliamDarcy.
She sniffed softly.
Lydia had once considered Mr Darcy to be the most disagreeable, arrogant man in existence. He was far too tall, far too rich, never danced, and he rarely smiled. However, her opinion had recently undergone a significant revision.
Mr Darcy had approached her in the circulating library, bypassed the scholars, ignored the matrons, and askedherabout a matter of philosophy.
The man clearly possessed exceptional taste.
Lydia smoothed her gloves. A gentleman who recognised true intellect when he saw it could not be that bad. If Elizabeth wished to spend her evening conversing with a man of such obvious refinement, Lydia would certainly not stand in her way.
She lifted her chin and watched Harriet dance with Mr Wickham, content to wait her turn. She was in Brighton, she was wearing a wonderful pink feather, and she was an acknowledged philosophical authority.
It was turning out to be a truly spectacular summer.
The Castle Tavern Assembly Rooms were beautiful, but George Wickham’s smile was significantly brighter than the crystal chandeliers.
Lydia watched him escorting Harriet back to the edge of the dance floor. Harriet’s cheeks were flushed an alarming shade of crimson, and she fanned herself with jerky motions of her painted silk fan.
Lydia shifted her weight from one satin slipper to the other, anticipation overcoming her. It was finally her turn.
Mr Wickham approached and offered a bow that was infinitely deeper and more elegant than any he had ever bestowed upon Colonel Forster.
“Miss Lydia.” His voice was pitched low, cutting through the noise of the assembly room like a warm knife through fresh butter. “I have anticipated this moment for the entirety of the evening.”
Lydia beamed. She tilted her chin upward, ensuring the magnificent pink feather caught the light. “I am certain you have, Mr Wickham. Have you enjoyed the dancing? Harriet has a lively step, though she occasionally confuses the timing during the turn.”
“I confess, I noticed neither the music nor the steps.” Wickham offered his arm. “My attention was consumed by the prospect of this set with you.”
Lydia tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, a thrill racing through her body. He was so handsome, and he singled her out every time.
The orchestra struck up a new, slower melody, not a cotillion this time, but a dance that permitted conversation. It was exactly what Lydia required, because she was determined to know more about this man.
They took their places on the floor, among the numerous couples. The initial steps were complicated, requiring full concentration, but the pattern soon settled into a rhythmic sway that allowed partners to draw closer.
Mr Wickham leaned forward conversationally, but he did not speak ofthe weather or of the music.
“Miss Lydia.” He lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper. “I must speak with absolute honesty. My heart can no longer bear the burden of silence.”
Lydia blinked. She stumbled slightly over a relatively simple step, but she recovered her footing instantly. “A burden, Mr Wickham? Have you caught a chill from the sea air?”
“It is a chill of the soul.” Mr Wickham’s eyes locked onto hers with tragic intensity. “I am hopelessly captivated by you. I have been since Meryton, though I dared not speak of it.”
Lydia’s heart gave a hard thump.
He loved her.
She felt a rush of triumph. She loved him too, of course. He was dashing and tragic and paid her more attention than anyone else.
Though... she also loved Lieutenant Thompson, who had a remarkably clever wit and knew an infinite number of card games. She also harboured a fondness for Ensign Norton, whose ears turned bright red whenever she spoke to him. She found Norton’s blushing quite adorable.
However, neither Thompson nor Norton had ever declared their undying, soul-chilling devotion to her. Therefore, Mr Wickham was clearly the superior choice.
“I am very fond of you as well, Mr Wickham.” Lydia offered her most brilliant smile. “You are more entertaining than the majority of your regiment.”
Mr Wickham’s expression shifted, the melancholy replaced by urgency. He tightened his grip on her hand as the dance required them to separate andrejoin.
“Fondness is not enough, Lydia.” He abandoned the formal title entirely. “I wish to marry you. I wish to make you my wife. Immediately.”
