“She does not, and we both know it. You are blind with love for her, and she depends upon your devotion for her schemes, for a blind man cannot see what is plainly in front of him. She has been your wife in all things, but she has never uttered that particular phrase to you, has she?”
He stumbled backward as though he had been struck. Caroline's words made sense—but, no, it could not be. Elizabeth's looks had every appearance of strong admiration. She could not have feigned all the warmth between them, but was it simply warmth? She, of course, did not love him, but he had not expected such a change yet. He had wanted her because he had craved the lover she had potential to become. Could it have been true that she enjoyed the sex as much as he, and their liaisons had only made her plan easier? If so, he had been foolish in his love for her.
“Lies, Caroline. You speak nothing but lies.”
“Then why do your eyes acknowledge the truth? Even if I lied, and your beloved Elizabeth had not played you for a fool, you would still never win her heart. I have seen what she is like, and her heart will never be touched by another man as long as Wickham lives and therein lies the greatest irony.”
Darcy raised a questioning brow.
“Do not be daft, William. If you killed Wickham to gain her heart, she would hate you for murdering him.”
Lost and reeling, Darcy retreated from the witch's poisoned presence to mull over the seeds of doubt that had been planted. They were just words, and words should not hurt so much, but they had. Worse than that, they had made sense, a terrible, sickening sense. He loved his wife so dearly and his heart wanted to believe that someday she would love him in return, but still she did not, even after all they had shared.
His feet carried him to his valet and numbly, he spouted off an order. Shocked but wary, the valet merely nodded and scrambled away to fulfil his master's request.
* * *
“It has been a long time, my lord. I rather missed our visits.”
“I cannot claim the same,” Darcy muttered, still not believing he had planned to fuck Ivy, a former favourite, in Elizabeth's bed. That was the case, until realization struck him. He had no desire for any woman but Elizabeth, and if he went through with it, Caroline would get exactly what she wanted. He might as well have been on a wild drunk, the way his head had only now started to clear. “Go on, get dressed. This was a mistake.”
She seemed disappointed, as if she had missed the High Lord's company. Still nude, nonchalant, and rather brazen, Ivy dropped a deep curtsey then went about gathering her robes. She took her time, flaunting every angle of her form. The wench hoped to change his mind!
Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“Forgive me, sir. I had not realized you were keeping company.” She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her breasts.
“Be gone then,” Darcy muttered, cursing his poor luck. He could ask Caroline to affect Elizabeth’s memory of Ivy but pushed the notion away. He turned to his wife. No, Caroline had already brought him enough trouble.
“Who is she?” she asked as though inquiring about the dinner menu. Her eyes were locked on him, her lips pursed into a thin line.
He swallowed as if his father was about to take a switch to his hide.
“Nobody important,” he muttered.
At being called unimportant, Ivy huffed and tightened her gown. Elizabeth quickly stepped the rest of the way into the room to avoid being run down by the angry whore.
“Important enough to have disrobed for the Prince of Pemberley? Who is she?” Agitation iced her words.
His ire flared. Caroline's suggestions rang in his ears yet again, and insecurity about his place in Elizabeth's life spread through him like a foul cancer. He sloshed some ale into a pewter mug and gulped it down.
“A mistress of mine,” he replied, reconsidering the addition of the word “former” at the very last moment.
“And you visit her when? During my bath? Or perhaps you slip out of our bed and into hers after I have fallen asleep.”
“Do not be absurd!” He railed. “I have not used her of late!”
“My lord, I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours. If you long for your whore, do seek her out! I ask one small courtesy, though: that you not have her in our bed so I might maintain the illusion of your loyalty.”
“You speak so earnestly of loyalty, my lady. I wonder at your definition of the word.”
Confusion washed over her face. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Is that not a letter to your beloved George? Are you not begging him to save you? How many oaths of undying love did you pledge?”
He was angry but filled with fear. She approached him, pausing when he took an involuntary, flinching step back. Even now, after all they had admitted and shared, he was shocked to realize he did not trust her completely. Her fingers reached out and gently stroked his arm, unknowingly soothing his worried, frightened soul.
“It is a letter to George. I did not beg him to save me. How can one be rescued when she is safe? I pledged no oaths to him, for I have already made my oath to you. I brought the letter for you to read.”
