Page 200 of A Question of Character

“You will obey me at once.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Wycombe said smoothly, stepping nearer, “perhaps a calmer discussion—”

Darcy rounded to face him. “You will not address me.”

Wycombe’s expression cooled.

Mrs. Younge moved toward Georgiana. “My dear, you are overset. Come, let us—”

“Do not touch her,” Darcy said.

Mrs. Younge drew back, affronted or pretending it.

Georgiana’s eyes filled—not with repentance as Darcy might have expected. Rather, it was outraged humiliation. “Fitzwilliam, you are making a spectacle.”

“I am preventing one.”

“A spectacle,” Wickham muttered, “would be kinder than Gretna.”

Georgiana’s gaze flew to him. “Mr. Wickham, I do not know why you are here, but this is none of your concern.”

“It became my concern when your brother thought I had tried to elope with you last summer.”

She flushed deeply.

Darcy saw it then. Guilt.

A sickened silence fell over him.

“You knew.”

Georgiana looked away.

Darcy took one step toward her. “You knew I believed it was Wickham.”

“I thought you understood.”

“No.”

“You said the name. I merely—”

“You nodded.”

Her mouth trembled. “I was frightened.”

“And afterward? In every letter? In every opportunity you had to correct me?”

Her eyes flashed through tears. “Your letters made it perfectly clear you would not be moved. You thought me foolish. You thought me deceived. You would have dragged me through a season I despised, watched every gentleman measure my fortune, and then called it protection.”

Darcy stared at her.

He had expected shame. Terror. Collapse.

He had not expected accusation.

Wycombe placed a hand lightly near Georgiana’s elbow, not touching, but close enough to claim. “Miss Darcy has acted with courage.”

Wickham gave a low sound of disgust.