Page 203 of A Question of Character

“George?”

Wycombe swore under his breath. “You do not understand. My estate is mortgaged beyond reason. One thousand a year in theory, half that in practice, and creditors who do not accept sentiment. I must marry money.”

Mrs. Younge whispered, “George.”

He ignored her.

“I was prepared to marry her. Properly enough, once the matter was done. She would have had rank of a kind, a house, my name—”

“And you would have had thirty thousand pounds,” Darcy said.

“Yes!” Wycombe snapped. “And what of it? Every man in England marries fortune when he can. Do not pretend virtue merely because yours was inherited before you had to beg for it.”

Georgiana made a small sound. It could not be called a sob, for it was not robust enough for that. She sounded fragile, as if she would break at any moment.

Darcy moved toward her, but she stepped back.

“No.”

The word was faint this time.

Wycombe looked at her, irritation overcoming any remaining tenderness. “Do not be foolish. Your brother will calm himself. Once we are married—”

“We cannot have the money?”

He hesitated.

She looked suddenly very young. “That was why?”

“My dear—”

“That was why Mrs. Younge told me you did not care for a season. And why you said Fitzwilliam would be pleased to have me established. That was why you said we must go before he changed his mind.”

Georgiana’s gaze moved from Wycombe to Wickham, and fresh humiliation sharpened her expression.

“I suppose you find this amusing.”

Wickham frowned. “I assure you, I do not.”

“No? You wished for my fortune once. Perhaps if Fitzwilliam prevents this marriage, you will want me and my thirty thousand pounds instead of Miss Lydia.”

Wickham went very still.

Darcy stared at his sister. “Georgiana.”

She flushed but lifted her chin. “I am only saying what everyone seems unwilling to say.”

Mrs. Younge covered her face.

Darcy looked at her with cold fury. “You told my sister I wished to be rid of her?”

“I told her you would be relieved to see her happy.”

“You told me he did not wish to be troubled with me,” Georgiana whispered.

Darcy’s anger faltered beneath the hurt in her voice.

“Georgie.”