Page 76 of A Debt Inherited

The crowd parted for ceremony. Colonel Forster and Captain Townsend stepped forward, their scarlet coats bright against the lamps. Forster bowed first, Townsend followed. A ripple of applause—soft, provincial, sincere—passed through the room.

Kerr stood a pace behind the officers, the heat of the candles already gathering at his collar. Wickham leant close. “Observe, my friend—this is Hertfordshire’s court. Every duchess began as a farmer’s daughter if the lighting is kind enough.”

The colonel said something brief about honour, music, and local welcome; laughter answered him. Then the orchestra struck the first notes of a country-dance, and Wickham was away, his smile quick and bright as a sabre. He bowed to one lady, jested with another, and before Kerr could protest had written both their names beside his own on the card that hung at his sleeve.

Wickham carried him from group to group with the tyranny of good humour. Names passed too quickly to hold: Harrington, Long, Goulding. Kerr bowed, answered, and retreated whenever civility allowed. Wickham shone in his place, all polish and appetite, drawing eyes as a candle draws moths.

Kerr managed a bow and escaped towards the far wall, leaving Wickham to charm and sparkle without witness. The air there was cooler, though heavy still with the sweetness of pomade and powder.

He let his gaze fall to the floorboards, then to the swirl of gowns and red coats beyond. Music, laughter, the soft slide of silk—each sound seemed to pass through him rather than around him.

He looked up. Wickham was dancing, all grace and glitter, his partner a fair-haired young woman whose beauty made even admiration grow quiet. Her gown caught the light and returned it gently; her smile, when it came, silenced the chatter nearest them.

The dance ended; the crowd broke into talk and laughter. Wickham reappeared, his cheeks bright, his coat slightly out of order, a man entirely pleased with himself.

“Good God, Kerr, you look as if you were waiting for the firing squad,” he said, grinning. “Half the room unclaimed and you stand there sulking. You’ll have them think you lost a wager.”

Kerr’s mouth thinned. “I am not in the mood for frivolity.”

“Frivolity? Then you are already half-dead,” Wickham said. “I have just danced with the most beautiful creature ever set upon two feet.”

Kerr’s gaze drifted across the room to where the fair girl stood among her friends, light glancing off her hair like water. “She has been much admired,” he said quietly.

Wickham glanced towards the window, where his fair-haired partner stood with a dark-haired young woman beside her. “Come, I’ll introduce you before either lady can escape us.”

Kerr hesitated. “Then you must tell me their names, or I shall look a fool before half the town.”

“The eldest,” Wickham said, straightening his cuff, “is Miss Bennet. The other—Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Kerr stopped short. “Bennet,” he repeated, the name rough in his throat.

He looked at Wickham and saw that look—half amusement, half provocation—the man born to stir a wound just to watch it bleed.

“That name again,” Kerr said, too sharply.

A pair of ladies nearby glanced round.

Wickham’s smile deepened. “Careful, Kerr.”

Kerr’s colour rose. “You know very well I have no wish to stand up with a Bennet.”

Wickham’s smile widened, a provocateur’s victory disguised as charm. “Then I shall be generous and take your share.”

Chapter 29

Elizabeth had caught only the last words: no wish to stand up with a Bennet.

They reached her as the music fell away. She turned and found the speaker: a tall officer, his expression half-shadowed, his complexion fairer than most, the uniform sharpening the severity of his aspect. The lamplight touched the planes of his face but found little warmth there. His eyes met hers, then moved away as if she were not worth the trouble of offence.

Jane’s hand touched her arm. “Lizzy?”

Elizabeth’s lips curved, but the smile had an edge. “Only a remark, my dear. Nothing worth repeating.”

The handsome officer beside him saw her and smiled. The other officer remained seemingly indifferent. His gaze flickered once more to her, then dropped to the floor.

Elizabeth stepped towards him, her colour high. “How fortunate, sir,” she said, her tone carrying. “It spares the rest of us the trouble of declining.”

The words fell into the small hush between tunes. Several nearby faces turned; Wickham’s smile widened, delighted by mischief. The other man’s jaw tightened.