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Darcy was not accustomed to indecision, but it seemed that every possible reaction to Wickham could only make the situation worse. If he further harangued Elizabeth, she might guess at Darcy’s feelings. Without the capacity to act on those feelings, he could not allow her to suspect their existence. And that approach would risk pushing Elizabeth even more firmly into Wickham’s arms. Her independence of mind was admirable, but it made her harder to persuade.
As the music commenced, Darcy tortured himself for a minute by watching Elizabeth dance with Wickham. She laughed at something he said, her head tossed back in amusement. Each coy glance Wickham shot her was like a knife to Darcy’s stomach.
Wickham was a good dancer, damn him, and Elizabeth, of course, had superlative dancing skills. But Wickham seemed to be crowding her in one direction, breaking them from the line of dancers. How odd.
Oh, he had maneuvered Elizabeth beneath a clump of mistletoe. Wickham reached up to pluck a berry and presented it to Elizabeth. Darcy was too far away to hear what was said, but she gave Wickham a good-natured smile and allowed him to kiss her. It was a quick kiss, a mere brush of the lips before she pulled back. But it was sufficiently long to ignite a fierce ache in Darcy’s hollow chest. Those kisses belong to me! But if I had plucked the berry, would she have been so quick to kiss me?
Wickham lingered, speaking softly into her ear. Around them the dancers eyed them with tolerant smiles, no doubt believing them to be an engaged couple. Darcy’s blood surged hot through his veins, and he locked his knees lest he surrender to the impulse to stride across the intervening distance and rip them apart.
Darcy yearned to stay and claim another dance with Elizabeth, but it would be unwise. His heart was bruised enough with longing for this delightful creature he could not have. If he remained, he was in danger of blurting out his feelings for her—or taking her for a visit to the mistletoe. His kisses would erase every memory of Wickham from her mind.
He tore his gaze from her and fixed his eyes instead on the darkened windows leading to the terrace. He owed his family—and his family name—too much. He could not marry Elizabeth Bennet, and thus it was best not to dance with her. It would only give his foolish heart more encouragement.
At first he had been relieved she had believed his warnings about Wickham so readily, but now he feared that she had not taken them to heart. I must find another way to convince her without giving rise to expectations. Another day.
Resolutely, Darcy turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
Chapter Four
Four days had passed since the Marlowes’ ball, but as she did her needlework Elizabeth still hummed some of the music they had played. She had been blessed by some excellent partners. Mr. Wickham was quite light on his feet and never faltered in the steps. His attentiveness created the illusion that she was the only woman in the room.
Mr. Darcy was an excellent dancer as well, although his attention unsettled her; she did not know why he had sought her out other than to discuss Mr. Wickham, an activity which hardly required dancing. Still, he had been a good partner. In truth, better than Mr. Wickham, although Elizabeth was loath to admit it even to herself. Despite their stilted conversation, they had danced as if made for each other. For a few brief minutes she had felt like she was flying.
No, Elizabeth admonished herself. She could indulge in the memories, but nothing would come of it. Mr. Darcy was attractive, no doubt—with his dark wavy hair and intent dark eyes that somehow always seemed turned in Elizabeth’s direction. As they danced, his hands had held her so tenderly, as though she were infinitely precious. But he was too…he was not enough…
When she recalled dancing with Mr. Darcy, she found it difficult to remember her objections to him. No. Elizabeth shook her head. She should not be silly about this. An attractive man danced well; there was nothing more to say.
She turned her thoughts to the more promising subject of Mr. Wickham. In the carriage on the way home from the ball, Aunt Gardiner had observed, “I believe you have made a conquest there.”
Elizabeth was not so certain; he had neglected to dance with her when he had promised—although he had explained that faux pas by saying the pretty blonde woman had been spurned by another man; Mr. Wickham had partnered her to lift her spirits. Certainly, he possessed an easy air and a delightful countenance; his attentions to Elizabeth seemed sincere. Yet she felt little attachment to him. She waited to be overwhelmed with her feelings as Jane was with Mr. Bingley, but nothing had happened.
Now I am being fanciful again. My expectations are too high; not everyone in the world is destined for such love. Mr. Wickham was pleasant company—far pleasanter than Mr. Darcy. Most likely nothing would come of it. Elizabeth would enjoy the soldier’s company and return to Hertfordshire with naught to show but memories of a few flirtations.
When her Uncle Gardiner strolled into the drawing room, both Elizabeth and her aunt looked up from their needlework. He sat heavily in an armchair before speaking. “Well, Madeline, I told you I wrote to my brother Bennet.” He waved a letter.
Elizabeth sat up straighter. Why had Uncle Gardiner corresponded with her father?
Her uncle fixed his gaze on Elizabeth. “This concerns you as well, Lizzy. At the Marlowes’ ball, your aunt was most concerned about the animosity between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy—and how they both wished to involve you in their dispute.”
Elizabeth stabbed her needle into the cloth rather more forcefully than required. Mr. Darcy had already intruded sufficiently into her life, and she had no desire to discuss him with her aunt and uncle.
Her uncle continued, “I wrote to your father to obtain his opinion on the matter.” Adjusting his spectacles, he read from the letter. “‘I have not heard one word uttered against Mr. Wickham in Hertfordshire. All who know him consider him to be a pleasant and well-mannered man who has been mistreated by the Darcy family. Mr. Darcy, however, is a proud, unpleasant man who was generally disliked in Hertfordshire society. I have no reason or inclination to believe his word over that of Mr. Wickham.’”
Elizabeth gave a slow nod. “I am inclined to believe Mr. Wickham as well. The two men have quarreled in the past about matters that are of importance to Mr. Darcy, but I cannot imagine they are as dire as he portrays. Nor am I inclined to discontinue my association with Mr. Wickham.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. I would be most sorry to banish Mr. Wickham from my house.” Uncle Gardiner’s eyes twinkled.
Aunt Gardiner frowned. “I have never heard that Mr. Darcy is untrustworthy; however, I do not like his attentions to you, Lizzy. It is hard to conceive that his intentions are honorable.”
Elizabeth felt a frisson of anxiety. She was inclined to believe that he sought her company primarily to sneer at her country manners and lack of polish, but perhaps he did possess deeper, darker motives which would be served by warning her about Mr. Wickham.
Mr. Darcy did not appear to be the type to seduce women for the pleasure of it, but many of his class were. What did Elizabeth know of it?
Her uncle stood but handed a letter to Elizabeth before quitting the room. “Here is a note from your mother, which was enclosed along with my letter. I shall leave you to it.”
Dropping her needlework in her lap, Elizabeth slowly opened the letter and read its
contents.
