“Why, Mr. Darcy!” Wickham's voice carried across the street, warm and welcoming. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Every head turned.
Miss Elizabeth followed Wickham's gaze and met Darcy's eyes across the frozen street. Her expression flickered—surprise, curiosity, something else he could not name.
She gave him a nod, warm and polite, accompanied by a small smile.
Darcy's heart stopped.
She did not know. She could not know what Wickham was—what he had done, what he was capable of. She saw only the charming officer with the easy manners and the sympathetic tales. She believed him. Trusted him.
And Darcy could say nothing to warn her without exposing Georgiana to scandal.
The helplessness was suffocating.
Mrs. Bennet was saying something, her voice bright with the particular enthusiasm she reserved for handsome youngofficers. Lydia was giggling again. Kitty had attached herself to Lydia's arm, the two of them whispering behind their hands.
Miss Elizabeth was still looking at Darcy, her brow faintly furrowed, as though trying to read his expression.
He could not let her see.
He could not let any of them see the turmoil raging beneath his careful composure—the jealousy and the fear and the desperate urge to cross the street, take her arm, and lead her away from Wickham's poisonous influence.
He bowed stiffly, his movements mechanical.
And then he turned and walked away before he could do something unforgivable.
The walk back to Netherfield was agony.
Every step took him further from Miss Elizabeth and closer to the dark spiral of his own thoughts. He saw her smile playing before his eyes—the smile she had given Wickham, warm and unsuspecting. He imagined Wickham spinning his tales, painting Darcy as the villain, earning her sympathy and her trust.
He imagined worse things. Wickham charming her completely. Wickham drawing her in as he had drawn in Georgiana. Wickham destroying everything Darcy?—
No.
He could not think about that. He would not.
Miss Elizabeth was too clever to be fooled. She would see through Wickham, eventually. She had to. Her wit, herperception, her sharp intelligence—surely they would protect her where Darcy's silence could not.
But the memory of her smile haunted him.
She had been so warm. So open. So entirely unlike the guarded woman who sparred with him at every opportunity.
She liked Wickham.
The realization was a knife between his ribs.
By the time Darcy reached Netherfield, his mood had deteriorated from miserable to thunderous. He stalked through the entrance hall without greeting the servants, made his way to the library, and stood before the window, staring out at the frost-covered grounds without seeing them.
He should have spoken.
He should have crossed the street, made some excuse, pulled Miss Elizabeth aside and warned her about Wickham's true character. He should have?—
What? Exposed Georgiana's shame to protect a woman who barely tolerated him? Demanded Miss Elizabeth trust his word over the charming officer's? Behaved like a jealous fool in front of her entire family?
There was no good option. There had never been a good option.
Wickham was in Meryton, spreading his poison, and Darcy could do nothing but watch and wait and hope that Miss Elizabeth's cleverness would save her.
