“Illegal, yes,” Darcy cut him off. “Yet necessary.”
“But over such an obvious fabrication! No one of sense could believe?—”
“Believe what?” Darcy demanded. “That I proposed to Elizabeth Bennet? That I compromised her virtue? That I fathered a child and now refuse to acknowledge it? Whichpart strikes you as too fantastic for the gossips of Meryton to embrace?”
Bingley’s eyes hardened. “I know the proposal occurred. Miss Elizabeth admitted it to me herself. She wept with remorse for having spoken of it to anyone, called it her greatest regret that she treated your private declaration as ‘an amusing anecdote to be shared.’”
Darcy stared at his friend, the bitter retort dying on his lips.
“The child is clearly Wickham’s fabrication,” Bingley continued firmly, “but you created the conditions for this slander to flourish when you denied the truth. Miss Elizabeth has already paid dearly for her indiscretion. This new accusation will destroy what little remains of her reputation.”
“But what if Wickham did father a child?” Darcy’s heart lurched at the boiling jealousy and despair.
“Then Wickham is no gentleman, and he deserves to face you tomorrow,” Bingley said with surprising firmness. “He’s taken advantage of her vulnerable state, exploiting her distress at having wronged you. I saw how she blamed herself.”
The suggestion sent a fresh wave of fury through Darcy’s chest. The image of Wickham and Elizabeth together—her turning to him for comfort, him exploiting her wounded pride—was more than Darcy could bear.
“Then I will provide for the child should I injure Wickham tomorrow,” Darcy declared. “He must be made to pay for his crimes.”
“I will act as your second,” Bingley said. “Though I wish you would reconsider. Wickham is not worth risking your life over.”
“This is not about Wickham,” Darcy replied. “It is about truth. About honor.”
“Honor,” Bingley echoed, a strange note in his voice. “Tell me, Darcy—did you propose to Miss Elizabeth at Hunsford?”
The direct question caught Darcy off guard. The weight of the lie he had maintained these past weeks suddenly felt unbearable.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I did propose to her. And she refused me most decidedly.”
Bingley’s eyes widened—not at the confirmation, which Elizabeth had already provided, but at Darcy’s willingness to acknowledge it at last.
“Then why deny it?”
“Pride,” Darcy said bitterly. “She wounded my pride in ways I had never experienced. The manner of her refusal was… most cutting.”
“So you punished her with your denial.”
It was not a question, and Darcy did not treat it as one. “My judgments regarding the Bennet family still stand,” he said firmly. “Elizabeth’s indiscretion with Wickham only confirms their lack of propriety and restraint.”
He paused, then added with visible effort, “However, I was mistaken about Miss Jane Bennet. Her behavior has been entirely proper—perhaps excessively so. I wrongly interpreted her reserve as indifference to your attentions.”
Bingley’s face registered shock at this unexpected admission. “You’re saying that Jane?—”
“She cares for you,” Darcy said stiffly. “Elizabeth claimed as much during her refusal, and her assessment appears to be accurate. Miss Jane Bennet should not be judged by her family’s impropriety or her sister’s situation.”
“So you were wrong about Jane,” Bingley said slowly. “Might you not be wrong about Elizabeth as well? Might she be as much a victim of Wickham’s manipulations as you believe yourself to be?”
The suggestion was disturbing. If Elizabeth was innocent—if Wickham had manipulated her as he had once attempted withGeorgiana—then Darcy’s cold denial had played directly into his enemy’s hands.
“I will duel George Wickham for his insult to Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy declared. “Whatever passed between us, she does not deserve this calumny.”
“I will act as your second,” Bingley replied. “But I ask you to consider that perhaps neither you nor Elizabeth is the villain in this affair. There is only one true enemy here, and he just left to prepare for tomorrow’s duel.”
With that, he turned toward the house, leaving Darcy alone with thoughts more turbulent than the gathering storm clouds.
The duel would be a simple matter. Darcy was a skilled marksman, and Wickham, for all his bluster, had never shown particular proficiency with firearms. A flesh wound would be sufficient to satisfy honor.
Yet Bingley’s questions lingered, undermining Darcy’s certainty. Had he allowed pride to cloud his judgment? Was Elizabeth another victim rather than a co-conspirator? The possibility that his pride had blinded him to her innocence was too painful to contemplate.
