Or so he told himself, ignoring the hollow ache beneath his anger, the echo of a feeling he was determined to crush before it could weaken him again.
CHAPTER THREE
I DECLARE WAR
Elizabeth laughed more brightlythan she felt as she passed the card table where her mother and aunt were engaged in a spirited game of whist. The warm glow of candlelight suffused Mrs. Phillips’ drawing room, reflecting off polished silver and crystal glasses, yet did nothing to dispel the curious emptiness that had plagued Elizabeth since her return from Kent.
She had expected to feel triumphant after refusing Mr. Darcy. Instead, the memory of his proposal—and her cutting rejection—lingered like a persistent shadow, coloring even the most pleasant evening in Meryton society.
“You seem distant tonight, Miss Elizabeth,” Lieutenant Wickham said, appearing at her elbow with two glasses of ratafia. “I hope my company has not grown tiresome.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth assured him, accepting the offered drink. “I am merely distracted by the din of merriment.”
Around them, the Phillips’ drawing room buzzed with conversation and laughter. The militia officers, resplendent in their regimentals, added a festive air to the gathering. Sir William Lucas boomed with laughter at something Colonel Forster had said, while Mrs. Lucas engaged her younger sister Mary in what appeared to be a serious discussion of churchmusic. Kitty and Lydia flitted from officer to officer like butterflies among flowers, their giggles rising above the general hum of conversation.
Wickham studied her with a somber gaze. “I confess, I have been concerned about you. You have not seemed yourself since our conversation after church.”
Elizabeth felt a prickle of discomfort. Had she been so transparent? “I assure you, I am perfectly well.”
“I fear I may have caused you distress,” Wickham continued, lowering his voice. “After hearing of Mr. Darcy’s ungentlemanly behavior toward you, I… well, I took it upon myself to act.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “What do you mean?”
Wickham glanced around the crowded room, then gestured toward the small anteroom adjoining the drawing room. “Perhaps we might speak more privately?”
Curiosity overcame her unease. She nodded, following him to the partially secluded space where a writing desk and several chairs were arranged near the window. The doorway remained open to the main room, maintaining propriety while affording them a measure of privacy.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Wickham began, his handsome face etched with concern, “as a gentleman, I could not stand by while knowing that Mr. Darcy had spoken so contemptuously of you and your family. The insults he delivered during his proposal—calling your connections disadvantageous, speaking of your family with such disdain—I found them unconscionable.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with mortification. She had been so eager to share her triumph over Darcy’s arrogance that she had perhaps been too free with the details. “Mr. Wickham, I hope you will not trouble yourself.”
“I took the liberty of writing to him,” Wickham interrupted gently, his expression pained. “I demanded that he acknowledge his behavior and make proper amends for his rudeness toward alady. I could not, in good conscience, allow such ungentlemanly conduct to pass without challenge.”
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face. “You wrote to Mr. Darcy?”
“I sought only to defend your honor,” Wickham said quickly, his hands spread in supplication. “I realize now that perhaps I overstepped, but when I heard how cruelly he had treated you—how he had insulted your family while claiming to love you—I could not remain silent.”
Elizabeth felt the world tilting beneath her feet. The very idea of Darcy receiving a letter from Wickham, knowing that her private humiliation had been shared, made her stomach lurch. “Mr. Wickham, you had no authority to write to anyone on my behalf.”
“I know, and I beg your forgiveness,” Wickham replied, his expression contrite. “But I received his reply today, and I fear…” He paused, seeming to struggle with himself. “Perhaps I should not burden you with his response. It only confirms what we already knew of his character.”
“He responded?”
“I’m afraid so.” Wickham reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper, handling it as though it were a venomous snake. “I had hoped he might show some remorse, perhaps even offer an apology for his behavior. Instead…”
“Show me.” Elizabeth’s voice was sharp with panic and growing fury.
Wickham hesitated, although he put the folded letter into her hands. “I fear this will cause you pain, Miss Elizabeth. Darcy’s response is… most unkind.”
She unfolded it, noting that the final portion appeared to have been torn away, and scanned the masculine script, each harsh stroke of the quill ripping into the fine stationery.
Wickham,
Your letter has been received and its contents noted.
I am at a loss to understand your reference to any proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. No such event occurred during my stay in Kent. I did, on occasion, encounter the lady during her visit to her friend Mrs. Collins, but never in circumstances that could be considered improper or unchaperoned.
Whatever tale Miss Bennet has spun for your amusement, I suggest you consider the source. A tendency toward exaggeration and romantic fantasy is not uncommon among young ladies of limited prospects and lively imaginations.
