“Each person,” Wickham continued, “will reveal a part of themselves unknown to the company—a middle name perhaps, or a family appellation used only by intimate acquaintances. The more surprising the revelation, the more points are scored.”
Sir William clapped his hands together. “Capital! I shall begin, shall I? My middle name is… Bartholomew! After my maternal grandfather, who was a most distinguished tradesman in his day.”
Titters of laughter greeted this revelation, which surprised absolutely no one who had endured Sir William’s detailed family histories over the years.
The game proceeded around the room, with each participant offering a minor personal detail—middle names, childhood nicknames, family traditions—to general amusement. Darcy observed with growing apprehension as the circle of participants drew closerto Elizabeth. Wickham had positioned himself strategically nearby, his attention seemingly casual but his gaze alert.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Sir William called, “your turn! What secret shall you share with us?”
Elizabeth laughed, her eyes bright with the simple pleasure of social entertainment. “I fear I have nothing particularly mysterious to reveal, Sir William. I’m known here to most.”
“Elizabeth is such a beautiful name,” Wickham said. “I wonder what goes with it. Elizabeth Sarah? Elizabeth Mathilda?”
“Oh no, it’s—” She hesitated, the beat no longer than a blink. “It’s Rose. Elizabeth Rose Bennet, at your service.”
Rose.
Darcy felt a peculiar stillness come over him as the name hung in the air. Rose Cottage at Pemberley. Elizabeth Rose Bennet. His father’s warning against the Bennet name. These disparate elements connected in ways he could not articulate but filled him with profound unease.
Why would anyone name a daughter after a murder scene?
Darcy shook his head. He was becoming hysterical. Certainly, there were other Bennets in England. He believed there was a wool merchant family of Bennets from Yorkshire, and another acquaintance in Staffordshire. He couldn’t suspect every Bennet elevated to a deathbed warning. Especially not an impudent miss with those perceptive eyes.
Across the circle, Wickham’s face remained pleasantly interested, but Darcy caught the flash of triumph in his eyes.
“Rose,” Wickham repeated, his voice warm as honey. “How lovely. Does it have some family significance, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth shrugged lightly. “If so, my father has never mentioned it. I have always assumed it was chosen simply because it is a pretty name.”
“It suits you perfectly,” Wickham said, his gaze lingering on her face with an intensity that made Darcy’s jaw clench. “Beauty,strength, and if I may say so, a few well-placed thorns for protection.”
Elizabeth laughed at the compliment, clearly charmed by Wickham’s attention. “You attribute thorns to me already, Lieutenant? We have only recently become acquainted.”
“Some qualities announce themselves immediately,” Wickham replied, his smile calculated to disarm. “A rose, after all, makes no secret of its defenses—nor of its beauty.”
The game continued around the circle, but Darcy barely registered the other revelations. His attention remained fixed on Wickham, who had subtly maneuvered himself to stand beside Elizabeth. Their heads were bent close in conversation, Wickham’s expression one of intense interest as Elizabeth spoke.
“They make a handsome pair, do they not?” Caroline Bingley’s voice at his elbow startled him. Her tone held a mixture of malice and satisfaction that grated on his already strained nerves.
“I had not considered the matter,” Darcy replied coldly.
“No? I thought perhaps you had been considering it these twenty minutes at least, given the intensity of your gaze. Lieutenant Wickham seems quite taken with Miss Elizabeth. One might even say unnaturally so, given their brief acquaintance.”
“Your observations on the attachments of others are always enlightening, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, his voice edged with sarcasm he did not bother to disguise.
Caroline persisted, apparently immune to his displeasure. “I merely find it curious that he should single her out so particularly. After all, while Miss Elizabeth is tolerable enough, she is hardly the beauty of the family—that distinction belongs to Miss Bennet—nor is she likely to possess any substantial dowry.”
The echo of his own unfortunate words at the assembly rankled, but Caroline’s observation aligned with thoughts that had troubled Darcy. Elizabeth Bennet, while captivating to him personally, was not an obvious target for Wickham’s usual mercenary pursuits. She was neither an heiress nor a recognized beauty.
Darcy decided, even though he knew better, that she would be quite safe from Wickham’s tendencies. More likely, George had sensed his own interest in Elizabeth, purely as an object lesson for country manners, mind you, and was mercilessly needling him.
He turned his attention away from Elizabeth and joined a conversation with Sir William and Mr. Goulding, a local landowner who extolled Jethro Tull’s horse-drawn seed drill. Their discussion of planting and harvesting might have proven enlightening had Sir William not interrupted every third sentence with reminiscences of agricultural exhibits he had witnessed in London.
As the evening drew to a close, Darcy watched with a sense of disquiet as Wickham escorted Elizabeth to her family’s carriage.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Wickham’s voice rose above the general conversation. “Might I call at Longbourn tomorrow? I should very much like to continue our discussion about Derbyshire landscapes.”
Elizabeth’s smile was warm, her eyes bright with pleasure at his attention. “I would like that, Lieutenant Wickham. Though I fear my father may not be receiving visitors at present.”
