Outside, the rain began again, soft and steady against the windowpane. Inside, George Wickham smiled. The game was in motion. And for once,heheld the winning hand.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The rain had not stopped for days. From her window seat, Elizabeth Bennet watched the droplets trickle down the panes in winding paths, their rhythm oddly soothing. The countryside beyond was misted and grey, the trees sagging with the weight of water. The drawing room was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth, and Jane sat at her embroidery with a faint, contented smile on her face.
Elizabeth sighed and looked away.
“You have been gazing out that window all morning, Lizzy,” Jane said without looking up.
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Have I? I hardly noticed.”
“Mm.” Jane’s eyes twinkled. “And have you been hoping to see something—or someone—in particular galloping through the rain?”
Elizabeth turned, feigning shock. “Jane Bennet, what a scandalous suggestion.”
Jane lifted her brow. “You do not deny it.”
“There is nothing to deny. Mr Darcy is far too sensible to go riding in weather like this.”
“True,” Jane said, threading her needle with deliberate calm. “But you hoped he might.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “It has been three days. I rather miss him.”
Jane glanced up. “His attentions have become quite…pronounced.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, but teased in return. “His cousin is delightful—such a contrast to Mr Darcy. I like him immensely.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has charm,” Jane agreed. “But not enough to rival Mr Darcy, I think.”
Elizabeth gave her a mock glare. “If you continue in this manner, I may be forced to find fault with your Mr Bingley.”
Jane laughed, a rare bright sound in the gloom of the day. “Touché.”
At that moment, the rain tapered to a misty drizzle. A shaft of light pierced the clouds, painting a silver line along the horizon.
“There!” Jane stood and pointed. “Go stretch your legs before the rain changes its mind. But for heaven’s sake, stay out of the mud.”
Elizabeth did not need further encouragement. She retrieved her shawl and bonnet and slipped out into the soft, wet air, the earth damp beneath her walking boots but firm enough. She walked beyond the gardens and down the lane, enjoying the smell of rain-soaked leaves and rich soil. The breeze stirred, cool and refreshing.
It was only after she rounded a bend in the lane that she saw him.
“Miss Bennet!” George Wickham stood beneath a large oak, his red coat darkened slightly from dampness. His hat was in his hand, his smile broad.
“Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth’s steps slowed.
“Fortune favours me today.” He approached with a graceful bow. “The sun breaks through at last, and I encounter the loveliest sight Hertfordshire has to offer.”
Elizabeth laughed, but cautiously. “Sir, you are too kind. What brings you so far from Meryton? This is not your usual patrol route, I imagine.”
“Ah,” he said with a touch of drama, “I am but a humble soldier at the mercy of my boots and my whims. A wanderer in search of clearer skies.”
“I see. And did you find them?”
“In part.” He looked at her, dark eyes gleaming. “The clouds parted only when you appeared.” He impatiently brushed at a stray lock of hair that insisted on falling across his forehead.
Elizabeth shifted. There was something familiar about his gaze, but she could not quite place it. “I have seen you at several gatherings recently, Mr Wickham, yet we’ve had little chance to speak.”
“Too little,” he agreed. “Which is why I am grateful for this unexpected opportunity.”
