Chapter 1
Early Autumn 1816, Meryton
“Gentlemen, many of you have flirted with Lydia. Now, you have the chance to do more than merely flirt with her.”
George Wickham, an ensign in the regulars who was currently surviving on half-pay, a good deal of credit, and a full snifter of brandy, gestured to his wife of four years.
“She was once known for her high animal spirits, her ebullience,” continued George, swirling his glass and looking at Lydia dispassionately. “Took me an age and an ostensible elopement to Gretna Green to get under those skirts.”
He chuckled darkly, as did some men ringing the dark room.
“You needn’t work so hard for her. I’ve already broken her in, and she’ll be a perfect, compliant…companion for you.”
Wickham licked a drop of brandy from his lips with relish.
“Unless you prefer a fight.”
The observers at the back of Meryton’s only inn laughed and leered.
Lydia had made a terrible mistake. In truth, she’d made so many that they all now seemed to blend into one disaster categorized asWickham. She’d thought that marrying George and staying by his side would make her respectable and admired. At sixteen, when she’d said her vows, she reveled in the idea of being a married lady and rising above her sisters in precedence. How silly she’d been! What a fool!
She clutched the fine fabric of the dress her husband had tossed at her earlier that night, implying that they would attend the local assembly ball, without ever saying as much. By the time they made their way to the inn, Lydia was looking forward to dancing — only for her hopes to come crashing down when George had squired her into a smoky room with no space for a cotillion. She should have known better.
“Maybe she’s only good for you, Wickham,” called a man who was puffing on a cheroot while studying Lydia skeptically. “We’re not all handsome young devils, at least not anymore.”
“Here, here,” said another man, leering at Lydia’s neckline. “That little kitten might have claws.”
The man nearest Lydia trailed a hand over her hip and tried to grab her arse before she jumped away. It wouldn’t do for her gown to get damaged tonight, not when it was her first new clothing in years. The dress hadn’t even come from Wickham.
Lydia studied her white glove — the only one remaining of the two that had been sent to her — and attempted not to notice men looking her way with unmistakable hunger. She recognized them from the town, even from church. But she saw no friendly faces, only expressions of naked lust.
“You’d like to sample the goods before entering the game?” asked Wickham, his elegant eyebrows arched as if in surprise. “I’d have thought you’d take my word as a gentleman.”
The room was so still that Lydia heard a soft huff of disbelief from the back.
“I have nothing to hide,” said Wickham, his arms open wide. “It seems you doubt my offer. The offer of my wife to the winner.”
One of her trembling hands, the one not encased in a fine new glove, found its way up to Lydia’s face without her even noticing. She pressed a cool palm against her scorching cheek and tried to calm her breathing, biting the inside of her mouth to hold back tears.
In truth, she’d done this to herself. Over and over, she’d chosen wrong.
Six weeks ago, Wickham had wagered Lydia for the first time and lost. The winning men — three army officers she’d known as a girl in this very town — had sent her clothes and a carriage before pleasuring her for one ecstatic night. Then they’d offered her the opportunity to stay with them.
In the end, she’d fled and returned to George Wickham, once again chasing the respectable married life he seemed so delighted to deny her. Only for him to deal this fresh new public humiliation, the likes of which she couldn’t have imagined before tonight. It was one thing to discover she’d been privately wagered and lost; it was another to be trotted out for inspection and humiliated publicly by her very own husband. He was more brazen than ever.
“I’m surprised the men of this fine town doubt me,” said Wickham.
“You owe Mr. Hobson, the butcher, a good sum of money,” said one voice from the back.
“Say nothing of the tailor,” muttered a man closer to the place Wickham had Lydia standing, illuminated by lamplight. “This man can’t satisfy his debts; who is to say that his wife can satisfy them for him?”
This drew chuckles. Wickham was well on his way to losing the crowd — and his scheme to raise funds.
Wickham looped an arm around Lydia’s waist and pulled her nearer. It was the first time he’d touched her in ages, and she instinctively recoiled. He held her more firmly.
“Steady now,” he said in a warning tone before addressing the hecklers. “I can assure you my wife is more than prepared to entertain the winning gentleman. I’d have thought that a flirtatious girl from a good family would tempt those who prefer a more refined sort of woman.”
When Lydia saw men gazing at her with skepticism, she studied the floor. This night was humiliating enough, but being assessed so openly and with such disdain by the middling citizens of Meryton was too much to bear. She’d once enjoyed their eyes on her when she’d flirted with six officers at a time, but this was a far cry from the amusements of her youth!
