“I may have encouraged haste.”
Her eyes warmed. “How very public-spirited of you.”
“I thought so.”
He had just taken a place beside her when the door opened and Netherfield’s butler entered with an expression of controlled disturbance.
“Mr. Bingley,” he said, “I beg your pardon. A gentleman has arrived and insists upon being admitted. He says he is a friend of the Darcys.”
Darcy looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. “A friend of mine?”
Richard, across the room, straightened. Before the servant could answer, another figure appeared behind him.
“There is my beautiful bride!” the man cried, stepping into the room with a familiar smile that curdled the blood in Darcy’s veins. “Georgiana, my dear, I have come for you at last.”
For one instant, the room sat frozen.
Then Darcy was on his feet. “Wickham!” he bellowed furiously.
Richard rose at almost the same moment, his face hardening from joviality into a soldier’s readiness. Georgiana, seated beside Mary, blinked in confusion. Her face had gone very white.
“Bride?” she whispered. “Brother, what does he mean?”
Darcy could not answer her at once.
Wickham stood in the doorway as if he had been invited to delight them all. He was older than when Darcy had last seen him properly, though not much changed. Still handsome. Still loose-limbed and easy in his movements. Still wearing charm like a coat cut by a master tailor to disguise rot beneath. Hissmile widened as he looked around the room, taking in the company, the candles, the ladies, and the shock his entrance had caused.
Darcy felt rage rise so swiftly that he feared, for one terrible moment, he would cross the room and strike him in front of them all.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Wickham placed one hand to his chest in mock injury. “Such a welcome, Darcy. And after all these years.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I should have thought that obvious. I have come for Georgiana. To marry her, as your dear father always intended.”
Georgiana made a small sound. Elizabeth moved at once, crossing to her side with such instinctive swiftness that Darcy’s heart twisted even through fury. She put an arm around Georgiana, drawing her close. Georgiana did not resist. She looked too stunned to do anything but stare.
Darcy took one step forward. “You will not speak her name.”
Wickham’s smile sharpened. “But it will be mine to speak soon enough.”
Richard came to stand beside Darcy. “Explain yourself.”
“Gladly, Colonel.” Wickham gave him a shallow bow. “I am here to claim my bride. Georgiana’s father promised her to me when she reached sixteen. A touching arrangement, really. One made out of affection, gratitude, and the recognition that I was raised almost as a son of Pemberley.”
“That is a lie,” Darcy said.
“Is it?” Wickham slipped one hand inside his coat. “How rash of you to say so before seeing the proof.”
He drew out a folded paper.
Darcy stared at it.
No. Father would never…
Wickham crossed the room with maddening ease and held it out, not to Darcy but slightly away from him, as though enjoying the delay. Darcy snatched it from his hand and unfolded it.
