Page 59 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

The color rose in Wickham's face. Pounding his fist against his own chest, he taunted, “I have won. I shall propose to Elizabeth⁠—”

“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy hissed. The correction landed like a slap.

Wickham's nostrils flared. “She will agree to marry me before the reading of the will. When she learns what you have done—how you have deceived her—she will be glad to spurn you. You will lose Pemberley, and I will inherit everything. The property, the wealth, and the lady you were supposed to marry.”

Darcy stepped forward. Not a large step. He simply closed the distance between them until the bully was forced to stumble back half a pace on the gravel. “How dare you place greater importance on the property and the money than on her. Miss Elizabeth is worth so much more than Pemberley.”

“And yet, without her, there is no Pemberley. That makes her the ultimate prize.”

The man’s haughty bravado burned in Darcy’s veins. He looked at Wickham for a long moment, his features carefully schooled into an expression of boredom while he tried to see Wickham through Elizabeth’s eyes. No, she was too intelligent and self-reliant to accept such a man without proof of his character. “She will never marry you.”

The wretch’s chest puffed out. “She will. She is indebted to me. When the will is read and your secret is out, she will beg me to marry her.”

Bile rose in Darcy's throat. He breathed through it, steadily, until it passed. Releasing one hand from the ax handle, Darcy raised his finger and pressed it firmly against Wickham's lapel. “Hurt her, and I will hunt you down.”

“You would not dare.”

Slowly, deliberately, Darcy smiled. “Do not make the mistake of believing I am the same boy you once knew. You do not know me. You have no idea what I would do.” Wickham froze under his glare but did not look away. His desperation was evident, and the realization sent a chill through Darcy. Just how desperate was this man?

For a moment, neither moved. Then Wickham smiled, his eyes cold and his laugh threatening as he turned his back to Darcy and walked to the house.

That ominous smile and laughter told Darcy that Wickham intended to propose. Now. He was going to walk through that door and say the words, and Elizabeth would have to answer.

Should she put her own happiness before the needs of her family, Darcy knew she would refuse. But she had spent most of her life selflessly, dutifully absorbing her father’s negligence and her mother’s ignorance. Her sisters depended on her.

He strode toward the house before he had consciously decided to move. The hallway was stiflingly warm. Wickham was already being admitted to Mr. Bennet's book room, the old man's face arranged in its customary expression of dry, impenetrable courtesy until he saw Darcy standing behind his preferred guest. “Ah, Mr. Wickham. Come in, come in. Shut the door, if you please.” The door clicked shut behind Wickham’s taunting grin.

Having nowhere safe to go but needing to be near Elizabeth, Darcy joined the ladies in the drawing room.

“A private word with Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet fanned her face excitedly, looking proudly about the room at her daughters. Darcy sat by the door and tried not to be sick. Mrs. Bennet was no different than any other mother who wished to see her daughters settled well, but she gave her approval much too freely.

“Mr. Wickham is no doubt discussing business with Papa, as he has done the past few days.” Miss Mary sent a concerned look at Elizabeth, who contemplated her clasped hands on her lap. This reply did not suit Mrs. Bennet, nor did it foster sisterly affection in the younger Bennets, who rather wished they were the recipients of frequent calls from a fashionable gentleman.

Elizabeth looked up at Darcy; their eyes met. Wait for me, Darcy screamed through his gaze. Miss Bennet saw the exchange, if the narrowing of her eyes was an accurate indicator. She would gladly let her sister marry out of a sense of familial duty. Further comment was cut short when a maid appeared in the doorway with a request that Elizabeth join her father in the book room.

Darcy followed her out of the drawing room and down the hall. She turned to face him, a small furrow between her brows. He felt the wrongness of his position acutely: ten days of calculated distance, and now here he was, unable to stay away. “Miss Elizabeth⁠—”

The book room door opened, to Darcy’s dismay and relief. He had no idea what he should say. He only knew he could not let her walk through that door without⁠—

Mr. Bennet appeared, his smile disappearing at the sight of Darcy. Stepping back, he held the door open for Elizabeth. “My dear.” She went in. It was bold of him, but Darcy attempted to follow.

Until Mr. Bennet closed the door in front of him. Rather firmly. Darcy rested his forehead against the door, the voices too muffled to hear through the barrier.

He trusted her. He did. Elizabeth was intelligent, discerning, and impervious to flattery from men she did not respect. She already distrusted Wickham. But…

Behind that door was a man telling her that she need only say yes and the weight she had carried her whole life would be lifted. Wickham would believe it himself, in his way, because he had always believed whatever was convenient. It was a dangerous feature of his character that lent sincerity to his persuasiveness.

The truth would come out in two days. Everything was in order. She did not need to agree to anything today, nor would she give a hasty reply when she still considered herself betrothed to Fitzwilliam Darcy. She was honorable. He trusted her. Darcy told himself this. He stood in the hallway with his hands closed at his sides and his jaw tight and his ear bent toward a door he could not open, and he told himself, very firmly, that he trusted her.

CHAPTER 33

Elizabeth walked past Papa into his book room, half-turning to ensure Robbie followed just as the door slammed at her back with a finality that made her flinch. She spun around fully, startled at the sound and her father’s marked incivility. What had Robbie wanted to say? And why did Papa not wish for his presence? Her father placed himself between her and the door, his expression impatient but kind. Perhaps he had not seen Robbie? Perhaps the draft from the window had blown the door shut with unnecessary force?

Across the room, Mr. Wickham rose from the chair nearest the fire. He smoothed his coat, bowing elegantly and smiling as though he had expected her arrival and was pleased to see her.

Elizabeth did not move. She had assumed that Mr. Wickham’s calls over the past several days concerned his progress with the Collector of Customs, that he would produce documentation securing the discharge of her father’s debt. It was what she told herself every afternoon Mr. Wickham called, conversing for a brief spell with them in the drawing room before joining her father in the book room for another quarter of an hour. It was a sensible explanation, and she had clung to it.

Now her certainty was shaken, replaced with unease. The expression on Mr. Wickham’s face was not one of a man who had come to discuss paperwork.