by Gail McEwen
“Are you sorry not to have had your own wedding day?”
“A little.” She smiled wistfully, but then shook her head to put away childish expectations. “But George was right, it was for the best. And now I am doubly glad. I would not overshadow your special day for the world.”
“Why should I deserve a special day over you?” Jane looked distressed.
“Because you have not astonished the neighbourhood by previously refusing two eligible offers, nor has Mr Bingley suffered from a very public broken engagement. In those circumstances, a wedding day such as yours, however wonderful it might have been, would be laughable.”
“Oh, Lizzy…”
“No, Jane, I am in earnest. It does not matter in the least. I am married to a wonderful man, and it would be silly and selfish of me to mourn a new dress or bridesmaids now, would it not?”
* * *
The night had been a long one for Darcy. The stunning news that Elizabeth Bennet was married to George Wickham would scarcely sink in. It could not be. He must have misheard because he could not credit the possibility that, knowing what she knew about the man, any woman of sense and wit could do such a thing.
Sometime in the wee hours, as the same questions of why and how swirled and spun in his scattered thoughts, a realisation hit him like a shot between the eyes: she had not believed him! That could be the only explanation. She had read his most painful confession regarding Wickham and Georgiana and had dismissed it all as a lie. His anger at that was nearly blinding, and it forced him out of his bed to seek refuge in agitated pacing in the darkness.
She had read his letter and married Wickham anyway. How could she? How dare she! The only explanation was that she must think him capable of anything! What right did she have to pass judgement on him and conclude that he was a man of such character as to fabricate slanders about his own sister in order to justify his prejudices against Wickham? Is that what she truly thought of him?
Surely not. All he knew of her told him that she could not be so blind; she could not be so foolish as to disregard the truth when it was laid before her. All he knew of her told him — He cut off that thought with a harsh laugh. All he knew of her? That was rich. What he thought he knew of her was obviously much different than who she truly was. He never would have believed she would choose a man like Wickham over himself. Another harsh laugh—it was a wonder she did if she thought so poorly of him. A man who could do the things she obviously believed Darcy capable of doing was apparently just the sort of man who attracted her! Had she not proven that by choosing a man without morals, decency or sense of responsibility? He had supposed that she would either believe him or seek answers, yet she had not gone to Fitzwilliam. A cold feeling of dread nearly overshadowed his anger. Had she gone to Wickham? Had she shown him the letter, and had he succeeded in explaining away all his misdeeds, once again making Darcy out to be the fool? Had the two of them read it together, laughing at the words he had penned in the deepest anguish? He groaned, remembering. He had written not only of facts but of feelings, and for Wickham to now know and mock them…
Bitterness engulfed him, and he had to restrain himself from physically lashing out against the furnishings. Wickham had won again, and again he was powerless to defeat him. He smashed his fist against the fireplace in protest of the impotent rage that burned within him. The sound was too dull to be satisfying, but the pain in his hand sharply echoed his furious thoughts. One more blow, and then another for good measure before he could go back to bed feeling some relief. For the rest of the night, whenever his thoughts threatened to get away from him, he would clench that fist tightly, the wincing pain forcing him to return to the present. For Bingley’s sake, he would stay until the wedding, but once it was over…then she could be damned along with that scoundrel she had married.
Chapter 5
The following day was as long and painful as the night. The gentlemen had been invited to take tea at Longbourn, and on the way, Darcy prepared himself to see the Wickhams face-to-face by mentally rehearsing a cool, scathing glance and nod, the only acknowledgement either would receive from him. He also braced himself to withstand Mrs Bennet’s inevitable effusions over one upcoming and one newly accomplished marriage, but upon his arrival, he found that much of his effort had been wasted. The Wickhams were not present and were touched upon only once by Mrs Bennet in conversation. Moreover, when the subject was gently reintroduced by the eldest Miss Bennet, her mother simply sniffed and turned the topic.
Retreating behind his usual reserve, Darcy waited quietly for the ordeal to be over, but once, when the soft conversation between Bingley and Miss Bennet could be heard between the general ebb and flow of parlour talk, he heard the name Elizabeth. He turned then and forced himself to speak.
“When do Mr and Mrs Wickham arrive?” he asked, nearly choking on the question.
Miss Bennet turned a cool and gentle smile tinged with a barely perceptible sympathy upon him.
“My sister is out walking, but Mr Wickham is in town on business and will not be here until tomorrow evening.”
She was there—alone! Why that should matter to him, or make a difference, he did not care to examine, but somehow it did. Very much. Damn Bingley for neglecting to mention that one crucial piece of information!
He fell into complete silence after that until Elizabeth returned from her extended walk. Prepared to allow his anger and disgust to carry him through that first uncomfortable meeting, he was surprised by the force of quite another emotion that stuck him upon first seeing her.
She looked much the same. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her cheeks flushed with the outdoors, and her smile was everything that had tugged at his heart from their earliest acquaintance— until she saw him. Immediately, the smile faded, and her face grew guarded. Steeling himself, he stood at once and strode towards her.
“Mrs Wickham.” He bowed in greeting, not bothering to conceal the scorn behind the words.
“Mr Darcy.” She curtsied.
Digging deep to find some sort of self-possession—or perhaps it was self-protection—he gave her a tight smile. “And how are you this afternoon, Mrs Wickham?”
“I am well, thank you, Mr Darcy.” She struggled to keep her face unreadable.
“I am glad to hear it…Mrs Wickham.” His face gave evidence that he was not.
Knowing Darcy’s harsh view of her family—and possibly because she could not deny that there was some measure of truth to his opinions—it pained Elizabeth greatly to see him in their company. She could imagine his every judgemental thought at her mother’s indiscreet tongue, her sisters’ silliness, and her father’s benign negligence. On such an occasion, she was certain every weakness he so looked down upon would be on full display. His criticisms still stung, and feeling defensive, she could not help wanting to sting him in turn.
“That is exceedingly kind of you,” she said with a smirk. “As you must have heard, I have every reason to be well— well and happy.”
A flash of red momentarily blinded him, and he could say nothing further; neither could he retreat from the defiant, expectant, look she gave him. Their eyes locked on each other, and it felt as if the entire room held its breath.
“I wonder…” Bingley began after a long, awkward moment, but he was cut short by his hostess.
“Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, you will stay to dinner, of course.” Mrs Bennet stepped forward, interrupting the strange stalemate.
“We would be delighted,” Bingley said, immediately relieved, but then shot a glance at his friend and demurred, “that is, we would be delighted but that my sister, I believe, has planned…”
Thankful for the reprieve, Darcy said, “You stay, Bingley. I shall return to Netherfield and dine with your sisters.”
“And what a cosy little party that will be,” Elizabeth smiled coyly. “Much grander than any fare you will find here, I am sure.”
Mrs Bennet stiffened at the effrontery, but Darcy merely bowed stiffly.
“Give my warmest greetings to Miss Bingley, but you must excuse me…” She left the thought unfinished, whirled around, and left the room. Every eye was on him as he watched her walk outdoors, and when he turned back to take his leave, he could read it in their faces; whether their expressions were pained, disappointed, embarrassed or amused, it was clear that everyone in the room knew about his failed proposal.
* * *
Yes, it was beneath her, and yes, she should be ashamed, but Elizabeth could only feel triumph for managing to render the haughty Mr Darcy speechless. Well, speechlessness on his part was not exactly a triumph, considering the man hardly spoke two words in company if he could help it, but nonetheless, she knew she had rattled him, and she was glad. Just as she turned onto the gravel path leading to the garden, she heard the crunch of an approaching footstep.
“Not so hasty if you please, Mrs Wickham,” Darcy’s voice called from behind. “I have not yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your splendid match.”
She turned in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am attempting to offer you my best wishes on your recent marriage.” His voice was anything but congratulatory. “Mrs Wickham.”
She drew herself up proudly. “Mr Darcy, if you feel compelled to speak my name as if it were an obscenity, I wish you would not feel it necessary to speak to me at all.”
“Believe me, I would not, but for…” he said tightly. She waited, arms crossed, brows raised first in curiosity then in bitter amusement as she watched him struggle for words and control.
“It is apparent,” he finally ventured, his face turning white with emotion, “that you think me capable of every kind of deceit.”
That was unexpected. “Mr Darcy, I have accused you, and rightfully so, of many things, but deceit has never been one of them.”
“Oh, you have Miss—” He took a breath to calm himself but it was seemingly without affect. “Mrs Wickham, you have. And that of the lowest kind. By disregarding my explanation of my dealings with Mr Wickham, you as much as accuse me of fabricating lies and slanders. But how you can think me capable of — ” He broke off again.
As he struggled for control of his voice and temper, Elizabeth furiously cast about, trying to remember when Mr Darcy had attempted to give her any explanation about his relationship with George other than his derisive dismissal of the allegations of cruelty towards him, but she could recall no such conversation. Still, he spoke as if she had gravely insulted his integrity.
“Mrs Wickham,” he said after another deep breath, “it is no longer my concern, as indeed, I see clearly it has never been, whether you do or do not believe me, but I must ask you — no, I beg you—to please keep my sister out of it.” He stopped once again, searching her face for something, looking with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. “Did you not even once ask yourself whether I might be telling the truth? I suppose he had some plausible excuse for it all.”
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, puzzled, “I cannot pretend to know to what you are referring, but believe me, I have no intention, and indeed no reason whatsoever, to speak of your sister to anyone.”
“If you mean what you say”— he collected himself— “then I thank you. Whatever I may have done to provide a source of amusement to your family and…husband”—he spat the word out as if it had a bad taste—“she does not deserve the same.”
“You may be assured that neither you nor your sister will be the subject of any conversation of mine.”
“And you may be assured that nothing in the world would have induced me to share my intimate concerns with you had I realised your true opinion of my character.”
“I have never made a secret of my opinion of your character, Mr Darcy, but whatever your concerns, they are of no interest to me. Please let me be on my way, and do not attempt to continue this very inappropriate line of conversation. I am married, and happily so, to Mr Wickham.”
It was too much. He should have let it go. He should have returned to Netherfield and let her continue to pretend ignorance as to his meaning, but suddenly he was done with polite pretence. She might affect disinterest, but he could make her be interested, and he would. “If you wish to remain so happy,” he said to her retreating back, “I would suggest that you refrain from asking Mr Wickham where he spends his evenings while he is away. You might not be so pleased with your situation if you knew.”
That did it. She stopped and whirled around.
“That is too presumptuous of you, sir! How dare you speak such slander!”
“And how dare you?” He stepped forward. “How dare you totally and callously disregard a confession most painfully made in favour of that man? How dare you dismiss— Is it that you presume I would fabricate such a story? How dare you presume I would be so unfeeling as to drag my sister’s name and honour through the mud—”
“That is quite enough, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth’s eyes snapped in anger. “I know nothing of your sister, and I dearly wish I could say the same of you! From the very beginning, your acquaintance has been nothing but unpleasant for me and my family, and I would be exceedingly content never to see your face again!”
“After tomorrow,” Mr Darcy said through clenched teeth, “you may be assured of it.”
* * *
George Wickham awoke feeling pleased with himself and his decision to return to Hertfordshire for the wedding. It had not started out that way; his reception at Longbourn the day before by all but his wife could have been more agreeable. Although he did his best to be charming, his mother-in-law was not as easily won over as he had anticipated. Mr Bennet was his usual taciturn self, and even his new sisters were more preoccupied with the upcoming wedding than with his witty remarks and flirtations. Bingley was the centre of attention at dinner; his witticisms were laughed at, his observations were readily agreed with, and his amiability was praised to the skies. Cries of “Oh, Mr Bingley,” “Dear Mr Bingley,” and “Of course, Mr Bingley,” echoed up and down the dinner table. By the second course, Wickham regretted not simply sending for Elizabeth to travel to London on her own. “Bingley”-this and “Bingley”-that was all he heard throughout the evening, and he resented every good-natured smile the man was disposed to send him. He returned them, of course. It would not do to offend a wealthy, soon-to-be relation, especially one as amiable and malleable as Charles Bingley.
It was not until after dinner that Darcy was mentioned at all, but once he was assured that the gentleman was in the neighbourhood, the possibilities that presented themselves kept Wickham’s mind pleasantly occupied until he and Elizabeth retired later that night. What good sport it would be to walk up to Darcy in public with Elizabeth on his arm. He would nod and smile while Elizabeth fawned and hung upon his every word, and Darcy would have no choice but to face his own inferiority and defeat, stiffly and silently. Too proud to demean himself with any public show of emotion, Darcy would keep it all inside, smouldering with anger and squirming under the humiliation. Wickham smiled in anticipation and took another sip of Mr Bennet’s fine port, letting the conversation flow around him in the parlour and ignoring Elizabeth’s curious glances.
At last, Bingley took his leave, and the evening was over. Wickham gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, and when they retired to their room, he could not get the image of a sullen and defeated Darcy out of his mind, nor did he want to. Instead, he undressed his wife eagerly and lay her—his prize—down on the bed.
Possessively, he touched the body that must have driven Darcy wild with desire, rejoicing in the fact that the woman Darcy could not have was his. Darcy would never see these warm, firm breasts, never feel the dark nipples contracting under his touch, never taste the skin of her throat, smell her private scent or feel her body arching towards his in desperate need. Following his hands with his mouth, he claimed every inch for himself, from her ears to her toes and back again, slow kisses up her thighs until he was between her legs, causing a g
asp and a shuddering sigh. In his mind, he imagined Darcy in the shadows of the bedroom, watching in anguish as he pleasured Elizabeth, and his own pleasure and arousal mounted at the idea. If Darcy only knew what he was doing at that moment to the woman he could never have. He imagined him, staring with angry impotence as Wickham brought her to cries of ecstasy, Darcy’s own lust building inside him, standing mesmerised, unable to tear his eyes away from their lovemaking. He, George Wickham, was the one with Elizabeth Bennet in his bed; he was the one who made her writhe and moan. It was him, not— When she cried out his name, he nearly spent himself on the sheets.
He moved up and thrust into her.
“Say it again,” he demanded as she wrapped her legs around him tightly.
“Oh, George,” she whispered.
“You want me,” he said. “Say that you want me.”
“I want you.”
“Only me.”
“Only you.”
She wants me. Me.
Me.
Me, his mind repeated in time with the harsh rhythm of his movements.
Me.
Not him.
Not him.
Not.
Not.
Darcy.
Darcy.
Not…
Darcy.
She moaned and moved against him, but his mind was full of that imagined man in the darkness, brooding, body burning and straining with desire as he could only look on and wish he was with…
“George,” she gasped breathlessly. “Oh…oh…”
Unheeding he thrust on.
Darcy.
Darcy.
He would not be able to withstand it. Darcy, staring, drawn against his will, would reach down and touch himself, and as he watched, he would rub his cock and wonder what it was like to…
Darcy.
Darcy.
And with his eyes glued on that bed, Darcy would stroke himself until he came — hard—and he would feel ashamed and dirty just like…