Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  “You embarrassed me tonight.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stood fully naked in front of her.

  “I am dreadfully sorry,” she replied dully, pulling the blankets tightly around her and turning her back to him.

  “Don’t lie to me. If you were sorry, you would not have acted as you did. I told you how important those people are to me. I told you how eager Lady Smythe-Hamilton was to know you, but you could not put out the least effort to make a good impression, could you?”

  “She is an arrogant, mindless twit, and I will not degrade myself to court her good opinion or anyone else’s.” She added in a lower voice, “Unlike you.”

  “Unlike me?” He was outraged. “Do you hear what you are saying, you selfish bitch?”

  “Selfish? I am selfish?”

  “And unappreciative. You should be grateful that I do consent to degrade myself in order to provide for you.”

  “Grateful!” Elizabeth sat up in disbelief. “You think I should be grateful? For what?” She gestured around the draughty room. “For this?”

  “I saw you talking to Darcy tonight…” He changed the subject, which he often did when her logic threatened to overpower his feelings of misuse.

  “And?” A prickle of fear and guilt crept up her neck.

  “And there is something you need to remember.” He climbed into bed beside her. “You are my wife, not his. I know you regret your choice. I know you wish you had married him instead of me—then you would have money, a rich estate and all the fine dresses you could ask for, instead of having to struggle along with a poor, hard-working man with dreams and plans—but none of that matters. You are my wife; you owe loyalty, allegiance, respect, and obedience to me—to no one but me. You, everything about you, are mine.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said without expression and turned away again. “I chose you, didn’t I?” But he pulled her back and crawled on top of her, pinning her down beneath his weight.

  “You owe me everything.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, swallowing her anger and disgust, trying to diffuse the situation. “But, George, not like this. You have been drinking. You are angry.”

  “You will respect and appreciate me,” he said, pushing up her gown and thrusting his knee between her legs. “You will give me my due whenever it pleases me.”

  After weighing her options, reluctantly she opened to him. She could persist in her refusal, but while she would get her way, it would surely bring on a great fight. It would take more energy to resist than to surrender. She was tired, and the sooner she let him get on with it, the sooner he would be off her. It did not work quite that way when he had been drinking, however. He took so long to finish, she could not just block out her thoughts for the duration. Instead, she turned her head to the side and thought about the party—the good things. Jane looking so well and healthy, and just as happy as she deserved to be… Miss Bingley with a small sore in the corner of her mouth that she had obviously gone to great pains to conceal… Miss Darcy was a happy surprise, not at all as George had represented, but then, not much actually was as he represented…

  His breath came heavier.

  Mr Darcy was a happy surprise as well, when one considered how badly their last meeting had gone. He had smiled and laughed and spoken to her with kindness and, she thought, something more. She had nearly pressed her impertinence into flirtation, confusing and maybe even embarrassing him, but she had said nothing but the truth, even if it was not quite proper. Mr Darcy was a very handsome man.

  A handsome man who might have been her husband, as George had reminded her. A husband, a man with needs and desires, who would have taken her and lain with her in bed, just as she lay with George now. She closed her eyes and wondered what it would have been like to be his wife. He would move in her, slowly and rhythmically, his nakedness warm, firm, touching her in places so secret that they had no names. Would she writhe beneath him, feeling the heat within her building as he moved, slowly, waiting for her to catch up, teasing, bringing her to the brink before…

  George groaned, shuddered, and pushed into her hard, collapsing on top of her heavily. When his breathing slowed, he pulled out and turned over, leaving Elizabeth feeling strangely desolate.

  She lay still, waiting, until George snored beside her. Then, pushing away her feelings of guilt, quietly slid her hand down to that sensitive area between her legs and finished what those forbidden yet irresistible imaginings had started.

  * * *

  The fire popped and crackled furiously. Darcy stared at the flames, not moving except to take the occasional sip of bourbon.

  “Put it out of your mind right now.” Fitzwilliam interrupted his meditation.

  “Put what out of my mind?”

  “Whatever you are contemplating regarding that woman. We have more important things to discuss tonight.”

  That caught his attention, and he turned to his cousin.

  “What things? And why do you presume I am thinking about a woman?”

  “Georgiana and her new friend, for one. And because I have seen that look often enough on your face this past half year to know precisely what you are thinking, and it is not a woman, it is that woman. Miss Bennet. Mrs Wickham. Whatever she is called. I am telling you: put it out of your mind. Have you forgotten she is the very woman who refused you so thoroughly and contemptuously? Who ignored your warnings about Wickham and stubbornly married him to spite you?”

  “You are mistaken. I was thinking of something else entirely,” Darcy lied. “And there is nothing to trouble ourselves about Miss Franklin; she is not a new friend to Georgiana. They knew each other at school, and she is a perfectly nice young lady. I am not at all sorry they have renewed their acquaintance. I believe Georgiana’s disposition is greatly improved because of it.”

  “I am not—”

  “And I have forgotten nothing about Mrs Wickham,” Darcy sighed. “I have not. But after speaking with her tonight, I find I am indisposed to hold a grudge. Did you see her?”

  “I did. She is grown thin.”

  “Yes, she is. I doubt Wickham takes proper care of her. And she is unhappy. She practically came out and said so in as many words.”

  “That fact is neither any great surprise nor any of your concern.”

  That was true, there was no denying, and in the harsh light of retrospect, such an admission to him of all men was highly inappropriate, yet…

  “I have never seen her so before, Fitzwilliam. You remember what she was like at Rosings—that delightful impertinence, always so confident, so certain of the correctness of her opinions, almost to the point of arrogance.” He smiled at the memory.

  “An arrogance that carried her straight to the arms and bed of your sworn enemy,” his cousin countered. “But about Georgiana—”

  “As I said, I see nothing wrong with Georgiana or her choice of friends. But to talk to her tonight… She still possesses that playfulness, but beneath it, I saw a vulnerability, a humility I never would have guessed at. She is unhappy, and I wish—”

  “Georgiana?”

  “No. I was speaking of Mrs Wickham, of course. Georgiana is, I believe, quite recovered.”

  “Yes, I agree with your assessment of Georgiana, but the cause, I believe, has more to do with Miss Franklin’s brother than Miss Franklin herself. It seems to me that she was particularly eager for Mister Franklin to make our acquaintance tonight. Not only that, but he never left her side all evening that I observed.”

  Darcy said nothing for some time, his attention seemingly taken up by the fire and his drink, but he could feel his cousin’s eyes on him.

  “Very well,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “About Georgiana? Do you think Robert Franklin is a bad sort?”

  “No, of course not! He is a decent man with money enough and good prospects, and the family, although a little staid, is respectable and well thought of. I am inclined to think it is not a bad thing at a
ll if he is the reason for her newfound happiness.”

  “Can it be as simple as that?” Darcy asked incredulously. “Can so many months of recrimination and gloom over Wickham be blown away like mist before the wind at the prospect of Mr Robert Franklin?”

  “Apparently so. And why not?”

  “Why not indeed? It is true there is little logic or control when it comes to those who touch one’s heart.”

  “And that takes us back to the subject of Mrs Wickham. She is unhappy, and you wish, God help you, that you could do something about it.”

  It was not a question.

  “I do,” Darcy acknowledged. “I wish I could get her away from Wickham before he destroys her entirely.”

  The words hung in the air while he collected the empty glasses, walked to the cabinet, slowly poured two more drinks, and brought them back to the fire along with the bottle.

  “You can, you know,” Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully.

  “I have already considered murder, but dismissed the idea as imprudent.” Darcy smiled bitterly, downing half his drink in one swallow. “Though I must admit, the thought of wrapping my hands around that villain’s throat and feeling the bones snap one by one beneath my fingers does have its appeal.”

  “I agree, but you are right, murder is likely not the answer. It is a messy enterprise, and as a general rule, Darcys do not involve themselves in messy enterprises. I am afraid the only option is to convince her to leave her husband.”

  “And then what? Set her up as my mistress amid great scandal, or marry a divorced woman amid even greater scandal? How would I face Georgiana without shame?”

  “Very easily. You set Mrs Wickham up in an establishment somewhere near her family, have nothing more to do with her, and let her live out her life alone in notoriety and shame.”

  Darcy shot him a look and saw the smile.

  “Oh?” Fitzwilliam asked innocently. “So you do not want just to get her away from Wickham? You want her for yourself?”

  “Yes.” There was no use denying the truth. “If it is possible to do so without causing Georgiana distress or damaging her prospects.”

  “Unless you plan to embark upon a discreet, adulterous affair until you get the woman out of your system, it is not.”

  “That is out of the question. I could never suggest such a thing to her, and besides — ”

  “I do not blame you. I could never share a woman with Wickham, no matter how tightly she had me by the short hairs.” The colonel grimaced at the idea. “Well then, I am afraid you have no hope of attaining, enjoying, or even aiding her.”

  “Thank you for the encouragement,” Darcy said dryly.

  “I am not trying to encourage you.” Fitzwilliam smiled, taking a deep drink. “You are being utterly foolish. Fitzwilliam Darcy has no business walking about like a besotted schoolboy pining over a woman. Let us go to Ce Lieu and forget all this nonsense.”

  Darcy did not want to forget. He wanted to remember everything about the evening. Every look, every smile, every word and every touch, so he took another sip, stretched his feet towards the fire and proceeded to do just that. However, it was not long before the feeling of his cousin’s disapproving eyes boring into his back made him think. And upon further thought, he was forced to admit Fitzwilliam’s views on the matter were not entirely without merit.

  It was true. He could do nothing for Elizabeth. He could not mitigate the consequences of her choice—a choice she made freely—without causing damage to them both. Nor, as he considered it further, was he certain that he should try. Did the fact that she was now observably unhappy obligate him to come to her aid when he had done his best to warn her before the fact and she had utterly rejected his efforts? And now what was he doing? Staring into the fire like some pathetic romantic poet, drinking and brooding over another man’s wife? Brooding over Wickham’s wife!

  His cousin was right about that as well. Fitzwilliam Darcy did not moon about over any woman, much less one who had rejected him, insulted him, and as much as called him a liar. He had his pride.

  Fitzwilliam looked at him expectantly, obviously anxious to be on his way to the night’s entertainment. The prospect of relief was tempting, but remembering his recent vow, Darcy hesitated. However…it was Elizabeth whose censure had instigated his introspection and self-doubt, and Elizabeth whom he had once vowed to face with a clean conscience, proving that he had taken her reproof to heart. The same Elizabeth whose judgement and opinion was suspect, to say the least, and who had betrayed every scruple he once believed she possessed. She chose Wickham, so why did her good opinion matter?

  He sat up straight, tossed down the rest of his drink and rose.

  “What is it now, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked calmly.

  “If we are going to get to Ce Lieu before Madame locks the doors against us,” he said with a hard smile, “we had best get moving.”

  Chapter 10

  Life was good for George Wickham that winter. Yes, his personal funds were rapidly dwindling, and his wife scarcely spoke to him, but those inconveniences were easily enough ignored. Despite Elizabeth’s insistence that his negligence, profligate spending, and failure to plan would one day come home to roost, he was not worried. As he tried to tell her, he possessed a knack for that sort of thing. He never had any problems getting out of scrapes, things always seemed to come out well enough in the end, and he was certain that, when the time came, he would think of something to get through these problems as well. That was the irritating part about being married—all that carping about plans and contingencies and the future. He lived his life for the present, and that philosophy had always served him well. Thankfully, the complaining eventually died down. He did not know whether she had finally accepted his assurances or just given up trying. It did not much signify to him either way, but he was rather inclined to believe the former.

  Then again, if it was the latter, he was rarely home long enough for it to matter, and that, come to think of it, perfectly illustrated his philosophy. It was a stroke of genius to introduce his wife to Lady Smythe-Hamilton. In consequence, her ladyship—Gwen—at last gave in to the inevitable, and over the past month had become, not just free, but generous with her favours. Everything worked out as it always did with very little effort on his part.

  Nor need he feel guilt when facing her husband. In recompense for denying the old man the comforts of his marriage bed, Wickham expended sufficient effort to procure two investments of actual cash totalling £1500 for his lordship’s ill-fated ironworks scheme. True, £500 of that came from his brother-in-law, Bingley, who probably only succumbed in a fit of general euphoria attributable to the birth of a healthy baby boy, but whatever the reason, Lord Smythe-Hamilton closed his fat fingers over the banknotes greedily, smiling with renewed optimism for their questionable enterprise, and that optimism convinced his lordship to loosen his purse strings even more. He was a fond old fool, as easily led by Wickham in matters of finance as he was by his wife in matters of love.

  And to crown it all, in consequence of his lordship’s pleasure with him, he had contrived to be included in another invitation. This was not just any invitation, but a request to attend a private ball given by the Greysons upon the presentation at court of their third and last daughter. Everybody of name or fortune would be there, and he would be among them, socialising as an equal. Well, he and Elizabeth, but her attendance need not hamper his enjoyment. In fact, he eagerly anticipated the reaction of one particular guest to her presence. Gwen Smythe-Hamilton was the jealous type, and knowing Elizabeth would be there provoked her possessive nature. A possessive woman, he knew from experience, was a woman determined to please. George Wickham liked being pleased; therefore, he took advantage of every opportunity to introduce the subject into conversation, and he looked forward to her ladyship’s efforts to prove her superiority and desirability in any number of delightful ways. His one regret was that he rarely saw Darcy these days, and when he did, Elizabeth was never with him
. He always made it a point to wear a smug and contented expression when they met, but it would have been ever so much more satisfying to flaunt her personally to his face. Then again, he reflected, Elizabeth was not as lively or pretty as she once was, so perhaps he was better off with smugness.

  * * *

  “I cannot believe I have not told you this story already, Mr Darcy!” Miss Bingley smiled slyly into her cup, batting her eyes flirtatiously over the rim. “It is your own fault, you know, for staying away so long. All the news worth hearing is old news by now.”

  “Quite,” Mrs Hurst simpered. “We are all on to very different scandals.”

  “But those I can read about in the papers.” Darcy forced a smile. “I am counting on you ladies to acquaint me with the important events I have missed.”

  “Well then.” Miss Bingley set down her cup and leaned forward eagerly in her seat. “Let us do our duty, shall we, Louisa, as friends must, to bring Mr Darcy the best gossip.”

  “And by best, I hope you mean the worst.” Darcy settled into the sofa, adopting a casual posture. “Tell me about the Wickhams.”

  “Well, as you know, they came to town in early June, but would you believe, she sent no cards and made no visits at all! We were quite offended, Louisa and I, having been such close acquaintances while in Hertfordshire, but of course, we had no idea… It was not until my dear brother and sister arrived that we had any opportunity to discover anything, and Jane was so close about the whole business. But you know how Jane is.” Miss Bingley turned to Mrs Hurst, who nodded in agreement. “Once we told her how terribly we felt never having the opportunity to visit Mrs Wickham in her new home, she could hardly say no when we insisted on accompanying her, no matter how much she wished to.”