Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “I have been thinking about what you said all day long.” He slowed down his pace to allow Poynter to walk alongside him. “You are right. I have wasted my life,” he said with a grin.

  “I don’t think I said you had wasted your life, George, and why are you so happy about it?” Poynter still looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

  “Because I have finally realised it!”

  Poynter took a step away from him. “Well…erm…great.”

  “You don’t understand.” Wickham stopped in his tracks and faced Poynter. “You said that when all was said and done, we ought to be content with our lots, have a wife who loves us, have lots of children, and do all the things we have ever dreamt of doing—am I right?”

  Poynter nodded. “Yes, and that is what I intend to do when I get back from this blasted war.”

  “Me too!” He grinned. “I intend to do that, too—marry a woman who loves me, have lots of children, and do everything I have ever dreamt of.”

  Poynter sighed. “But George, you are already married and have a son. I do not understand what you mean.”

  Wickham felt as if Poynter struck him about the face. “Yes, I am married, but not to one who loves me.”

  “You intend to make Lydia love you?”

  Wickham rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. I could retire from the army and get a job—I have my studies, I am certain to find something to do…” He shook his head. “…a clerk’s job or something—”

  “A clerk?”

  “—and we will take a small cottage and fill it with children. Each year, we will take them to the sea and plan a trip across Europe.” His grin intensified.

  “You truly have lost your senses.”

  Wickham felt a little deflated at his friend’s reticence. “No, not at all. I feel as though I see everything so clearly now.”

  “Except for the fact that you and Lydia rarely see eye-to-eye long enough to spend an entire evening together, let alone for you to have a dream of filling a house with children. You know how she reacted to nursing Georgie.” Poynter patted him on the shoulder. “You might as well face the truth that there are some things that you ought never to aspire to have. You were forced into that marriage, and mayhap you can make the best of a bad situation.” He smiled grimly. “But I do wish you all the luck in the world with the rest of it. I hope we live within a short distance of each other and continue to be firm friends. It will be good to spur each other on with our dreams.”

  Wickham smirked weakly and felt as though Poynter had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. “I had not thought of that. You are right. No one can force Lydia to do anything that she does not wish to do.”

  “Chin up.” Poynter started walking again. “At the very least, you can give this letter to Estelle and know you have done something significant there.”

  He nodded and rushed to catch up. “Yes, there you are right.”

  “And mayhap there is hope for Lydia. Perhaps this war has made her feel your absence keenly.”

  Wickham thought about those words as they walked along in silence. The night was still, and their footfalls the only sound apart from the tumult of thoughts tumbling in his head. Is Poynter right? Does Lydia feel my absence? Is she in Hertfordshire at this very moment pining away for me?

  Lydia found it hard to maintain her countenance as she descended the stairs. With every step she took towards the dining room, the knot in her stomach increased in size. The hair on her arms tingled with his presence. She could almost sense Sir Percival through the door, and her heart began to thump against her chest.

  She reached out and took hold of the cold metal door handle, took a deep steadying breath, and entered the room. To her surprise, Sir Percival was deep in conversation with Kitty. Green with envy and desperately trying to hide it, Lydia sidled up to Elizabeth, Jane, and their mother and joined in their conversation.

  Despite Sir Percival’s apparent enjoyment of his conversation with her sister, Lydia felt his eyes upon her with every opportunity that arose. Her heart raced and her hands became clammy, as though his hands—not his eyes—were on her flesh. She was not aware of a single word Jane said to her about the preparation for the birth. She nodded as though she had lost her wits, all the while watching Sir Percival’s hard, taut body from the corners of her eyes.

  More coffee was brought in, which presented the opportunity for people to move around and talk to someone else. Lydia rose with the intention of engaging Sir Percival all to herself, but Kitty was not letting him out of her sights and stayed as close to him as his own shadow. Lydia burned with irritation. How dare she?

  She was distracted when Mary began to play something to dance to on the piano. Oh, bravo, Mary, the Barley Mow! Perhaps now I can dance with Sir Percival and we can speak in private. However, it was not to be—within an instant of her thinking it possible, to her utter dismay, she watched Sir Percival stand to dance with Kitty. She stung with indignation and barely noticed when Mr Bingley appeared before her. “My dear Mrs Wickham…” He bowed low. “As you see, my dear wife, Jane, is indisposed, and so cannot dance. Therefore, I wondered if you would do me the honour of dancing with me instead.”

  Lydia longed to dance. She loved to dance, but she did not wish to dance with her brother-in-law, but with Sir Percival. Realising this was not to be for the moment, but to stand near him as they formed a set of four was the next best thing. She smiled kindly and accepted Mr Bingley’s offer. He led her to the far end of the room and they took their places. She determined not to look at Sir Percival at all. She felt slighted by him, and yet, her eyes found their way by themselves to his, and her breath caught in her throat as he looked at her and the deep blue oceans of his eyes glistened like diamonds at her. She reddened and looked down at the carpet rug they danced upon to hide her blushes. Despite dancing with Kitty and politely returning her smiles, it was plain to Lydia that Sir Percival wanted to dance with her as much as she did him.

  An opportunity arose for just that when the set called for a change of partners for a few minutes. Kitty giggled as Mr Bingley said something witty to her, but Lydia’s heart jumped into her mouth as Sir Percival took her hand. He danced closer than he ought and brushed his body against hers at every opportunity. Lydia was suddenly aware of all eyes on the four of them as they danced, and her blush deepened to encompass her neck and chest.

  “Oh, poor Lydia!” Mrs Bennet cried out above the piano. “It has been such a long time since she last danced, I am sure she has not the stamina for it these days. Why, she is full red in the face!”

  Sir Percival smiled wickedly at the comment and whispered into her ear as he passed, “Is that the truth of it, Lydia? Is that really why your face is reddened?” His breath tickled her hair against her ear and she sucked in a startled breath. His eyes flashed knowingly, and her reaction was all the answer he needed. As he passed behind her back, he ran his hand tantalisingly across her stomach; the air was forced from her lungs and she barely contained a squeal of pleasure at his touch. He was playing with her, and she loved every minute of it.

  All too soon, they changed partners again and she tried to control her breathing and expressions as she smiled at Mr Bingley. She knew her eyes were filled with passion, and her skin had a thin sheen of perspiration that had nothing to do with the dancing. She struggled to gain her composure and act normally. Sir Percival had the power to bend her to his will, and she was melting under each and every deliciously torturous onslaught. If she were not careful, she knew she would be completely and utterly lost to him.

  Thankfully, her mother insisted she sit with her once the dance ended. “You’re not as young as you once were!” she declared loudly.

  Lydia frowned—she was still, and always would be, the youngest of the Bennet girls. Kitty, she noticed, giggled at the comment. If only she knew what had passed between Sir Percival and me above stairs, she thought venomously, and sucked in her cheeks as she sat beside her mother. I am younger than Kitty, an
d if his reaction is anything to go by, I am the more attractive of the two of us. I will show her. Lydia took in a shuddering deep breath and set her resolve. I will be the first to taste the delights of the man she hopes to marry. She smirked and was pleased to see it did not go unnoticed by Sir Percival.

  As they crept closer to the village of Vincy and the barn where, Wickham hoped, Estelle Bernard would be awaiting his arrival, all thoughts of Lydia vanished from his mind. His nerves were on high alert, and he looked about him uneasily. In the pitch-black night, it would be easy for someone to hide in the undergrowth and shoot both of them dead.

  Wickham knew it was more than foolhardy to attempt to meet Estelle—it was insane—but somehow, the thought of her deep brown eyes spurred him onwards. Poynter led the way into the forest and round the back of the barn from where they had entered the village the last time. There was no one around, and no man-made sound reached their ears. Peeking through the trees, Wickham could not even see the glow of a single candle in a window in the village. That was a good sign. He prayed that the inhabitants were all asleep—all, that was, except Estelle Bernard. He hoped with all his soul that she awaited him in the black and silent barn.

  They cautiously entered. The light from the moon lit their way as it slanted through the slits in the beams. Wickham wished the clouds had not moved on to reveal the bright moon, as it illuminated them now more than he would have liked.

  His heart stopped beating for a second or two when he heard a shuffling sound from within one of the stalls. Poynter raised his pistol and Wickham, shaking the fear from his leaden limbs, followed suit.

  “Ne tirer pas sur moi, monsieur!” a woman’s voice rasped from the direction they aimed at.

  “Speak English!” Wickham growled back, trying not to raise his voice.

  “Do not fire the pistol, please, monsieur!”

  This time, Wickham recognised the voice immediately. It was Estelle. She had come and was waiting for him. Slowly, as the panic left his body, he straightened up and lowered his pistol. “Estelle?” he whispered.

  “Oui,” she breathed. “Why are you not alone? Why did you bring him with you?”

  Wickham turned around to see Poynter back out of the barn and position himself outside so he could see the street, the tavern, and the barn doors clearly. “He’s going to keep watch.”

  “Keep watch?”

  “What would happen to you or Hélène if your husband found you here with me tonight?” He took a tentative step towards her.

  She did not notice, but furrowed her brows together upon hearing her daughter’s name. “You know Hélène’s name?” Something akin to hope flickered in her eyes. “Then you truly do know Jacques?”

  Wickham dared to step even closer to her—perhaps too close. Now he could smell her scent—lavender and another flower of which he was not sure; it was a heady mix that made his pulse race. As she tilted her head upwards to look him in the eye, a beam of moonlight fell across her face and the illuminated golden flecks in her bottomless brown eyes. He stood mesmerised by the sight of her.

  “Monsieur, do you know Jacques?” She fluttered her eyelashes unconsciously, and Wickham felt the urge to kiss her then.

  “Erm…Jacques. Yes, Jacques Dubois.”

  Her face lit up and her smile tugged at Wickham’s heart. “How do you know him?” A shadow passed across her eyes and broke the spell. “Is he alive?”

  Wickham reached out and gently placed a hand on her arm. “Yes, he is alive.”

  Her gasp took his breath away. “Where?”

  “That I cannot tell, you must understand. But he is well and being treated well.”

  “In England?”

  “Madame Bernard…” Wickham smirked at her, but admired her for trying to coax the information from him.

  “I am sorry.” She looked at him through her lashes. “Please call me Estelle.”

  “Very well, Estelle.” He smiled disarmingly. “I am George.”

  She flushed as she played with the name in her tantalising mouth. “Georges.” His heart swelled at the way she said his name with her French accent. “What can you tell me about my brother?” She chewed on her bottom lip—oh, how Wickham envied that lip then. His heart pounded in his chest and he leant towards her. She continued to look up expectantly at him and he shook himself mentally, remembering the letter he carried from Jacques. He slipped his hand inside his redcoat and pulled out the missive. She exclaimed when she saw it and slapped her hand across her mouth. They both stood still for what seemed an eternity, straining their ears to hear if she had awoken anyone. Wickham turned to Poynter and he shook his head.

  “We have to keep quiet.” He took her arm and led her further into the stall where they would not be seen.

  Estelle walked to the wall and began to read her letter in the moonlight spilling through the cracks. Her breathing quickened, and Wickham watched, captivated, as her breasts heaved with each breath. How he wanted to caress the milky white flesh and kiss the gentle curves. He could feel his passion rising and his longing for her increase.

  “Oh, thank you, Georges.” She flung herself into his arms in gratitude as she finished the letter. “Thank you.”

  Wickham was unprepared for the onslaught of her on his senses and his head reeled. She squeezed him so tightly that he knew from the look on her face, as she gazed up into his face, that she was aware of his hardness.

  She gasped and tried to step backwards, tripping on her own feet. Wickham’s reaction was lightning-fast. He reached out and grasped her around the waist, before she toppled backwards into the hay, and pulled her against him and returned them both to an upright position. This time, she did not resist or attempt to flee. She stared up into his eyes, and he thought his heart had stopped beating.

  He shook from head to foot with passion. No other woman had ever had such power over him before, and he had never wanted another quite so ardently. Her breathing came in short, shuddering gasps now. The flush on her skin told him she reacted as strongly to him as he did to her. With his eyes, he caressed her face and traced the line of her full, tantalising lips. He did not know how long he could resist them. He lowered his face towards hers and looked into her eyes, as though asking for permission to kiss her. Estelle, in such a tormenting gesture of acquiescence, tipped her head back and closed her eyes expectantly.

  Wickham brushed his lips lightly over hers. The scent of her skin drove him to distraction. She moaned, and her hot sighing breath teased the skin on his face. He fought to gain control, and knew it would not take much for him to lose it. This time, he captured her mouth again and savoured the sweetness of her lips. As she opened her mouth hungrily, his tongue found hers, and they entwined until he could stand it no more.

  He pulled his face reluctantly away from hers and said huskily, “You drive me to distraction, Estelle. Tell me to stop.”

  She breathed heavily and pulled him tighter still against her. Wickham trembled as her hands slipped under his redcoat and explored their way across his back.

  “Oh, you are a temptress, Madame, and I cannot resist you—I do not want to resist you.” He reclaimed her beautifully swollen lips and she hungrily darted her tongue inside his mouth. If I do not take her now, I will go insane. Greedily, he kissed the silky skin on her chin and down her neck to her honey soft, plump breasts.

  A slight cough sounded from where Poynter stood guard. Reluctantly, Wickham pulled himself away from the entrancing woman in his arms and looked over the stall and out at him.

  He stood, beckoning him. “We need to go,” he mouthed.

  Wickham turned back to Estelle and groaned with frustration as he drank in her appearance.

  “What is it?” she murmured breathily.

  “We have to go. You will be missed if you stay away too long.” His voice clearly showed his unwillingness to leave.

  She looked up at him with such disappointment in her eyes. “You will return, will you not, Georges?”

  Wickham
exhaled heavily. Damn, she is tempting, and worth being caught for! “I will do my best.”

  “When?” she cried, desperately reaching for him as he turned to leave.

  Wickham shot a look towards Poynter. “Tomorrow,” he answered hastily. “I will be back tomorrow, and I will come alone.”

  The smile she rewarded him with was worth the risk he knew he was taking. He rushed forward and kissed her hard, savouring her scent one last time before turning and exiting the barn.

  Poynter still had his pistol at the ready. “You took your time. How long was that letter?” He frowned at Wickham with annoyance.

  They silently retreated into the trees and watched until Estelle was safely inside the tavern before heading back to the camp.

  Wickham knew he could not confide in Poynter that he intended to return the next day. He knew it was an unacceptable risk that Captain Brook would be certain to punish him for, and the chance of Thibault Bernard discovering them was too high. Nevertheless, Wickham did not care. All her could think about was Estelle. Her taste lingered in his mouth, and the thought of her soft skin quickened his pulse as they trotted back to camp. He knew he was a man possessed, and it would only take one more encounter with Estelle and he would be lost to her entirely.

  Lydia went to bed that night with her head full of Sir Percival. Despite not having another opportunity for them to be alone at all, their looks across the room had been more than intimate and passionate. Once the Darcys and Bingleys departed for Netherfield for the night, one by one, they departed for their own rooms. Lydia was flushed with excitement, and part of her hoped he would visit her room. She brazenly left the door unlocked in such hope.

  The bright sunlight poking through the gap in the heavy curtains awoke her in the morning. She stretched lazily and smiled. Then she realised that Sir Percival did not visit her in the night, and frowned. She wondered why not. No matter how disappointed she felt, the idea continually recurred to her that he was merely being cautious, and the thought endeared him to her more.