He awoke, startled, at the sound of some woodland creature screaming—he assumed it was a vixen. His heart thumped wildly against his chest as he sat up and fumbled to find his pocket watch. He had a meeting with his own vixen for whom he did not wish to be late.
He decided to do without his redcoat, for fear of being seen and identified as British. He chose, instead, to go only in his shirt and breeches. If he was spotted, despite his English accent when speaking, he felt confident to pass as a Frenchman—as long as he did not have to say much.
He did not particularly intend to speak to a great extent at all. He wanted only to hold her in his arms, smell her beautiful raven hair, and kiss her milky skin. The thought and anticipation of her stirred him as he crept out of the camp and along the lane that led to the village of Vincy. In his haste, he did not see that Poynter stood by the entrance to the camp and watched his progress as he made his way towards his romantic rendezvous.
There was a strong breeze that night, which was propitious for Wickham as he ran along the lane, paying no mind to how loudly his footfalls sounded. The rustling of the leaves in the treetops disguised most of the sounds he made. He was out of breath as he rounded the bend and saw the village some distance ahead of him. He did not slow his pace. His only thought was to get to Estelle as swiftly as he could.
Wickham was not as vigilant as he ought to be as he entered the village and raced towards the barn where he knew Estelle awaited him. He dipped into the forest, as he and Poynter had done the previous time they visited, then, with barely a glance about him, out into the open again and across the pasture to the barn.
He rushed into the barn and straight to the stall where she had awaited him before. His breath stuck in his throat. There she was in all of her beautiful, shapely glory. She lay on a bale of hay, fast asleep, sprawled out like an angel in a painting, awaiting and unknowingly inviting him to come to her. All he had to do was step forward, awaken her, and partake of her forbidden fruit. He bent over her and watched her sleep. She looked so angelic and childlike in her slumber that he was loathe to wake her.
He reached out his hand, gently lifted the delicate curl that lay across her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Georges!” she breathed drowsily.
“Shh!” He placed his finger to his lips. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“I am happy that you did.” She pushed herself up and looked at him through her long lashes. “I would not have liked to miss you, Georges.”
Wickham grinned and knelt before her. Her words could not have pleased him more. “I have longed to see you again since the moment we parted.”
“I, too.” She shook her head. “What do we mean by this, Georges? I cannot think of anything but you. I want nothing but to be with you.”
Her breath was hot in his face, and her words made him ache for her. “I can think of nothing but you either, my love.” He reached around her slender waist and pulled her to him.
She gasped at the strength with which he manoeuvred her. “Oh, Georges!”
Wickham could resist no longer and captured her mouth with his with bittersweet fervour. Never had a woman tasted so good to him. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her. She opened her pulsing lips intoxicatingly, inviting his tongue to explore the depths of her mouth, and he felt the outside world dissolve. Nothing mattered to him now but Estelle. He cared not for the consequences. He was lost.
The barn creaked loudly with the wind and they broke apart, startled. “What was that?” Estelle breathed against his cheek.
“The wind, I hope. Stay here whilst I have a quick look around.” He stepped backwards and away from her and crouched down. With any luck, it is just our imaginations. He tried to control his breathing as he checked every corner of the barn and looked through the cracks to the village beyond, yet it was difficult, as his heart still pounded in his chest from their embrace.
Once he finished checking to his satisfaction that no one was there, he returned to Estelle to see her shivering in the chill night air. “It was nothing. Oh, my dear, you are cold?”
She nodded, and Wickham was grateful for the opportunity to enfold her in his arms again. He gently rubbed her arms to warm her, which he discovered instantly was a mistake. Merely the touch of her skin set his on fire, and the rubbing soon turned to caressing. “My darling, if only you knew what you do to me.” He was shocked to hear how husky his voice was.
“Georges, whatever it is I do to you, it is nothing when compared with what you do to me.” She sighed and tilted her head back. Her lips parted, inviting him to take her mouth with his.
Gently, he kissed around her lips, daring not to kiss her fully just yet. She made a noise in the back of her throat that sounded to him like purring, and he felt his passion rise. He pulled back to see her beautiful face and it was then that he saw, as the moonlight from the cracks in the walls fell on her face, that she sported a vicious-looking black eye. “Dear God!” he exclaimed, a little louder than he expected. “What happened to your eye?” He watched her intently as her eyes filled with tears. “Was it your husband?”
She nodded.
“Damn his eyes! The cur!” Wickham was livid.
He watched as she wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I do not know this word.”
He tried to push aside his anger to think of another word to describe her husband. “Dog, mongrel, bastard—I do not know! But any man who hits his wife is no man at all, but a mangy cur!”
She nodded and the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Une brute, I think is what you mean.” She stepped closer and leant her head against his chest. “Yes, he is. He is such a brute. I married him only for my own security. What choice did I have?” Her voice broke and he could feel her hot, wet tears soak into his shirt. “He told me that he discovered our secret—he found out about our high birth. Jacques and I were so poor that we could have done nothing to silence him, and fearing for our lives, I took the only option that was open to me. I agreed to marry him so he would not tell anyone.” She sobbed. “There is not a day that goes by where I do not regret that decision, Georges.”
Wickham bent his head and kissed the top of her lavender-scented hair. “I worry for you here, Estelle. I so wish I could take you and Hélène away from him.”
“Oh, Georges, how can that be? How can I ever be free from him?”
“I admit,” Wickham was ashamed to say, “that I have not thought that far ahead, but I promise you, dearest Estelle, that I will not dessert you and leave you to that bully.”
She wept softly in his arms and he pulled her tighter. A sudden thought occurred to him. Napoléon’s army was headed their way. “Do you know that the French march this way?”
She nodded.
“Are you not afraid? Why do you not flee? You are directly in the path of Napoléon’s army.”
“Why would we be afraid, monsieur?” She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. “Napoléon is not our enemy, he is our empereur.”
Wickham exhaled heavily. “I had not thought of it like that.”
Brusquely, Estelle pulled away from him. “Do not fight against his army, Georges. I beg of you. He is formidable and he will win, I know it. In the end, he will win, and your British Isles will fall.”
He watched her shiver at her own words. “Not if I have anything to do with it, they will not.” He grinned flirtatiously at her. “We British men are made of stern stuff, my dear. I can assure you that we will fight harder than your emperor has ever seen us fight before if we feel our Isles are under threat.”
“Oh, Georges, I pray that is true.” She flung herself into his arms and kissed him so passionately that his heart stopped beating. “When this war is over, promise you will come back for me.”
“That is a promise easily made, my love. I could not stay away from your side even if I wanted to.” He shook his head to clear it, but it was to no avail. “I am a man utterly in your powers. I am beguiled by you, entirely bewitc
hed by your beauty, and your eyes have…”
“Yes?” she whispered, eager for more. “My eyes have?”
“They have pierced to my very soul. I am yours, Estelle, and always will be.”
Before he finished his last word, she was again kissing, caressing, and tasting his flesh. He kissed across her jaw and down her neck, nipping at the skin with his teeth as he did so. She made such endearing mewing sounds that he thought his heart would burst. He slipped his right hand up towards the plump mounds of her breasts and stroked the alluring flesh.
Estelle groaned with pleasure and, to his great delight, reached behind herself to untie her dress. Her breasts spilled excitedly out of her clothing as she freed herself, and he could no longer stand by and watch. He reached out and cupped her heavy, pink-tipped breasts in his hands. She let out a cry of pleasure at the touch of his warm hand and reached out to pull up his shirt. Reluctant to relinquish his breath-taking hold on her, he lifted up his arms to ease Estelle in taking his shirt off over his head. Immediately, he pulled her close, savouring the feel of her hot, velvet breasts against his hard body.
Estelle wriggled in his arms and he glanced down to see her step out of her dress and stand against him, bare skinned. A wicked smile played across his lips, and she entwined her hands behind his neck and laughed as he reached down to unfasten his breeches. When he was as undressed as she was, his flesh thrilled to hear her gasp at the sight of him. Gently, kissing her tenderly as he did so, he laid her down on the hay.
The wind was high, which pleased the portly man hiding in the shadows and peeking through the cracks in the barn’s wooden walls. He sneered as he watched, and clenched his hands into fists. He leant against the wall to hear what they were saying, but the infernal wind whisked the words away before they reached his ears. As he pressed against the wood, it creaked under his hefty weight, and the couple he spied on in the barn were alerted to his presence. He crept as silently as he could to some old water butts and hid behind them. The man walked near to his hiding place, and he held his breath. He wanted nothing more than to smash his fists into that man’s face, but he bided his time. He waited. His mind raced. He was hatching a plan.
Grateful that the man returned to the woman waiting inside the barn, the hefty man crept back to his vantage point and resumed his careful observation of the pair. He cursed the wind for being so high that night and making such a noise. He wanted to hear what they discussed. However, he was far more interested in what they were doing.
His blood boiled as he watched the man place his hand on the woman’s body. His anger reached fever pitch as they kissed over and over again. He would have his revenge. He would make them pay for this duplicity. He would have the last laugh.
An angry growl stuck in his throat as the woman disrobed, and the man followed suit. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to interrupt the pair in their passionate embrace, but his wicked plan urged him to stay where he was. He watched in silence as the now-naked man laid the woman on the hay covering the floor of the barn, and they began to make passionate love.
He stood up, no longer caring if anyone heard him. He would have them suffer for this. He clenched his jaw and stomped off out of the village. Thibault Bernard would make Lieutenant Wickham pay this night for seducing his wife.
Lydia escaped to the nursery and stood watching her son playing with the toy rabbit when Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, and her father returned from hunting at Netherfield. The gentlemen claimed it was the last time they would do such a thing before the babes came, and all together painted such a picture of familial felicity that Lydia felt sick to her stomach. She was angry. She felt disappointed that she did not have such a life; that she did not experience anything of the sort. Familial felicity, it seemed, was not to be her lot.
In the mood she was in, she wanted to be out of the room when Sir Percival returned with Mary and Kitty. Oh, how foolish she felt! She thought herself to be such a nincompoop for flirting with and encouraging a clandestine dalliance with Sir Percival. Nothing good can come from such a thing! Nevertheless, she wanted him. Wickham never made her feel the way Sir Percival did. A tear escaped, traced its way down her cheek, and dripped onto her frock. She felt more certain than ever that Kitty would marry him and become Lady Catherine Etherington. The role would suit her, Lydia admitted, and somewhere deep inside, she was pleased for her sister. Nonetheless, for now, she stung with bitter disappointment.
When Wickham returned from the war, they would be posted somewhere else in the British Isles, to live once again as they had before in Scarborough. She looked around the nursery. It was very delicately decorated, with whitewashed walls and beautifully handcrafted furniture, and she remembered their bedroom in Scarborough—cold, simple furniture, the plaster falling off the walls, and the hand-me-down clothes she was forced to dress her son in.
She sighed. What does life have in store for me? She was convinced it was nothing good. Wickham is certain to want more children. Naturally, they can scarcely be avoided. What am I to do?
The faint sound of laughter floated up the stairs from the drawing room and reached her ears. She was pleased they were having a good time. She would not wish to dampen their spirits, yet, she felt miserable. She stepped over to her son, bent down, and kissed him on the head, then fled to her room in tears.
“Dear God.” She wept into her pillow as she threw herself onto her bed. “I made such a foolish choice in eloping with Wickham. Please help to make my life more bearable.”
She did not know how long she remained thus, and neither did she care. She wept until she had no more tears to shed. She thought of Charlotte Lucas, who, through her own choice, married Mr Collins. She remembered when he came to Longbourn in search of a wife and how she was heartily glad to find he preferred Jane or Elizabeth to her, Kitty, or Mary. She smiled as she gazed sleepily out of the window. “At least I am not married to Mr Collins,” she mumbled. She wondered what life was like for Charlotte. She knew they now lived on the Darcys’ Pemberley estate. If memory served her, Elizabeth mentioned that Charlotte was expecting their second child.
Lydia frowned. “How does she do it? How can anyone find felicity in an unhappy marriage?” She thought about it for a while. “It seems Charlotte has.” She closed her eyes and allowed sleep to wash over her. “Perhaps I can, then.”
Wickham returned to camp later that night a happy and satisfied man, unable to remove the grin from his face. He crept into his tent, washed rapidly in the cold water, slipped under the blanket, and fell fast asleep within seconds. His dreams were filled with Estelle’s hot, smooth, velvety-soft flesh.
When he awoke, he sighed, stretched like a cat, and smiled with pleasure until he opened his eyes and saw the barrel of a pistol pointed at his chest. “What the blazes are you doing?” he cried and sat bolt upright, raising his hands in the air.
The soldier holding a gun at him called out of the tent, “Sir, he’s awake.”
To Wickham’s dismay, in walked Captain Brook, closely followed by Colonel Sullivan. “I ought to put you in irons immediately, Lieutenant.”
Wickham looked puzzled. “What?”
“Would you care to explain yourself?” Sullivan snapped.
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you.” Wickham gave the colonel his best grin and attempted to rise from the cot.
“Stay where you are!” Captain Brook bellowed. “You are lucky I did not shoot you where you lay.”
He was clearly angry, yet Wickham was still at a loss to guess what he had done or for what he was to blame. “I beg your pardon, Captain, but I do not know of what you are referring.”
“I bet you do not,” Sullivan spat.
Wickham’s insides clenched in fear. He did not know of what they were angry, but he knew they believed it to be his fault. “Truly, would someone be so kind as to explain and remove that pistol from being pointed at my chest?” he pleaded.
“The pistol remains where it is,” Brook barked when the
soldier wavered in his duty. “Colonel Sullivan, it seems Lieutenant Wickham is at a loss to understand why he finds himself in such a predicament this morning. Would you care to enlighten him?”
“With pleasure,” Sullivan re-joined. He drew in a deep breath and looked down at Wickham in what the latter thought was disdain. “Lieutenant George Wickham, a report of an alarming nature reached our ears late last night that you have been seen in the village of Vincy…”
Wickham’s stomach sank; they were seen.
“…meeting with an agent of the French army, and did—”
“What?” He did not believe what he heard.
“—knowingly and wilfully, pass information to the agent, a Madame Estelle Bernard.”
Wickham’s jaw dropped to the ground in disbelief.
“Is this or is this not the case?”
He moved his mouth, but not a sound came out.
“Well, speak up, man!” Sullivan bellowed, his face red. “Is it or is it not true?”
Wickham knew he had to defend himself. He swallowed hard and forced a sound out of his throat. “No, it is not!” His voice sounded weak and foreign to him.
“As I said before, Lieutenant, we have a witness to the fact.”
“What?” Wickham rose to his feet with a sudden surge of indignation. “Who in the blazes would invent such a falsehood? Hmm?” He looked from Captain Brook to Colonel Sullivan for an answer. “I demand they present themselves, here, this instant, and make the accusation to my face!”
Captain Brook nodded. “Very well.” He exited the tent. “Follow me and bring him.”
At the point of the pistol, Wickham was ushered out of the tent and across the campground. There was an eerie silence as all the men stopped what they were doing to look up and stare at him as he was paraded humiliatingly in front of them all.
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