April 9, 1812
Fitzwilliam Darcy slammed the door to his chambers at Rosings. She believes him! That she would trust him so implicitly over me. Me! Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley! I—who saved George Wickham’s reputation and life from debtors’ prison for the last five years and longer.
He tore off his cravat and tossed it onto the chair, certain Briggs, his valet, would be none too pleased.
Yet, he did not care. The one woman whose esteem he desired the most had championed Wickham.
Wickham! He shook his head in disgust and walked to the window with measured steps, staring out into the ink-black night.
Having lived a life of honor, of respectability!
She would still believe the words of a man whose illegitimate children Pemberley coffers support!
Darcy turned back toward the room, pacing with quick steps.
The monotony of my annual Easter visit to my aunt’s estate broken by Elizabeth visiting the newly minted Mrs. Collins.
He pounded his hand on the writing desk as he passed.
“Miss Bennet, man! She is not yours to think on as ‘Elizabeth.’” She made it quite plain this evening that she does not value the title of “wife” by me!
Shaking his head, he slowly came to a halt before slumping down into the tufted chair, still not believing how the evening’s events transpired.
“Do I not know the heart of women? Or at least one worthy of being pleased?” When did I become so vulgar?
Always being chased by fortune-hunting mothers and daughters.
Yet, when a woman of substance is placed before me, can I not act in accordance with civility?
He leaned his head back and sighed deeply before whispering to the ceiling.
“‘You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.’ Truly, Elizabeth? No possible way?” He reached for the bottle of brandy on the table and poured generously, before downing it in one fiery gulp.
No, this is how it should be. Elizabeth Bennet had no money or connections, but a mind and spirit that would send his world spiraling like a whirling dervish. It was providence that she…rejected me. Now I can leave Rosings cleansed of my fantasies of bringing her home as the mistress of Pemberley.
“But Wickham.” He spat the name, standing up again and walking back to the window.
The memory of her words still smoldering as he stared across the lawn.
“If your father had not had a son, Mr. Wickham could have fulfilled that role more admirably.” His jaw tightened at the thought.
Darcy knew not which version of Wickham’s lies she had been subjected to.
How he was not awarded the living at Kympton after his father’s death or how Wickham was refused any inheritance at all.
Maybe both? Touching the glass separating their two worlds, he looked toward the parsonage and saw a dim light in a window. Oh, Elizabeth.
Hesitating only a second more, Darcy rang for his valet, who came immediately. “Briggs, we will depart in the morning after I conclude a small matter of business.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let Colonel Fitzwilliam’s man know as well.”
“At once, sir.”
Waiting for the door to close behind him, he touched the glass again and traced the far-off window of light. Although his pride was hurt, if he did nothing, her name might be added to the list of women soiled by Wickham’s hands. I cannot allow that to happen.
Walking to the writing desk, he sat and withdrew a piece of parchment. “If only I had not been born!” He grunted before scratching out his first thoughts in a most inauspicious letter…
Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter…