Chapter 7
Wickham lurked in a copse of trees on the Netherfield property. His eyes were fixed on the nearby servants’ entrance. To remain unseen, he clung to the long shadows of dusk. Victory was close, and he could taste it.
A figure emerged from the house, looking like a ghost in the greying light. He stayed hidden until he could see Minnie’s face. Then, he stepped closer, giving a birdcall to alert her to his position.
She stepped in front of him. Her voice was hard and determined. “I did like you said. Now I wants me blunt.”
“This will get you to London.” He threw her a purse, and the coins jingled as she caught it. “Leave tonight.”
“Happy to.” She gave him a heartless grin.
“And don’t filch anything. I can’t afford for you to get caught and implicate me.”
She wrinkled her brow, as if she didn’t quite understand. He didn’t bother explaining.
“I’ll see you get a respectable place,” he said, “as long as you keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, it’s the workhouse if you’re lucky. Newgate if you’re not.”
“You acts as if yer so high-and-mighty. But underneath that fancy uniform, yer no better’n me. You double-cross me, and Marsden’s men will take what you owe out o’ yer hide.”
Wickham thought about how easy it would be to pull the dagger from his boot and slit her throat. But Lady Powell knew of the connection between them. He couldn’t take the chance.
Besides, violence wasn’t his preferred mode of operation. Not unless his wits failed him, which they hadn’t so far. But Marsden’s men were not to be trifled with.
“Marsden will have his money in a matter of days,” Wickham said. “Don’t get any ideas, Minnie. If I go down, you’re coming with me.”
In the fading light, he couldn’t quite see the expression she gave him. Something between a snarl and a smirk, he supposed. But she wasn’t stupid. As long as he kept his end of the bargain, she would keep hers. It was in both their interests to do so.
She’d done good work and was worth every penny he’d paid her. With any luck, on the morrow, he would be a rich man.
∞∞∞
When the Netherfield household went to bed, Caroline let her lady’s maid undress her. Once alone, Caroline donned a navy wool dress that laced in front. Wrapping a dark shawl around herself, she stole outside.
Her eyes soon adjusted, and she could see quite well in the moonlight. The wide pathways through the garden and towards the gazebo were paved and smooth. The night air was cold on her face, but her wrap kept her warm.
Her heart fluttered and her blood rushed. Was she mad, taking this chance? Darcy was the most honourable man she knew. He wouldn’t arrange a tryst unless he intended to marry her.
As the gazebo came into sight, she had a sudden urge to flee. If she went through with this, it was irrevocable.
Perhaps Darcy had no intention to take her virtue. She must seduce him so he couldn’t cry off. And she must also make it seem like he had done the seducing.
Through the darkness, she peered at the structure before her. Surely Darcy must see her now. The time for turning back had passed.
She hurried forward, wanting to appear eager. And in fact, she was eager. Apart from two brief interludes with Wickham, she hadn’t felt a masculine touch since leaving London.
She spotted a man’s silhouette in the gazebo. As she topped the stairs, he stepped towards her. “My love,” he said in a low, husky voice, encompassing her in his arms. And then his lips were on hers.
The kiss was hot and insistent—everything she’d dreamt it would be. He plundered her mouth, tasting of peppermint, yet with a hint of whisky mixed in.
Her knees went weak, and she held on to his lapels to keep herself upright. Breathing in, she filled her nostrils with his signature sandalwood scent. His rich baritone voice murmured, “Dearest Caroline.”
She couldn’t believe this was real—Darcy wanted her! He guided her to the table in the centre of the gazebo. Sitting her on top of it, he stood between her knees.
His mouth found its way to the shell of her ear, then down the curve of her neck. Her body shivered with delight. She detected a trace of smoke on him that soothed and aroused her. Though she didn’t know Darcy to indulge in cheroots, it wasn’t something a gentleman did in the presence of a lady.
His lips traced her collarbone. She gripped his nape, holding him in place, never wanting him to stop. Hooking her legs around his, she drew him closer.
His wicked tongue slid beneath the lace of her bodice. She gasped and writhed at his ministrations. He tortured her with kisses as he unlaced her gown and stays.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. His cultured London accent carried a hint of Derbyshire that sounded lovely to her ears. He pushed down her shift, exposing her. The cold air on her bare skin made her gasp, but his talented hands and mouth warmed her.
She arched into him, and he gently laid her back against the table. His body covered hers, lips never leaving her.
A fog of desire enveloped her mind. It dulled her thoughts even as the sensations intensified. His hand slid along her calf, lifting her skirts and petticoats as it made its way upwards.
Her power of speech fled, and she could only moan her encouragement. His tender but demanding touch amplified her need.
“Dearest Caroline, I’m mad for you,” he whispered, his voice taut. He opened his falls. “I can’t wait until our wedding night. Say you’ll give yourself to me completely.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m yours.”
His lips found hers again. His kisses brought to mind her last encounter with Wickham: the greedy way his hands roved her skin and saw to her pleasure, the scent of him, the taste…
But the thought was ridiculous. Wickham could not have concocted such a ruse to seduce her. The note arranging the tryst had been too detailed.
And yet, the prospect aroused her even more. She craved the rogue in her bed. Their clandestine meetings and the risk they entailed always sharpened her pleasure.
“I have a French letter,” that husky male voice said in her ear. “We need not worry about a babe coming too soon.”
His words silenced her misgivings. In that moment, dazed by desire, she cared not if he was Darcy or Wickham or the devil himself. Her body demanded satisfaction.
He rubbed against her, his hot member stroking her bud. As her need reached a fever pitch, she reached down and stroked him.
And that’s when she knew.
This was Wickham, blast him. He’d arranged this tryst—why? Why go to all this trouble?
But in that moment, she didn’t care. Whatever his game, she liked it. His talented fingers worked her nub, slick with her desire.
“Oh, yes!” she cried, nearly coming apart at the exquisite sensations, at the slide and pressure of his touch.
He breached her in a long thrust, and she gasped. She hadn’t expected that—hadn’t thought it through—but oh, how she wanted it. A French letter would protect against undesirable outcomes.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him on top of her as she nipped his earlobe. “George Wickham, you naughty boy.”
He chuckled. “I should have known I couldn’t fool you. Forgive me? I had to have you, Caroline.”
He glided into her again, picking up the pace. She met his thrusts, writhing beneath him. Before long, she shattered, and his climax followed hers. For a long moment they lay together, their heartbeats slowing. Their mouths nipped and suckled in teasing kisses.
At last he rose from her, raising her shift back up to protect her from the cold. He cleaned them with a handkerchief, then refastened his falls.
Sitting up, she laced her stays and gown. “You were magnificent.”
“As were you, my sweet. I’ll ask your brother for your hand on the morrow.”
“Such nonsense,” she replied playfully.
“My dear, I’ve ruined you. Marriage is the only honourable thing for me to do.”
Caroline laughed. “I’m hardly ruined. No one knows about us. Any fool can manage some blood on the sheets on her wedding night. And since you used a French letter…”
“About that.” Wickham sighed. “Unfortunately, I made up that part. Forgive me, my dear. I’m eager to start a family with you.”
She stared at him, suddenly realising this was no game. “What do you mean? You hardly even know me!”
“I know we’re suited in bed. I know you have twenty thousand pounds. What more could I ask for in a wife?”
A cold finger traced up her spine. The trees seemed to loom closer, their bare branches reaching towards her like gnarled fingers.
“You’re after my fortune.” With the fog of desire lifted, her stomach twisted in horror.
She had thought Wickham only wanted a dalliance with her. At their last encounter, he had seemed content with preserving her maidenhead.
Yet it had all been leading to this crass deception—this wicked betrayal.
How could she have been so stupid? Darcy had warned her the man was a fortune hunter.
Darcy. If he learnt the truth, he’d want nothing more to do with her.
The moonlight that had seemed romantic earlier now turned menacing. It transformed the gazebo into a cage of shadows—and exposed the sharp, sinister angles of Wickham’s face.
“Come now,” he said. “Don’t look so tragic.”
Rage surged inside her. She beat her fists against his chest. “You vile, despicable—”
“None of that.” He grabbed her wrists. “Is that any way to treat your future husband?”
“I’ll never marry you!”
His grip on her wrists tightened—not to hurt, but to control. “You must, my dear. No one else will have you. But don’t fret—we’ll suit admirably. You enjoy my touch. And your twenty thousand pounds will amply cover my debts, leaving us plenty to live on besides.”
Caroline felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of her own folly. The night had begun with such promise. Now, it pressed down on her like an avalanche.
With an effort, she pulled free from him, shivering—whether from cold or dread she couldn’t say. She wrapped her shawl tighter. She wouldn’t let this happen.