Chapter 1
ONE
London
Lydia awoke with a shriek as a loud crash jostled her from her slumber. A moment’s consideration told her that the flimsy door to their lodgings was presently being beaten down.
“George!” she cried, turning over in the bed to reach for her lover.
Wickham slipped from beneath her fingers, threw himself onto the floor, and began crawling away on his hands and knees towards the nearest window. Dressed only in his shirt, with his backside exposed, he did not quite cut the roguish figure that had captured her fancy in Brighton.
‘Indignant’ was the kindest word for what Lydia was feeling at his cowardly abandonment. “Where are you going? Save me!”
Wickham steadfastly ignored her as he scrambled to his feet, wrenched the window open and, to Lydia’s further astonishment, slung a leg over the sill. Does he mean to jump? And without his trousers on?
A deafening crack rent the air, distracting her from Wickham’s intended flight.
She darted a frightened glance at the only door to their room and found it still in place, if only just. Every few seconds, another resounding thunk would resonate through the feeble wood, and a new split would appear in its surface.
She hastily leapt from the bed and rushed towards Wickham, grabbing him by the arm just as he was about to cast himself into the alley below. The crunch of splintering wood persisted, and she shouted over it to be heard. “What are you doing?”
Wickham attempted to shake her off, snarling, “Release me, wench!”
Lydia clung fast, digging her fingers into his sleeve. “Will you not protect me? We are to be married!”
“You are even more silly than I thought if you really believed that. Let go!” Having succeeded in yanking his arm free, Wickham dropped out of sight, landing somewhere in the darkness of the alley with a pained groan.
He disappeared none too soon, for seconds later, their intruder managed to take down the door at last. Lydia covered her eyes and screamed as it landed in a broken mess on the floor.
“Where is Wickham?”
Upon recognising the cool, deep tones of the voice, Lydia lowered her hands and peeked above her fingers. Mr Darcy stood silhouetted in the doorframe, chest heaving, as he glowered into the room.
“H-He went out the window.” Lydia pointed.
Mr Darcy stalked over to the window and looked out, banging his fist upon the frame. He muttered a scathing curse, worse than anything Lydia had heard at the militia encampment.
Her resultant gasp brought Mr Darcy’s attention in her direction. She was wearing only her nightgown, and he was quick to look away again, growling, “Get dressed. I shall return you to your family.”
Barely an hour later, Lydia was wriggling to free herself from Mr Darcy’s grasp as he tugged her up the front steps of her uncle’s house, his expression grimly set.
He had said nothing to her other than a handful of barked orders since announcing that he was to return her to her family, dragging her about like a sack of struggling laundry.
As a result, Lydia had made it her mission to make his task as difficult as possible.
He did not even have to knock before the door was flung open and the Gardiners spilled out, Elizabeth hard upon their heels. As it was past midnight, they were all attired for bed, though their appearance was so sudden it seemed unlikely that they had been asleep.
Lydia had no notion why her second eldest sister was there, until she recalled that Elizabeth was meant to be travelling with their aunt and uncle to the Lakes or some such. Apparently, she had not yet returned to Longbourn.
She was passed into the keeping of her aunt, who grabbed her up and held her tightly. “Lydia!”
“Where have you been?” Mr Gardiner demanded gruffly as his wife passed Lydia to him. He, too, embraced her roughly. “We have been searching everywhere?—”
Only Elizabeth stood back, clutching a shawl about her shoulders, and stared at her with icy disdain. She offered no greeting or sign of relief that Lydia had been returned safely, which was rather uncharitable of her.
Instead, she turned to Mr Darcy and lowered her head. “We cannot thank you enough for bringing her home. You are too good.”
Mr Darcy’s jaw clenched as he, too, averted his gaze elsewhere. “Not at all, Miss Bennet.”
“Would you care to come inside for?—?”
“No,” Mr Darcy hastily cut in, causing Elizabeth to flinch. Lydia observed their clumsy discourse with consternation over her uncle’s shoulder; since when was Elizabeth so timid? “That is, it is late, and I am certain you wish to return to your bed. I shall call upon the morrow.”
He then pivoted on his heel and descended the stairs, throwing himself into his carriage without slowing. He was gone faster than Wickham had jumped from the window.
Lydia wondered at the interaction a second or two before she was bustled into the vestibule. Elizabeth was slower to follow, but then her shoulders slumped, and she came inside, shutting the door behind her.