Chapter 8
UNSETTLING REVELATIONS
Breakfast was an exercise in torment.
Darcy descended to the dining room with his defenses carefully reconstructed, determined to behave as though nothing had changed. His first instinct upon entering was to search for Miss Elizabeth—an instinct so powerful it alarmed him.
She was not there, of course. She was at Longbourn, probably not thinking of him at all.
His relief and disappointment were equally intolerable.
Bingley, in contrast, was incandescent with joy.
The near-tumble beneath the arch had convinced him that fate itself endorsed his courtship of Jane Bennet.
He chattered endlessly about the holiday entertainment—the musicians, the refreshments, the dancing—while Darcy nodded mechanically and tried to focus on his coffee.
“And I have been thinking,” Bingley announced, buttering his toast with enthusiasm, “that we ought to add parlor games. Something to break the ice, as it were. Charades, perhaps. Or Blindman's Bluff.”
“Blindman's Bluff?” Caroline's voice dripped with disdain. She sat at the far end of the table, her posture rigid, her expression brittle. Yesterday's failures had clearly not improved her disposition. “Charles, we are hosting a refined entertainment, not a children's party.”
“Parlor games are perfectly refined. Lady Ashworth hosted them last season.”
“Lady Ashworth also served punch that turned three gentlemen's waistcoats purple. Her judgment is not to be trusted.”
“Nevertheless, we shall have games.” Bingley's tone was unusually firm. “Miss Bennet mentioned she enjoys them, and I intend to ensure her enjoyment.”
Caroline pursed her lips. “Of course she did,” she said, and added with a sigh. “Then games we shall have.”
Mrs. Hurst offered a languid observation about the weather. Caroline announced that she would personally curate the evening's amusements to ensure they met London standards. Darcy felt the first pang of dread settle in his stomach.
He knew Caroline's taste in amusements. He knew she would attempt to use games the way she had used greenery: as strategic weapons in her campaign against the Bennets—and for herself.
While Bingley happily described plans for wassail and lighting arrangements, Darcy's thoughts drifted inward.
He could not stop thinking about the walk.
Miss Elizabeth's cheeks, pink from the cold.
Her laughter when he admitted to struggling with conversation.
The way her eyes had warmed—just for a heartbeat—when he stepped between her and Caroline's mistletoe trap.
The soft confusion in her expression, as though she were reassessing everything she had believed about him.
She had looked at him without mockery. Without challenge. As though he were someone worth knowing.
The memory was intoxicating.
But it was also dangerous.
Wickham was in Meryton. Wickham was spreading his poison. Wickham was charming everyone who crossed his path, including—especially—the woman Darcy could not stop thinking about.
He could not approach Miss Elizabeth honestly. Not while Wickham threatened her peace of mind. Not while she might still trust that smiling villain over himself. Not while his own silence about Georgiana's near-ruin made any defense impossible.
His pride felt like a vise around his chest. His heart felt like a liability he could no longer control.
Late in the morning, Darcy escaped Netherfield on the pretense of delivering a message for Bingley. The walk into Meryton would clear his head, he told himself. The cold air would restore his equilibrium.
He was wrong.
He had barely reached the village when he heard them—two shopkeepers standing in a doorway, their voices carrying in the crisp December air.
“Mr. Wickham says Mr. Darcy treated him most cruelly...”
“Denied him a living, I heard. The one his father promised...”
“Poor man. Such hardship, and he bears it so gracefully...”
Darcy stopped walking.
The words hit him like a pugilist’s strike to his guts, each one a reminder of how thoroughly Wickham had poisoned the well. The shopkeepers did not notice him standing in the shadow of a doorway, did not see the way his hands clenched at his sides or the color that drained from his face.
Wickham was accelerating his campaign.
He was angling for sympathy, painting himself as the wronged innocent and Darcy as the heartless villain. And he was doing it in Meryton, where Miss Elizabeth walked and shopped and heard every word of gossip that passed through the village.
Darcy felt ill.
He moved on before the shopkeepers could notice him, his stride mechanical, his thoughts spiraling. How many people had Wickham told? How many believed him? Had Miss Elizabeth heard these lies? Did she believe them?
The thought was unbearable.
He was turning onto the high street when he saw her.
Miss Elizabeth stood outside a milliner's shop, her arm linked with Jane's, her expression animated as she spoke.
The winter sun caught the dark gleam of her hair beneath her bonnet, and she was laughing at something her sister had said—that bright, surprised laugh that had lodged itself beneath Darcy's breastbone and refused to leave.
He stopped.
Every instinct urged him forward. He wanted to cross the street, take her aside, explain everything—Wickham's lies, Georgiana's near-ruin, the truth behind the charming facade. He wanted to warn her before Wickham's poison could take deeper root.
But he could not.
He could not expose Georgiana's shame to protect himself. He could not demand Miss Elizabeth trust his word over Wickham's without evidence she would accept. He could not approach her here, in public, without causing exactly the sort of speculation he wished to avoid.
He stood frozen, watching her laugh, watching her smile, watching her move through the world with a grace and vitality that made everything else seem dull by comparison.
She did not see him.
Perhaps that was for the best.
Darcy turned away, his heart twisting, and walked back to Netherfield without delivering Bingley's message at all.