Christmas at Darcy House

“Mrs. Gardiner will see you in the drawing room,” the maid said and beckoned for him to follow her down the hallway. Mrs. Gardiner but not Miss Bennet? Is Elizabeth ill? Has she been summoned home for a family emergency? Is she refusing to see me?

The older woman was standing and facing the door when Darcy entered the room. “Mr. Darcy,” she said with a tight smile, “to what do we owe this honor?”

Darcy was too impatient for common social niceties. “I must see Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth—immediately.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s eyebrow rose. She was definitely suspicious of Darcy’s intentions. “She is not available now. Perhaps you could return tomorrow.”

Not available? That was not the same thing as not at home. “Thank you, no. The matter is most urgent. I will remain until she is available.” He eyed the sofa as if preparing for a long wait.

Mrs. Gardiner pursed her mouth, evidently displeased at the prospect of Darcy occupying her drawing room for hours on end. “Mr. Darcy—” she began in a quelling tone.

A flash of something caught Darcy’s attention from the corner of his eye, and he shot a glance toward the window. There had been movement. Elizabeth’s white dress stood out vividly against the browns and greens of the garden, but she was not alone.

It was a scene from Darcy’s worst nightmare. Wickham was talking to her earnestly, and she was smiling at him. But that was not the worst.

The worst was that he was holding her hand.

And she was smiling.

Darcy was racing for the door before he had consciously decided to do so. I must get to Elizabeth. Now.

“Mr. Darcy! Where are you going?” Mrs. Gardiner followed him out of the room.

Naturally, Darcy was unfamiliar with the house, but he guessed there would be a back door to the garden. He rushed along the only corridor that led to the back of the house and…yes, there was a back door.

“Mr. Darcy!” The maid had joined her mistress, and they both called his name as they gave chase. But panic had given him wings, and they were far too slow to catch him.

He twisted the door handle violently, and it opened, spilling him into the garden. Once outside, he ran, dodging shrubs and randomly placed rocks, desperate to reach the back of the garden where he had espied Elizabeth and Wickham.

“Beckett! Beckett! We need your help!” Mrs. Gardiner cried. No doubt Beckett was some sort of manservant. Do they think that one man can stop me from reaching Elizabeth? Ha, I would like to see Beckett try.

As he rounded a curve in the pathway, his quarry came into view. They were already staring in his direction, no doubt alerted by the shouting.

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth’s mouth fell open.

However, Wickham was grinning smugly. “You are too late, Darcy. She is mine now.”

Chapter Six

Elizabeth did not know what to think. One minute she and Mr. Wickham—George—were having a simple conversation about when to hold the marriage ceremony as Elizabeth sought to quell the anxious fluttering in her stomach. A minute later they heard shouting, and Mr. Darcy came pelting in their direction from the house.

“You are too late, Darcy. She is mine now,” George said.

What did that mean? Elizabeth was not George’s possession like a table or a horse. And why would Mr. Darcy care?

Mr. Darcy stumbled to a stop, staring at them. No, at their joined hands. Elizabeth lifted her chin slightly, refusing to let go. Engaged couples could hold hands; it was not improper.

“He made you an offer?” Mr. Darcy asked her. She nodded, not feeling equal to a verbal response. “And you accepted?” She nodded again. As they spoke, her Aunt Gardiner hurried up behind Mr. Darcy, swiftly followed by Shaw, the housemaid, and Beckett, the manservant. Had they been attempting to prevent Mr. Darcy from entering the garden? Why was he here? Hoping for elucidation, Elizabeth peered at Mr. Darcy and instantly wished she had not.

His face held an expression of the bleakest despair. As if he had lost something of great value and knew he would never retrieve it. His devastation was so complete that Elizabeth dropped George’s hand and took an involuntary step forward to comfort him. George caught her arm and murmured “Elizabeth” sternly. Oh yes, an engaged woman should not comfort another man.

Mr. Darcy’s chest was heaving, and he glared at George as if he could incinerate the other man with his gaze. “Go ahead, hit me again,” George said with a smile, tapping the red mark on his chin. Was that how he had obtained it? Had he not said…? “You will still be too late.”

However, Mr. Darcy did not look like a man about to punch his nemesis. He looked like a man who was about to jump off a bridge into the Thames, but for the life of her, Elizabeth could not understand why. Why should her engagement to George prompt such despair?

Mr. Darcy closed his eyes, rubbing his face with shaking hands. Then he released a long breath, his shoulders relaxing. A sort of half-smile curved his lips. “If there is a scandal, so be it,” he murmured to himself. What did he mean by that?

When he opened his eyes again, they were fixed on Elizabeth, a darker color than she had ever seen before. It was as if she were in a cage with a tiger—a tiger who had selected her as his prey and would ignore everything else until he caught her. The skin on the back of her neck prickled with unease.