Additional activity in the garden drew Darcy from his musings. Wickham whispered in Elizabeth’s ear while she simpered and edged closer to him on the bench. His smile held a hint of a smirk. She was completely fooled, and he knew it; he was enjoying the charade.
I have been a fool. Well, that was not news—not since Hunsford. But now he was recognizing new depths to his foolishness. Not only had Darcy deceived himself about Elizabeth’s feelings, but he had also mistaken her character—and even her judgment.
Why was she so blind to Wickham’s lies? Surely she had burned Darcy’s letter. Damnation!
Darcy turned away from the sickening sight in the garden to stare at the cobblestones of Church Street. He would retreat to his lodgings, pack his belongings, and return to London. No one would ever know he had been to Brighton—after he swore Bingley to secrecy. He would leave Elizabeth to the consequences of her own folly. She was not the woman he had believed her to be, and thus she was not the right woman for him.
Perhaps she was not capable of loving Darcy. If she preferred a man like Wickham—handsome, smooth, and easy of manner—someone like Darcy would never satisfy her. Darcy’s hand shook violently where it grasped the edge of the fence, and his eyes burned. I must escape now, he warned himself, before someone notices me, and I disgrace myself further.
The street beckoned, offering a quick escape. He could leave Brighton today and find some coaching inn on the road where he could get utterly foxed. Forget about Elizabeth…for a time.
Yet he could not bring his fingers to release the wood of the fence—nor compel his feet to walk toward the street. He could not abandon Elizabeth to her fate. I am pathetic. She has rejected me. She is not the woman I thought her to be. And yet I cannot let her go.
Oh, he could tell himself that he was being chivalrous or that he felt responsible for not warning her family about Wickham—both of those things were true. But the real truth was that—despite evidence of her lack of discernment and her infatuation with another man—Darcy was still desperately in love with Elizabeth. Perhaps the sight in the garden should have altered his sentiments, but it had not. Not one whit.
His only solace was that nobody knew the depths of his shame. He must take care to keep it that way.
He wheeled around, again peering through the hole in the fence to torture himself with the sight of Wickham whispering into Elizabeth’s ear while she giggled. Giggled! Had Darcy ever provoked a giggle from Elizabeth? He was quite sure he would never touch food again.
But he could not abandon her to Wickham’s clutches. She might not be his, but he still must save her from Wickham. Even if he could not win her love, he could thwart Wickham’s plans and keep Elizabeth safe. That must be enough.
But how could he rescue her from the blackguard?
Paralyzed without an answer to this question, Darcy was a horrified witness as Wickham kissed his way up Elizabeth’s bare arm while she giggled and blushed with pleasure. The officer skimmed over the puffed muslin sleeve of her dress and stole a few kisses along her collarbone and the long pale column of her neck.
Then his lips brushed hers. Once. Twice.
Darcy slapped his hand over his mouth against the impulse to roar his outrage. He wanted to race into the garden and tear Wickham bodily from the woman he loved. Those should be my hands on her skin! My lips brushing hers! Darcy wanted to punch Wickham, but he equally wanted to punish himself. Why could I not make her giggle and blush in such a way?
Fortunately for the state of Darcy’s nerves, Elizabeth demurred, turning her head away from Wickham and murmuring something softly, her hand resting at her throat. Wickham nodded and pulled away. Her discomfort with such intimacy was a slight balm to Darcy’s heart.
He watched the couple converse for a few more minutes, but then Elizabeth rose and called out to the other women in the garden. They answered, and soon—thankfully— Elizabeth and Wickham had disappeared into the house.
Darcy could not have borne another minute. I am the last man in the world she would marry, and yet she allows this wastrel to kiss her! Darcy’s heart had been flayed with a whip.
He waited a moment for his jagged heartbeat to slow and for his hands to cease shaking. Then he silently picked his way through the refuse strewn about the alley and hurried back to his lodgings. He had plans to make.
***
Darcy spent the remainder of the afternoon pacing the floor of his elegant rooms in the Crescent. The carpet in both the bedroom and sitting room was quite lush—an exotic oriental pattern of some kind. After hours of perambulation, Darcy was intimately familiar with the pattern and not much closer to a plan for how he might rescue Elizabeth from Wickham.
At first he considered writing another letter about his dealings with Wickham but immediately discarded the idea. An unguarded moment to transfer such a missive was unlikely to occur, and he had no reason to believe she would read a second letter. No need to provide additional kindling for her fire.
He might also relate the story in person, but they would need a reasonable degree of privacy given the sensitive subject. Georgiana’s reputation could not be jeopardized by sharing the tale before others. Obtaining any time alone with Elizabeth would not be a simple matter. He did not expect her to be pleased at his sudden appearance in Brighton, and she would not be inclined to grant him a solitary audience. He fully anticipated that even public attempts to speak with her would be…awkward.
And he had experienced enough awkward encounters with Elizabeth Bennet to last him a lifetime.
Darcy had considered and discarded many other schemes, including reporting Wickham’s debts to his superior officer, arranging for Wickham to be posted elsewhere, or even—in desperation—challenging the man to a duel. But any of those actions were likely to provoke Elizabeth’s sympathy for the blackguard and her antipathy toward Darcy.
Clenching his fist, Darcy thumped the wall. Damn Wickham for being so insufferably likeable! He charmed wherever he went, pleasing everyone with his manners and wit. In his younger days, Darcy had longed for one-quarter of Wickham’s easy ways with people; now he had accepted that he would always be doomed to be awkward in company. At least his fortune compensated for his lack of ease—until he met the one woman who was indifferent to his fortune.
How could he convince her of Wickham’s perfidy? If they we
re simply friends, he might find some way to convince her, but they were not even that.
I myself am the biggest obstacle. Elizabeth does not like me.
She considered him offensive, unmannerly, and—the deepest cut of all—ungentlemanlike.