Darcy and Deception

Elizabeth turned at the sound of her name and noticed him with a lift of her eyebrows. “Mr. Darcy.” Her tone was even. “I am visiting the market. Lydia’s stomach is out of sorts, and I thought to find her a few apples—her favorite fruit.”

“May I accompany you?”

Her hesitation twisted Darcy’s heart. Did she still find his presence so distasteful? He straightened his shoulders and reminded himself that he was here to secure her safety. Her opinion of him was immaterial. “Of course,” she said eventually.

However, she did not hesitate to take his arm, and they chatted about the weather as they ambled among the stalls in the market. She purchased three round, pink apples for her sister and placed them carefully in a basket resting over one arm. One vendor was selling an enticing array of biscuits, and Darcy bought lemon biscuits for them.

“This is delicious. Thank you!” Elizabeth said as she swallowed the last crumbs.

“My pleasure.”

They had reached the end of the market stalls, but the green was dotted by benches. “Shall we sit?” Darcy asked, gesturing to a bench.

Again, Elizabeth hesitated. “I cannot linger for long.” She sat on the bench indicated but positioned herself at the far end—clearly not inviting any intimacy.

Darcy occupied the other end, which was not very far on such a small bench. He stifled an impulse to take her hand; excessive familiarity now could only hurt his cause. He caught and held her eyes. “Miss Bennet, I must speak with you on a most serious matter.”

Her mouth fell open, and he immediately realized she feared another proposal. He held up a hand, feeling suddenly ridiculous. “No, it is not that!” he said hastily. “First, I owe you an apology for my insulting behavior in Hunsford. When I recall my words about your family—”

Elizabeth raised her hand. “Speak no more on that subject. It is I who owe you an apology for my aspersions on your character. I shudder when I think of what I said then.”

His lips twisted in a smile. “It seems each of us believes we are responsible for the greater portion of the blame.”

She smiled as well. “Perhaps we may call it even and never mention the subject again.”

Darcy’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Agreed.” Elizabeth gathered herself to stand, but he forestalled her with a gesture. “There is another subject I must discuss….It is about…Wickham.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I believe we have had this conversation.”

“Yes, but I—” How could he address such a sensitive question? “I—It occurred to me that you—or your family—might be…in a difficult position regarding Mr. Wickham.”

Her brows drew together as if his words mystified her.

“That you might be operating under some kind of duress….” Again, her face betrayed perplexity. Must he speak plainer about such an unsavory subject? “He has been known to threaten blackmail. And occasionally people owe him gambling debts…” He allowed his words to trail off suggestively.

Finally, realization dawned on her face. “Oh no! I thank you for your concern, but there is nothing of that nature concerning my family and Mr. Wickham.”

Darcy believed her without reservation; her perplexity had been unfeigned. He was obscurely disappointed, realizing only then that he had envisioned himself as a rescuer who could solve her problems. “Why then?” he asked. “Why keep company with the man?” Desperation leaked into his voice. “Did you fail to read the letter I gave you?”

“I read every word,” she said, not gazing in his direction.

Darcy’s shoulders tightened. She had? But— “Did you not credit what I had written?”

“No. I believed it.” She held herself quite stiff and still.

Worse and worse. She knew and believed Darcy’s story about Wickham, but she chose to disregard it. A headache began to form at the base of his skull. “Then you know what the man is. Why do you maintain a friendship with him?”

Elizabeth’s face had a determined, white-lipped expression that he remembered all too well from the Hunsford Parsonage. Apparently. he had a particular talent for provoking her anger. “I do not believe it is your business who I keep company with.”

He chose his words carefully, having no desire to add fuel to the fire. “No, that is correct. However, I am concerned about you—as a friend. Wickham is a dangerous man.”

Elizabeth gathered herself again, preparing to stand and leave him. “I am well able to protect myself.”

Darcy stifled a groan. How many other women believed they were on their guard against the man’s charms only to find themselves disgraced—or worse? “He possesses wiles and machinations that—”

She thrust to her feet. “That is enough, Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was not loud, but firm. “You have discharged your duty by issuing your warning.”

As she turned to leave, Darcy grabbed her hand desperately. “I pray you—do not accept a proposal of marriage from Wickham.”