Elizabeth laughed as she recalled his disdainful comment. “She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” Yet, while she was at Netherfield, Darcy had paid her no insignificant degree of attention, even going so far as to engage her in several heated intellectual and philosophical debates while in company with the rest of their party, none of whom he had included in their almost-private verbal sparring. To Elizabeth’s amusement, such pointed notice of her often resulted in Miss Bingley becoming angered, and Elizabeth had found herself banished to the far end of the table during family dinners, with only the inebriated Mr. Hurst for companionship, while Miss Bingley fawned over Darcy and tried to monopolize his notice. Yet, even at these times, Darcy’s dark, penetrating eyes continued to seek her out. Whatever could it mean?
Charlotte Lucas had often told Elizabeth she believed Darcy admired her a great deal, but Elizabeth could not agree with such a notion. Her usual reply was to laugh it off and tell her, “That is simply not possible, Charlotte, for I know he dislikes me as much as I do him,” before steering the conversation to some other topic. After a while, Charlotte no longer commented on such observations, but she did raise a speculative brow and cast a knowing look at Elizabeth each time she caught Darcy observing her friend, which was almost constantly whenever they were thrown into company together. Elizabeth found this occurred quite often.
The two gentlemen from Netherfield had just entered Meryton on their way to Longbourn when they chanced to notice the very ladies whom they were, indeed, intending to call upon, standing on the opposite side of the street. With great eagerness, Bingley urged his mount toward the object of his affection, Miss Jane Bennet, while Darcy remained several paces behind, struggling against the turmoil incited in his breast by the pleasing form and fine eyes of Jane’s sister Elizabeth.
It had been happening for many weeks now and, no matter how many times Darcy reminded himself of the unsuitability of her situation and the lowness of her connections, the lively intelligence, clever wit, and graceful yet unassuming manners of the lady never failed to impress upon him the very great danger he faced in spite of his disapprobation.
He had tried every method within his power to rid himself of his overwhelming—and rather disconcerting—feelings for her, but the bewitching Elizabeth Bennet would not grant him reprieve. When Darcy was awake, she invaded his thoughts constantly, and in the late hours of the night, she ruled his subconscious, leading him to forbidden imaginings of passionate splendor.
Darcy reined in his horse, his eyes fixed firmly upon Elizabeth. She was engaged in conversation with an unidentified gentleman who appeared to be paying her rapt attention. After a few moments, their conversation waned, and in the next instant, she looked up to see Darcy staring at her. She acknowledged him with a small, polite inclination of her head, which caused the gentleman she had been talking with to turn.
Immediately, Darcy felt the color drain from his face as his mind reeled with painful recollections of Ramsgate and his sister, Georgiana… and Wickham! Good God! What the devil is George Wickham doing here? Anger spread like wildfire through his entire body, leaving him fighting to master his emotions. It was not a feat easily accomplished in the midst of Meryton. He was seething as Wickham touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat, his mouth curling into a smirk as he acknowledged Darcy’s glare. Darcy forced himself to look away toward Bingley, who was shrouded in happy oblivion as he smiled down from his horse at Jane Bennet. He had clearly missed the exchange between the two men.
This was not the case with Elizabeth, who had been appraising their interaction with some degree of concern on her face. Her gaze darted from Darcy to Wickham and back again. Without meaning to, Darcy’s gaze came to rest upon her just as a particularly severe look of displeasure spread over his handsome features. Elizabeth started at this, and Darcy, instantly regretting it, softened his expression, perhaps more so than he would have wished, providing Wickham with a private bit of information—information Darcy would never have wanted him to have at his disposal. Turning from Darcy with a sneer, Wickham focused all his charm on Elizabeth and proceeded to engage her, once again, in conversation.
Darcy’s blood grew cold. The idea of George Wickham gaining Elizabeth’s good opinion was more than he could stomach, but what could he do about it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing without laying his personal business open for all the world to scorn. He could not bear to put Georgiana through such humiliation and censure. But what of countless other young ladies? What of their honor? What of their respectability? And what of his Elizabeth? Darcy suddenly felt all the frustration of his position anew as a familiar ache in his breast reminded him she was not rightfully his to protect.
Lydia Bennet’s wild laughter echoed through the street. Wickham’s easy manners and handsome countenance had most likely already recommended him to Elizabeth’s youngest sisters. Darcy watched with resentment and alarm as Wickham conversed easily with Elizabeth. After several agonizing moments, her eyes turned up to meet his own tortured ones, and in their depths, Darcy could easily discern surprise, confusion, and curiosity. Surely, the witty and intelligent Elizabeth Bennet would not be taken in by the likes of George Wickham!
But what if he was in error? Wickham was charismatic and dangerous. Yes, she had no fortune to tempt him, but knowing Wickham as intimately as he did, would her relative poverty be enough to ensure her safety? She was certainly one of the handsomest women of Darcy’s acquaintance, and she had a multitude of charms to recommend her to any man. Darcy was agonizingly aware of each of them. Another alarming thought occurred to him then—should Wickham happen to succeed in imposing upon Elizabeth, what slanderous falsehoods might he fill her head with about him?
Darcy’s relationship with Elizabeth had always held an underlying level of anxiety. Even now, after nearly six weeks of being acquainted, including living under the same roof at Netherfield while she nursed her sister, it seemed tenuous at best, but any lies Wickham might now see fit to tell her could very easily cause irreparable harm to his suit. But why? he demanded in exasperation. Why should that be of tantamount concern? As deep a desire as I feel for her, could I ever sanction myself to act upon those feelings? Could I ever truly allow myself to form any real design on her?
He fought to repress the attraction he had felt toward her since the very first moments of their acquaintance. It had been a constant struggle, one he knew he was losing. Bloody hell! It was simply no use! Even the merest possibility of Elizabeth Bennet thinking the worst of him—and at Wickham’s hands—made Darcy’s present agitation all the greater. He could not leave his desire for her esteem to chance, and with an impulsiveness few who knew him in Hertfordshire would recognize, he leapt from his horse.
This action finally succeeded in rousing Bingley from his unabashed admiration of Jane, and he followed Darcy’s lead with enthusiasm. Blissfully unaware of the hostility radiating from his friend, Bingley greeted the assembled group, then turned his attention back to Jane. “It is a pleasure to see you this morning, Miss Bennet, and all your sisters! We were just on our way to Longbourn to call upon you when we happened to see you here. It is certainly an exceptionally fine day, is it not?”