Page 57 of One Night with Mr. Darcy
He’d left, Darcy was informed, left on horseback, and said that he might be gone overnight.
“WE WEREN’T EXPECTINGyou,” said Elizabeth. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Wickham.” He was smiling at her, and he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. He had golden hair and sky-blue eyes, and when he smiled, his teeth were white and straight, and he smiled at her as if she was the world and he had eyes for nothing except her. “Mr. George Wickham. I’m a close, personal friend of the Darcys. I can’t believe neither of them have mentioned me.”
“Well… no,” she said. They were in the sitting room at Rosings. He’d arrived not too long ago, and she’d brought him in here until she could determine what could be done.
“Nor that I was to be coming along?” said Mr. Wickham. “Well, they are both grief-stricken, undoubtedly. I cannot fault them for it. I am only sorry to be imposing on you in this way, madam.” His smile was dazzling. “I would never want to cause a burden for a woman as pretty as you.”
She felt heat rush to her face. He thought she was pretty? She couldn’t remember the last time a man had commented on her beauty. Even the other night when she and Mr. Darcy were struggling to keep their hands off each other, he’d said no such thing.
She remembered that first night with him.
I could not have imagined how lovely you would look this way.
Now, she was truly blushing and badly.
“I can go,” he said. “I likely should. It’s a bit of a ride back to Pemberley, of course, but there is a lovely inn that I believe I can reach by nightfall if I leave immediately—”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You must stay. I wouldn’t turn you away, sir. Perish the thought. No, the servants will have something prepared for you soon enough. Until then, I shall see to you.”
“You are too kind, Mrs. Collins,” he said, and that smile of his, thoseblueeyes…
She squirmed under his gaze. She didn’t know how to feel, and she felt horrible for enjoying it, but it was nice. He was so beautiful. He was like an angel of a man.
“Tell me,” he said, “how are you today? How are you really and truly? I want to actually know. I don’t simply want a placeholder in the conversation.”
She shook her head. “No, no, sir, I couldn’t—”
“Burden me?” He tilted his head to one side, giving her a dazzling smile. “I think I could handle it, Mrs. Collins. You are grieving, aren’t you? And I have heard your husband is ill. That must be quite a lot on your shoulders.”
“I’m holding up fine.” She ducked down her head.
“I see that. You are strong. But even the strongest amongst us need support from time to time, need to rest,” he said. He reached out a hand, holding it palm up between them.
She just stared at it. This was frightfully forward, holding his hand out to her.
He jiggled it a bit, nodding at her. “Go ahead, Mrs. Collins.”
Oh, dear. Now, she felt a little bit of discomfort. She didn’t want to hold hands with this man. She didn’t even know him, pretty eyes notwithstanding.
But he wasn’t going to put his hand down else, was he?
She put her hand in his.
His hand was warm and large and it engulfed hers. He squeezed it, and she felt trapped, not reassured. Alarm burst inside her, all through her. “Let me pray with you, Mrs. Collins,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. She was being silly, wasn’t she? He was a parson. He thought it was nothing to touch her in this way. She was making it into something it wasn’t. “Well, of course, sir. Thank you.”
He bowed his head.
She stared at him, eyes closed, so grave, and then shook herself and bowed her own head.
“Heavenly Father, we come to thee prostrate and wanting,” intoned Mr. Wickham. “We are here for the soul of thy faithful servant, Mrs. Collins. Help her to see that I have been sent here to minister to her. Open her heart, Lord, give her the courage to accept the gift she has been given. Open her heart to me, Lord, open it.”
She tugged her hand out of his. Something about this was wrong.
He looked up at her, blinking. “Mrs. Collins?”
