Page 114 of The Difference of a Darcy
The door slammed open.
George Wickham stood on the threshold, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat askew, his eyes bloodshot but alight with something far worse than drink. He leaned against the frame for a moment, surveying the scene, and then his mouth twisted into a smile that made Elizabeth’s stomach turn.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “No wonder you have been hiding away, Georgie. You have been keeping company with an angel.”
He stepped into the room. The scent of stale brandy clung to him.
Elizabeth froze where she stood, her heart pounding. Wickham’s gaze fixed on her, roving in a way that made her skin crawl. He came closer—too close—and reached out a hand to trail one finger down the side of her cheek.
“Where have you been hiding this beauty?” he murmured. “I do not recall seeing you before.”
Elizabeth forced herself not to flinch, not to recoil, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to move. She folded her hands tightly in front of her and lowered her gaze. “I am Mrs. Wickham’s maid, sir,” she said, her voice steady only through willpower.
“Her maid?” His grin widened. “A pity. Pretty thing like you should not be wasted pressing gowns and fetching ribbons. Perhaps I can change that.”
Georgiana’s voice, thin but determined, broke the moment. “Beth is married, sir. Her husband works in the stables.”
Wickham’s laughter filled the room. “A husband, is it? Then the man is a fool to let you out of his sight. Perhaps he does not… please you as he ought?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She took an involuntary half-step back.
“Perhaps,” Wickham continued, his tone oily, “you wonder what a real man is like.”
Elizabeth’s fingers clenched around the sewing scissors in her apron pocket, but before she could speak—or act—the door opened sharply.
“Beth!” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice cut through the tension like a blade. “You are wanted below at once.”
Wickham turned lazily toward her. “Always taking my toys away, Mrs. Reynolds.”
The housekeeper’s expression did not change. “I will not say it again, Beth.”
Elizabeth curtsied quickly and fled, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears. Only once she was safely in the corridor did she allow herself a breath.
Behind her, she heard Mrs. Reynolds’ calm, measured voice: “Perhaps, sir, you might prefer to take your luncheon in the study. I will have it brought at once.”
And the door shut firmly between them.
∞∞∞
The kitchen was too warm.
Darcy stood by the back table, sleeves rolled, drying the last of the supper dishes. He had just stoked the fire for Cook, who was grumbling over a sauce that refused to thicken properly. The scent of boiling beef hung heavy in the air. Mrs. Wells muttered to herself about overcooked carrots and men who ordered meals like kings without lifting a finger to hunt them.
He was about to ask whether more firewood was needed when the door opened behind him. He turned.
Elizabeth stood there, pale as paper, her hands trembling so badly that she pressed them together to still them. Her eyes darted to Cook, then back to him.
“Beth?” he said softly, stepping forward. “What—?”
“I need a moment,” she whispered. “Please.”
Darcy nodded tightly and guided her through the scullery and out into the narrow corridor, where the air was cool and still. She leaned back against the wall, breathing fast, her arms wrapped around herself.
He took one look at her face—her wide eyes, the shaken lines of her mouth—and the tight coil in his chest snapped.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
She shook her head. “He came into her room—Georgiana’s room. I think he thought she was alone.”
