Darcy, who had become even more agitated after watching his wife struggle to keep her composure while he informed her father of Wickham’s abominable treatment, expressed his intention of accompanying the colonel and his men. He was finally dissuaded from doing so by his father-in-law, who impressed upon him the probability of such rashness adding greatly to Elizabeth’s heightened distress. One look at his wife decided him. He would not leave her.

Chapter 25

The evening was soon at an end for the Bennet family. Darcy’s blood boiled with the barely contained fury he felt toward the outrages Wickham had perpetrated against Elizabeth. He marveled at his ability to project some modicum of control over his roiling emotions as he tended to his wife and ordered the carriages. Mr. Bennet, with the assistance of Bingley, urged the rest of his family to offer their appreciation to Sir William and Lady Lucas and take their leave.

Once seated in the carriage, Darcy flouted propriety, taking Elizabeth onto his lap and cradling her in his arms as she buried her head in the crook of his neck. Confused and knowing only that something unsavory had occurred involving Elizabeth, Lydia, and Wickham, Bingley indulged his friend and stared out of the window in silence until they arrived at Netherfield. Once they had gained the sanctuary of the house, Bingley grabbed Darcy by the shoulder and inquired about the situation. Darcy glanced at the sleeping woman in his arms and, after a moment of indecision, consented to join Bingley in his study once he saw Elizabeth settled for the night.

When he pushed open the door to his wife’s bedchamber, Darcy saw that Sonia was waiting to assist her mistress, but he dismissed her, not wanting any hands other than his to touch her again that night. He undressed her with tenderness, and though she did awaken, he continued his ministrations, tucking her beneath the counterpane while speaking soft words of devotion and love, and stroking her face until she finally seemed to succumb to what he hoped would be a peaceful slumber.

Darcy swallowed down the lump in his throat and joined Bingley, who handed him a glass of brandy as he waited for him to begin his tale. Darcy began pacing almost immediately, draining his glass in several large gulps and offering it without comment to be refilled. His friend complied and watched with concern on his face as Darcy took up his customary position at the window, looking out into the darkness as he drank without tasting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “That blackguard dared to touch my wife; he dared to kiss my wife, my beautiful wife, who carries my child, my heir, in her womb as we speak. She has never done anything to deserve such abhorrent treatment from anyone, much less the likes of George Wickham,” he spat. “I have sworn before God to protect Elizabeth, but instead, she has been the recipient of such perverse, repulsive acts of degradation forced upon her by that… that unscrupulous animal whom I was once ignorant and naïve enough to call my friend!”

He drained his glass and hurled it into the fire, where it shattered into dozens of pieces. Catching sight of Bingley’s shocked expression and distrusting his own emotions, Darcy turned his back to him again, laying his forehead against the cold windowpane. It did little to soothe his temper. “This is no one’s fault but my own,” he continued in a defeated voice full of self-admonishment. “If I had only kept my emotions and desire for Elizabeth in check that day several months ago in Meryton, none of this would ever have happened. Wickham singled her out, not for her beauty and vivacity, but because he recognized my admiration for her, just as I am certain he has chosen to seduce Lydia for the same reason—simply because she is Elizabeth’s youngest sister, and ruining her would surely be just one more way of revenging himself upon me. She is, without a doubt, one of the most easily led, ridiculous girls in all of England, Bingley, but Lydia Bennet hardly deserves to receive this for her ignorance and indecorum! Damn him! Damn him to hell for carrying this vendetta so bloody far!”

He felt Bingley’s hand grip his shoulder. “What do you wish to do, Darcy?” he asked.

Darcy let out a bitter, rueful laugh and, through gritted teeth, said, “I want to kill the bloody bastard, Bingley! I want to squeeze every ounce of breath from his disgraceful body so he will never hurt another member of my family again as long as I live!”

Bingley let out a long breath. “Dueling is illegal, my friend, and murder, I am afraid, is not an option I would endorse in this particular instance, no matter how appealing it may appear at the moment.”

Darcy slammed his fist against the window frame and hollered, “He has forced himself upon my wife, for God’s sake! He has compromised two of my sisters, both under the age of sixteen! It is well within my right, both as a husband and a brother, to run him through without so much as a second thought to his miserable existence!”

“Yes, Darcy,” Bingley said, “but you can hardly expect such a dishonorable blackguard to play fairly when so much is at stake, my friend. And then there is Elizabeth. It would grieve her beyond everything imaginable should Wickham harm you or, worse, kill you in a duel. You cannot expect her to go through that agony, Darcy—that senseless heartbreak—especially if what you say is true and she is, indeed, carrying your child.”

Bingley sighed and shook his head. “I know you wish to do this because you are thinking of them, Darcy—because you wish to protect them, and because right now, you hold yourself accountable for failing to do so in this particular instance—but you must truly think of them, my friend, before you decide to react with impetuosity and rashness. The consequences for such actions could be devastating and irreversible, and I doubt very much Elizabeth would appreciate your placing yourself in such jeopardy simply to rid the world of one dishonorable man. Your wife is hopelessly in love with you, you know, in part because you are a man who has always conducted himself with honor and decorum. You can never be anything less.”

Darcy walked to the nearest chair, where he finally allowed himself to collapse, exhausted both physically and emotionally. He could not keep from thinking of his Elizabeth, whom he felt, in his heart, he had failed to protect, just as he had failed to protect Georgiana at Ramsgate. Holding his head in his hands, his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably as the lump in his throat, which he had been fighting against so ineffectually, finally succeeded in forcing its way into his mouth. He felt a warm hand reach out to him, then another, enveloping him in a secure embrace, but, rather than Bingley’s strong grasp, this touch was one of tenderness, love, and complete devotion. Darcy clung to the one person who he knew, beyond a doubt, would offer it.

“Charles is right, you know,” she said quietly. “Georgiana and I would never wish for you to risk your life for the sake of ridding us of such a man, Fitzwilliam, nor would any other member of our family, be they Bennets, Darcys, or Fitzwilliams. I daresay we shall all survive this ordeal without such an impressive display of gallantry, my dear. Too many people depend upon you, my love, and you are far too precious for me to allow you to risk our future together in exchange for some reckless solution to this series of unfortunate dealings with Mr. Wickham. No one is worth that kind of contemplation and sacrifice, especially that man.”

Elizabeth held his head against her breast, clad only in the silk nightshift she had not bothered to change out of or cover, before following the sound of her husband’s anguished voice, raised in anger, to Bingley’s study.

The warm, smoothness of Elizabeth’s flesh, her tender endearments, her soft kisses, the soothing rhythm of her heartbeat, all became a balm for Darcy’s soul. Drawing a shaky breath, he pulled her onto his lap and rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as she wiped away the last of his tears. He had never been one to show such a display of weakness and vulnerability—to give way to tears and grief in front of another, no matter what the cause—and he was embarrassed that Elizabeth had borne witness to his utter loss of self-control. He entwined his fingers within her hair and breathed deeply, drawing comfort from her closeness. Her lavender scent almost always had a calming effect on him, although, on many occasions, it was enough of a stimulant to arouse him profoundly. On this night, though, he simply reveled in her consolatory presence.

Darcy sighed against her lips as she brushed them over his. “I love you, Fitzwilliam, so very much,” she whispered as she smoothed her fingers over his hair and stroked the line of his jaw. “Let us think no more on this tonight, my love. Come with me, and we will lose ourselves in each other.”

Bingley had slipped from the room the moment Elizabeth entered. Darcy opened his eyes and pulled his head back just enough to search hers. They were wonderful, dark, liquid pools in which he could easily drown, and he marveled, not for the first time, at Elizabeth’s ability to find strength and courage in the face of such adversity. Without a doubt, this woman was the true mistress of Pemberley, and he thanked God, once again, for his good fortune—not only for allowing him to find her, but for allowing him to recognize her worth enough to overcome his misplaced pride and haughty reserve in order to earn her love and devotion. He returned her kiss and then placed another on her forehead. “My love, I am so very sorry I was not there to protect you from him tonight.”