Darcy leveled an icy glare at Wickham and muttered in a voice devoid of any feeling, “Two of my sisters… and my wife.” Then suddenly, Darcy’s hands gripped Wickham’s throat as the man stepped back with a sadistic smirk.

“I do believe this ’ere gentleman’ll kill ya righ’ good, ’e will. An’ all the better fer me.”

The terror in Wickham’s eyes was now palpable. Darcy leaned in and, in a voice shaking with barely checked fury, said, “You touched my wife, George. You laid your filthy hands upon her and insulted her in a most vile and reprehensible manner. She has not been the same since, and it has made me very, very angry. So angry, in fact, I do believe I would now like to see you dead. I care not how or by whose hands. I only know it will not be by mine. I will not risk my wife’s displeasure by dirtying my hands with your blood, no matter how sorely I am tempted.”

He threw Wickham toward the knot of red coats clustered around them, all gripping pistols and sabers, and watched as Wickham soiled himself while his hands massaged his bruised windpipe. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Have mercy on me, gentlemen! I am certain we can reach some sort of agreement here,” he rasped, but it was too late. Eight men seized him and dragged him, screaming, from the house.

Darcy fought for control while Colonel Fitzwilliam addressed the man in front of them. “You need not fear for your family, sir, I can promise you. Every man in this room tonight has been wronged by that blackguard, and they are anxious for retribution. He will not be found.” The man nodded.

Darcy, finally feeling in better control of himself, asked, “Pray, how is your daughter, Mr…?”

“Browning, sir. She’s a righ’ mess, but she’s strong. It ain’ nothin’ she won’ recover from eventually. The dirty blackguard hadn’ the time ta do ’is worst, by God, but tha’ don’ mean I didn’ wanna kill ’im in any case.”

Darcy gritted his teeth. “No. I share your sentiments completely.” He noticed the young girl peering around the side of the door then and reached into his coat pocket. He extracted his purse and handed it to Mr. Browning. “For your daughters, sir, and for your trouble. It is not nearly enough, but if it helps in any way to ease their suffering after this horrible event, please accept it with my gratitude. If it were not for the commotion here tonight, my cousin’s men would never have discovered that scoundrel. I thank you for your assistance, though I am exceedingly sorry for the cause. If you will allow it, I would send for my physician so he can tend to your daughter.”

Mr. Browning accepted the purse and nodded. “She’s with me wife now, but I thank ya fer yer kindness.” As they moved toward the door, Mr. Browning extended his hand to Darcy and said, “Yer a good man fer doin’ wha’ ya done ’ere tonigh’. I ’ope yer wife and sisters’ll be alrigh’. I don’ need ta know yer name. It ain’ necessary. Ya can be sure I won’ be talkin’ to no one ’bout any o’ this.”

All three men shook hands and parted ways—Darcy home to Elizabeth, and Colonel Fitzwilliam into the night with his men to deal George Wickham his last and most fateful hand.

Chapter 29

During the weeks that followed, Lydia recuperated at Darcy House and slowly regained her strength, though her personality, once so brash and energetic, was now much subdued. Whether it was the compassionate friend she found in Georgiana, the nurturing and reassurance she received from Elizabeth and her father, or the unassuming kindness shown to her by Darcy, despite the trouble she had caused him, Lydia had begun to change for the better. In such an environment, where genuine affection, respect, and rational conversation reigned, it was easy for her to see the vast contrast between a Fitzwilliam Darcy and a George Wickham.

Lydia found Darcy’s concern genuine and his desire to please her while she remained a guest in his home, sincere. Gradually, to her chagrin, dull Mr. Darcy no longer seemed so very dull after all, but rather all that was generous, compassionate, and considerate to a fault. Nothing, however, swayed Lydia’s opinion quite so much as witnessing an unguarded moment of intimacy he shared with her sister.

While in Hertfordshire, Lydia had heard the gossip about Elizabeth and the master of Pemberley, and had even spread some of it herself, for no reason other than to have some fun at their expense. Lydia had never completely comprehended the serious harm in such gossip, and much like her mother, neither could she fathom the interest such a rich, handsome, serious man like Darcy could ever have in her impertinent sister. Even though she had never desired his attentions herself, Lydia had thought it would have been a very good joke if Darcy had taken a fancy to her, the youngest of all her sisters. After noticing his attention drawn almost exclusively to Elizabeth, however, Lydia was quick to decide that such pointed attention must be the result of a strong physical lust on Darcy’s part, and her sister’s interest in the master of Pemberley nothing more than a desire to obtain status and wealth—enough for a marriage of convenience, as was more common in society than not, but certainly nothing deeper.

After witnessing her taciturn brother-in-law engaged in an amorous encounter with his wife during a stolen moment when they had likely believed themselves to be alone, however, Lydia was forced to admit there was far more between them than mere physical desire and the pursuit of worldly riches. The words Darcy had uttered, and the fervency and sincerity with which they were spoken; the way his lips claimed her sister’s as his hands traveled tenderly, almost reverently, over her body; the way Elizabeth responded to him—unreservedly and with her entire self—would forever leave an indelible mark on Lydia. She was forced to recognize and acknowledge the differences between the way Darcy coaxed, nurtured, and caressed his willing wife, who obviously loved him, and how Wickham had simply flirted with, demanded, and then taken from Lydia that which, in spite of her earlier boldness, she had been more than a little reluctant to surrender to him when the time was at hand.

It became obvious to her that Darcy worshiped her sister—that he loved Elizabeth from his heart—and, from that moment, Lydia was determined she would settle for nothing less than a similar adoration and respect for herself. Never again would she make the same grievous mistakes she had only so recently made—mistakes that had very nearly cost her far more than her virtue, as irretrievable as that now was to her. She would comport herself with dignity and decorum and earn the respect and love of an honorable, passionate man like her brother-in-law, or she would never again give herself to any man.

As a result of her newfound respect for Darcy’s character and, more specifically, his passionate nature with her sister, Lydia’s interactions with the master of Pemberley became reserved and almost deferential. Darcy’s ardent feelings for Elizabeth seemed to humanize him far more effectively than any kindness toward Lydia ever could, and because of his open displays of admiration for his wife, Lydia’s estimation of Elizabeth also increased.

Away from the constant petting and giddy effusions of her mother, Lydia began to develop a true bond with and an admiration for her second-eldest sister, which became stronger and more remarkable the more it was fed and nurtured. With Elizabeth and even with Georgiana—whose support had proven her to be a true friend, and who also happened to be the same age—Lydia was able to speak of many things she felt she could not at home. It was to Elizabeth that Lydia eventually related the details of the horrible nightmare she had endured with Wickham. She held nothing back—not even the fact that Wickham had plotted to ruin, not only her own reputation, but Elizabeth’s, as well, and for no reason other than it would have been the most effective way to cause Darcy the deepest pain and suffering. Lydia also revealed to her sister the exchange that had taken place at Mrs. Younge’s, when Wickham had referred to her by Elizabeth’s name in a moment of unrestrained lust.

*   *   *

They had spent an exhausting afternoon reliving Lydia’s terrifying experiences, and it was not until early in the evening that Elizabeth finally left her sister’s room so they both might rest for a while before supper was served. Elizabeth retired to her own rooms, her head pounding. She hardly knew what to do, for it was only now—after all that had come to pass, and in spite of his imposing himself upon her at the Lucas’s—Elizabeth fully admitted to herself she had grossly underestimated Wickham’s malicious intent, as well as his frightening propensity for exacting revenge upon her husband. She felt she had been an ignorant fool to have erred so greatly in her assessment of the danger to herself and her family, and thanked God that Colonel Fitzwilliam had managed to find Lydia before Wickham’s hateful wrath had claimed far more than her sister’s virtue. Indeed, Lydia very nearly had been lost to them forever.

For more than an hour, Elizabeth sat at her dressing table and stared, unseeing, at her reflection in the elegant mirror that adorned it. She was close to tears and dropped her head into her hands. Darcy found her thus when he entered to dress for supper.

He approached her with trepidation and laid a hand upon her shoulder. “Elizabeth, are you well?” he asked.

She nodded, grasped his hand, and gave it a squeeze as she wiped the moisture from her eyes with her other. She lifted her head, and their eyes met in the mirror. “Will you not tell me what has become of Mr. Wickham?” she asked.