Page 39 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

"He meant to study the law, he said. He did not. The money lasted him three years. When the living fell vacant, he wrote again. He was very poor, and very sure of his own deserving. He would take orders now, if I would present him." He paused. "I refused. He has not forgiven it."

"That is not the story he told."

"No. It never is."

The fire settled in the grate.

When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. "Last summer my sister was at Ramsgate," he said. "She was fifteen. She had a companion, a Mrs. Younge, whom I had engaged myself. I thought I had chosen well."

Elizabeth's hand went still.

"Mr. Wickham came to Ramsgate. It was not by chance. Mrs. Younge had known him before, and she helped him. He was charming to Georgiana. He reminded her how kind he had been when she was a child. She believed herself in love. She agreed to an elopement."

"Oh," said Elizabeth. It came out of her very small.

"I came down a day or two before they meant to go. I had not told her I was coming. She could not bear to deceive me, so she told me everything." He stopped. "She was fifteen, Miss Elizabeth. She thought he loved her."

He had gone back to Miss Elizabeth. She heard it, and understood. He was holding it up between them, so that he could get to the end.

"Her fortune is thirty thousand pounds," he said. "That was his object. That, and paying me back. I wrote to him, and he left the place at once. Mrs. Younge was dismissed. Georgiana still blames herself."

"Who knows?"

"My cousin Fitzwilliam, who shares her guardianship. Parrish guesses a little. And now you."

She sat without moving. She thought of the warm, rueful voice in her aunt's parlor. He cannot bear to owe anyone anything. She thought of a girl of fifteen at a window in Ramsgate, waiting for a carriage.

She had wanted to disbelieve Mr. Wickham. She had sat by that fire and wanted it with all her strength, with no proof at all. She had the proof now. It brought her no triumph. She felt a little sick, and angry on Georgiana's behalf.

"I believe you," she said.

He turned his head. He looked up at her over his shoulder, and his face in the firelight was very young. "You need not say so simply because I carried you a mile. And you are softhearted."

"I am not saying it to be kind. I believe you." She thought of the lane, and the snapped crutch, and his hands closing on her arms. "I have leaned on you for a fortnight, Mr. Darcy. I know what you are made of. I only forgot it for a day."

He let out a long breath. He bowed his head until his brow rested against her knee. "He was right about one thing," he said, very low. "I cannot bear to owe anyone."

"I know."

"But I owe you. You have just dressed my hands. I have bled on your wrapper. I seem to owe you a great deal, and I find I do not mind it. I do not understand that at all."

She could not answer. She slid her hand from his hair down to his cheek. It was rough with the day's growth.

He turned his face into her palm.

Then he turned on his knees on the hearthrug, so that he faced her. He was below her now, his face level with her breast. He looked up at her. He did not touch her. He could not. His hands lay on his thighs, white and useless.

She bent and kissed him.

It was not the first kiss, startled out of them both. It was not last night, all fury and brandy. This was slow. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, and went on kissing him. There was no hurry. Nobody was angry.

He made a low sound and kissed her back. His mouth was warm and patient. He let her lead. After a while his mouth left hers and went to her jaw. It found her throat, where he had kissed her against the bookcase. She tipped her head back against the chair.

His mouth went lower. It found the edge of her wrapper, and the lawn of her nightgown beneath, and stopped there.

She felt him breathe against her. She felt him wait.

She looked down. He had lifted his hands. They hung in the air between them, bandaged to the fingertips. He looked at them, and then at the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown. His face was naked with wanting.