Page 59 of Stuck

“Shit.”

“I was really hoping you’d give me something more useful than just swearing at me.”

“Okay, okay!” He held up a hand in a placatory gesture. “So you think they’re engaged—or at the very least, you don’t think they’re likely to break up?”

I gave a sharp nod.

“Then you’re going to have to get used to her being on the scene. But you don’t live in London, so you won’t have to see her often. Playing devil’s advocate here, don’t you think it’s likely that, given space and time, whatever you’re feeling will fade?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past month, but every time I see her, I like her more.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, then, have you?”

“Not deliberately,” I said, unable to help the small, sardonic laugh that escaped me. “I’ve been doing everything in my power to stay away from her. But she works at Bingley’s company, so I see her almost every day.”

“Presumably you see everyone else who works there that often as well.”

“Of course. But none of them are so beautiful I think I’m going to have a bloody heart attack every time they walk into the room. None of them is passionate enough about farming that they’ll sit and listen to me talk about Pemberley for hours at a time. Or so thoughtful and supportive that I opened up to them about Father.”

His eyebrows practically disappeared in his hairline at that, but I wasn’t deterred. Now that I’d started talking about Elizabeth, I didn’t seem to be able to stop. I told him how clever she was, how funny, how kind. Without giving away anything too personal, I explained how bravely she dealt with the burden of her own father’s mental health struggles. I told him how cute she could be, those times she forgot herself and did something daft. What a brilliant engineer she was, how sexy she looked in glasses, that she could swim like a mermaid. Finally, I told him the thing I was most ashamed about.

“Last night, at the hospital, I nearly kissed her.”

I thought he’d go silent again while he took it all in, but without much of a pause, he said, simply, “So, to summarise, what you’re telling me is that you’re in love with her?”

My head whipped around so fast to look at him that I inadvertently yanked on the reins, drawing an angry whinny from my mount. “I am not in love with her.” Was I? “I’ve only known her a month. Is that even possible?”

Fitzwilliam gave me a commiserating look. “Seeing the state you’re in, and hearing you talk about her, I’d say so.”

My heart rate kicked up a gear as the words sank in because I knew, even if it wasn’t love now, it could turn into it so easily I wouldn’t even need to try. Who was I kidding? I’d known that first night this was different—more. She’d been under my skin from the very first moment I set eyes on her. I’d never stood a chance. I pressed my knuckles to my chest and rubbed where it had started to ache.

“What do I do?” I’d never heard myself sound so desperate. I wanted him to say something along the lines of “be patient, they’re bound to break up if they’re as mismatched as you say” and that Bingley would be cool with me dating his ex. But he didn’t. What he did was look at me with the same pity in his eyes as he’d had each time one of my parents died, and that about killed me.

“I’m sorry, Darcy. This is a real bitch. You’re overdue some better luck, my friend. It’s got to come your way soon.”

I was grateful that he didn’t repeat his earlier suggestion that it would pass. It probably would, eventually—or at least it might fade from agonising to tolerable—but I wasn’t in a rush to chase it away. I liked liking Elizabeth. Hell, if love was what we were calling it, then I liked loving Elizabeth. I didn’t know how not to, and I didn’t want to try. I gave him another curt nod, and we rode the rest of the way back to Pemberley in silence.

My now-adult sister running across the lawn to meet us in a Chewbacca onesie and fluffy lobster slippers was possibly the only thing bonkers enough to have cheered me up—and it did. At least enough that I was able to refrain from being a miserable git for the rest of the day. On the outside, at least. Fitzwilliam stayed for lunch before heading back to the barracks, then I spent the afternoon and evening with Georgiana. We played Scrabble and ate takeaway from Giuseppe’s like I’d promised her, and on Sunday morning, I cooked her favourite, scrambled eggs.

By the time I set back out for London, I felt, if not better, then at least slightly more human. I hadn’t appreciated how much I needed some time off from going around and around in circles in my own head, thinking about nothing but Elizabeth.

I got back to the flat at three thirty. By four o’clock, I was right back in my head and going rapidly insane. I grabbed my keys and went out for a walk.

I tried not to think about her as I pounded the streets. I thought about Bingley’s meeting in the morning and hoped he’d got to Paris okay. I thought about what I wanted for dinner. I thought about Georgiana’s art project that she’d shown me. I thought about the report Polanski had sent me about the licensing option, and how useful that would be if the investment drive failed—and the very real possibility that it might. In fact, by the time I turned around to go home, I was pretty pleased with myself that I hadn’t thought about Elizabeth at all since leaving my house.

It was all for nothing, because as I rounded the corner of Mount Street and crossed the road, I saw her, standing inside the front window of the Audley. I had to do a double take, because the place was busy and the lighting not great, but it was definitely her. I hovered, unsure whether to carry on as though I hadn’t seen her or give in to the searing temptation to go in and say hello. To find out how her hand was. To beg her to tell me what, exactly, Bingley had asked her.

I almost caved when she threw her head back and laughed at something her companion said. I’d never met anybody so indefatigably happy. She’d had the week from hell, her father’s visit had reduced her to tears, she had stitches in her hand, and yet here she was, loving life. I wanted, with a yearning so strong it felt like real hunger, to be a part of it.

Only then I saw who she was with, and a sick, cold feeling twisted in my gut. Because why in the ever-loving universe was she out drinking with George Wickham?

I watched them for a few more minutes, checking to see that it wasn’t a coincidence and they didn’t simply happen to be in the same bar at the same time. But no, it was no accident, because as I watched, he took her uninjured hand in both of his and held it as he leant towards her and kissed her on the forehead. It was a lingering, intimate kiss, and when he pulled back, he stayed close—the sort of close only people who were really bloody familiar with each other found comfortable—looking into her eyes and wearing a shit-eating grin as he talked to her. He never let go of her hand.

Like a sledgehammer, the memory hit me of Mary King—our main investor’s niece—being surprised to see Elizabeth at the gala. Mary King, who was dating “George.” “George,” who was an engineer at Vertex and an old friend of Elizabeth’s. George Wickham.

Ice ran through my veins. It was happening again. The son of a bitch was doing it to me again, and this time, he wasn’t using Georgiana, he was using Elizabeth. But unlike my sister, who’d been young and naïve, it looked as though Elizabeth was one hundred percent complicit. Was it possible? Was she capable of that level of deceit? Every part of me screamed no—every part except my eyes, which were watching her hold another man’s hand and letting another man kiss her.

Every niggling worry I’d had about her intentions towards Bingley came rushing painfully back. No wonder she didn’t seem to give a rat’s arse about him—she didn’t want to be with him at all. She was using him—and not like Laura had, for a fast car and diamond jewellery. No, this was far worse. If Wickham was up to his old tricks, this had the potential to ruin Bingley and put hundreds of people out of work.