Page 67 of Sweet on Mr Darcy

Mr Wickham paced before her, wearing out his own emotions and the scattered pattern of his plans. He had been ranting for what seemed like hours. It was quite obvious that his charming facade had hidden not only a propensity for evil, but also at least a slight tendency towards madness.

“You do not understand,” he said for at least the thirtieth time. “They owe me. Darcy owes me. My godfather owes me. They have always owed me.”

“You are quite mad.” Lydia glared at him. “I hope you realise that.”

He ignored her. “Darcy has had every advantage. Every comfort. Every expectation.”

“So have you, or so I understand,” she observed.

“And what of me?” He spun around and gestured wildly. “What was I to have?”

“An astonishingly magnificent disgrace brought about by your own greed and corruption?” Lydia asked.

He turned on her angrily. “You would do well not to offend me.”

“You would do well to stop ranting,” Lydia shot back. “Did you bring me out here just to bore me to death? I thought waiting for Kitty to draw flowers was tedious.”

“I should have married Georgiana.” He resumed pacing. “My godfather ought to have offered me Georgiana.”

“He would as soon recommend you to marry Princess Sophia.” Lydia giggled.

“What did you say?”

“Georgiana is too good for you. Mr Darcy would have never offered her to you. The fact that you expected it is evidence that you are as mad as a March hare.”

Lydia continued mercilessly. “She is too well-bred for you, too pretty for you, too gentle for you. And far too sane for you. She is above you in every possible way. Did you expect Mr Darcy to marry his daughter to the lazy, selfish, insane, self-important, low-born son of his servant?”

This earned her a sharp backhand that rocked her chair backwards and split her lip. Before she had time to do more than gasp, he turned and left her, slamming the door behind him.

When he returned two hours later, he had paper and a pencil.

Lydia narrowed her eyes, wondering from where he had stolen it as he sat across from her at the small table and began to write. Suddenly, a tiny spider ran across his hand, and he jumped back from the table, screaming like a girl.

“You have the heart of a lion, I see.” Lydia would have been amused if her circumstances were not so dire. “It is only a spider.”

“Say what you like, I cannot bear them.” Wickham inspected the table before sitting back down to continue his work. His expression turned gleeful as he wrote. “If Darcy values his own interests, he will pay, and handsomely indeed.”

“For what?” Lydia asked sceptically. “Why would Mr Darcy pay you for me? I am not his responsibility.”

“To settle matters.” He kept writing. “Once I am engaged to you, Miss Lydia, Darcy will have every reason to be generous.”

“Engaged to me?” Lydia was astounded, but intent on offending him at every opportunity. “Why would you engage yourself to me? And why on earth would I accept you? I may be no Georgiana Darcy, but even I am a gentlewoman, and above the son of a steward.”

“For your connection to your sister, stupid.” He laughed unpleasantly. “For someone so far above me, you are exceedingly dense. And do not play superior. You were half in love with me when last we met.”

Lydia suddenly understood. This had never been about her. This was about retribution and money. And about Elizabeth’s courtship.

Anger coursed through her. “You are even more wicked than Mary and Charlotte said.”

He laughed again as he completed his letter and folded it clumsily. He then rose, kicked his chair away and moved toward her. Something in his expression shifted. There was nothing charming or handsome about him now. His countenance betrayed something that Lydia could not identify. Still, it filled her instantly with terror.

He grinned and sat on the edge of the table, far too close for her comfort. “Your cooperation would make this much easier, Miss Lydia. If I had asked you to marry me a fortnight ago, you would have thrown off your respectability to crawl into my bed.”

“Yet somehow I would now rather crawl into a nest of rats.”

He laughed in derision and reached for her.

Lydia Bennet responded with the concentrated fury of an insulted wildcat. She kicked him as hard as she could, the cold iron manacle digging painfully into her leg.