Page 111 of Honor Requires

Wickham was seated near the fire when Darcy entered, one leg stretched out before him, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested both comfort and indifference.

“You are becoming a regular feature of my evenings,” Wickham said as Darcy approached.

“I might say the same of you.”

Wickham gestured to the empty chair opposite him.

“Sit. You may convince me to reform.”

Darcy took the seat. “I had not thought you inclined toward reform.”

“Nor had I,” Wickham said lightly. “But stranger things have happened.”

A servant brought wine. They drank.

For a time, their conversation was of little consequence—society, the weather, the endless rotation of faces and names that defined London's social world.

Beneath it all, Darcy felt the same undercurrent, a sense of something unresolved pressing against the surface.

It was Wickham who spoke first.

“You asked me, the other night,” he said, not looking directly at Darcy, “whether the exchange was worth it.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I did.”

Wickham stared into his glass. “I thought it was,” he said. “At the time.”

“And now?”

Wickham smiled faintly. “Now, I find that what I gained sits uneasily upon me.”

Darcy said nothing.

Wickham’s voice lowered. “My wife,” he said, almost reluctantly. “You know I am married?”

“I had heard as much.”

Wickham nodded. “She is…everything one might wish for in such a situation.”

Darcy’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly upon his glass. “And even so,” he said, “you do not appear content.”

Wickham let out a slow breath. “I do not deserve her,” he said bluntly.

Darcy’s gaze sharpened. That was unexpected. “Few men believe themselves deserving of what is best in their lives,” he said.

Wickham shook his head. “No. You do not understand.” He laughed, though the sound was strained. “I cannot bear to be around her.”

Darcy felt a flicker of something dangerously close to anger. “And why is that?” He struggled to keep his tone nonchalant.

Wickham hesitated. “She reminds me of—” He stopped.

The silence that followed was heavy. “Of what?” Darcy prompted.

Wickham shook his head, dismissing it. “No matter. It is nothing.”

Darcy leaned forward. “Nothing rarely troubles a man so greatly.”

Wickham met his gaze then, and there was no pretense in him at all. “Of what I was,” he said. “Of what I might have been.”