Page 67 of Pride, Prejudice, & Pretense

Loosening his grip, he stepped back?the step deliberate, a gesture of self-denial. He looked down at her feet. Then he grinned possessively and also in self-mockery. "Do me a favor and put some socks on before Wickham arrives. He doesn’t need to see your feet. It's cold out."

"Cold in, too," she said. With a last mournful look, he left the apartment.

Once he left, she felt the return of Wickham's Cheshire Cat smile. Now she could feel its fangs.

At 7:58 p.m., Lizzy got a phone call from the security guard on duty. George Wickham was on his way up. She walked to the door in her stocking feet and stood there, taking control of her breathing.In (slowly), out (slowly).

The doorbell rang, startling her. Charlie and Darcy always knocked. Taking one last breath, she opened the door.

Wickham stood there looking fresh for a man who had traveled, hardly showing a wrinkle. His smile was nearly at full power but, deep in his eyes, there was something feral, a mostly concealed wildness that she had not seen?or had not noticed?before.

"Fanny," he breathed, seduction in his tone, an undercurrent of need.

"George," she said quietly, trying her best to sound conflicted, mixing anticipation and dread in her tone. She must have succeeded, because his smile reached full power. The smile from her nightmare.

She stepped aside, and he walked into the apartment.

Then he was inside.

Lizzy silently reminded herself that Darcy could see and hear all that was happening, all that was about to happen.

Wickham turned to face her. "I hope you've had a good day. I've spent mine thinking about you, about tonight. I've been imagining the way you move, the way you talk, express yourself." He reached out and put his hand on her cheek. "You look lovely. Your sweater compliments your hair."

Reaching up, Lizzy took his hand in hers with a gesture she hoped did not seem like an attempt to stop him from touching her. "Thanks, George."

He surveyed the apartment, his gaze lingering on the books Darcy had bought for her. It occurred to her that she had left the Yeats on her bed.

"Lovely, just as I imagined." He faced her again. "So, Ned's back in the Big Apple?"

Lizzy dropped her head. Fanny. "Yes, he'sthere."

His eyebrow lifted, transfiguring his smile into a leer. "And I'mhere."

"Would you like something to drink?" She passed over Wickham’s pointed remark.

"Yes…some whiskey if you have it. Over ice."

"On such a cold night?" she asked, walking to the kitchen.

"Coldoutside, but I expect it to be warminside. Very warm inside."

Fanny ignored the studied, salacious ambiguity of Wickham's “it.”

Chapter Sixteen: Boundaries

Going to the cabinet, Lizzy found the bottle of whiskey among the various liquors Charlie had stocked there for Fanny. She put ice in two glasses, careful to put more ice in the one she intended for herself. An extra measure of whiskey went into Wickham's glass and much less into her own, which she dilated with water when he wasn’t looking. Since the color of hers was lighter, she hid the difference in their glasses by holding hers in both hands once she’d handed Wickham’s to him.

He had seated himself on the couch. She started to sit in the armchair, but he motioned for her to sit beside him?an order, not a request?patting a hand on the couch. She sat there, turning herself so that one knee was on the couch between them as a barrier, not an invitation.

Lizzy noticed his quietly tense, quick, and jagged gestures, which were completely unlike his previous deliberate, languid movements. Wickham had always moved commandingly but never seemed under any internal pressure. He did now. Additionally, his gaze was distracted. Lizzy was accustomed to his complete attention (not that she wanted it now or had wanted it before), and she noted its absence, his self-division. Part of him was elsewhere.

He took a long sip of his drink, and Lizzy put hers to her lips, pretending a sip she did not take. When he swallowed, his eyes closed as he savored the burn of the whiskey. A weighty sigh followed, and he opened his eyes.

"Long day?" Fanny asked, careful to keep her voice soft, devoid of any pointed curiosity.

Wickham nodded and sipped his drink again, this time without the ceremony. "Yes, it was not supposed to be a long day." His eyes became guarded, complex. "It should have beeneasy enough but, well, what's that line of Sartre's?Hell is other people." He chuckled darkly.

"Otherpeople?" Lizzy kept Fanny's tone mousy, hesitant. "I guess I had the impression—" she deliberately stopped.

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