Page 9 of Attempted Compromises
He sat there quietly, holding Andrew, knowing that for all the struggles and duties, he would continue to do all he could for the boy. And that night, he would also strive to fulfill his responsibilities to Georgiana, for both children deserved every bit of love and protection he could give.
That night, as Fitzwilliam Darcy entered the assembly room, a hush fell over the gathered guests, followed almost instantly by the telltale hum of whispers. His arrival had been duly announced, the master of ceremonies drawing attention to his name and status, and Darcy felt the weight of countless pairs of eyes upon him.
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley!” He had heard the whispers as soon as he stepped inside. “A wealthy widower, still in want of an heir, they say.”
“Have you heard? He’s just out of mourning… he’s quite eligible now.”
“Imagine, a second chance at Pemberley’s fortune…”
Darcy clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar sense of irritation rise within him. He knew his return to society would mean increased scrutiny, but to see people openly speculate on his marital status and his need for an heir felt invasive, even vulgar. Yet, he reminded himself of Georgiana, her shy request for friendship lingering in his mind. Tonight was about her, about her chance to find companionship; he would bear this for her sake.
Despite his hopes, however, Darcy realized quickly that he knew no one in attendance. The room was filled with faces unfamiliar and expectant. He scanned the sea of guests, searching for anyone of mutual acquaintance, but his search yielded no familiar connections. Resigned, he made his way toward the master of ceremonies, who received him with a polite bow and immediately set about introducing him to a number of nearby families.
“Mr. Darcy, may I present Miss Clarissa Harford and her mother, Mrs. Harford?” the master of ceremonies intoned, his voice respectful yet formal.
Darcy inclined his head politely, his gaze settling on the young woman before him. Miss Harford, a bright-eyed girl with golden curls, dipped a curtsy, her cheeks pink with excitement. Darcy’s courtesy was returned with an eager intensity that was unnerving. He had the distinct impression that she was holding her breath in anticipation.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, in a breathless voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Miss Harford,” he replied politely, offering her his hand as the music began for a dance. The pair moved to the floor, joining the other couples in a set, but Darcy’s enthusiasm was already flagging. As he led her through the turns and steps, Miss Harford’s giggling responses to his polite questions felt hollow, insipid, her interest in him clearly overshadowed by her eagerness to make an impression.
After the dance ended, he was immediately introduced to another family, followed by another, and then another; each young woman more eager than the last. Their smiles were wide and fixed, their attempts at conversation faltering as they resorted to trite compliments about his estate, his dancing, his very presence.
After a fourth dance, Darcy withdrew to the edge of the room, stepping behind a pillar to gain a moment of respite. He closed his eyes, grateful for the brief break from the suffocating parade of forced smiles and shallow conversation. The noise of the room buzzed around him, but his attention was caught by a pair of voices nearby, the words unintentionally clear.
“Darling, you simply must find a way to get Mr. Darcy’s attention,” a woman’s voice urged, soft but insistent.
“Mama, I don’t think he will notice me,” replied a girl’s hesitant voice.
“Then make him notice!” the mother insisted. “Why, during your dance, you could… perhaps find a way to stumble. Fallinto his arms, let him catch you. No gentleman could refuse a compromise in such a case—he would be honor-bound to offer his protection.”
Darcy felt a surge of anger and disgust rise within him, his face hardening at the notion. So this was the scheme? To manufacture a situation that would force him to take responsibility, to entangle him through a false pretense of duty? He clenched his fists, disgusted that even here, his honor was something to be manipulated.
The woman continued, her voice a low murmur, “Imagine, a life with all that wealth and comfort at your disposal, my dear. You simply must try.”
Darcy had heard enough. Without a second glance, he straightened and walked toward the exit, his back rigid with determination. He had tolerated this assembly for the sake of Georgiana, hoping for some semblance of decency among the guests, but this was more than he could stomach.
The night air was cool outside, the calm of the open sky a stark contrast to the stifling assembly. He took a deep breath, letting the cold wind fill his lungs, grounding himself after the evening’s vexing display. His thoughts turned to Georgiana—perhaps it was naïve of him to hope for her to find suitable friends among such company. He must protect her from this insidious world for as long as he could.
As he walked away from the assembly hall, he resolved to look elsewhere for Georgiana’s companions. This experience only confirmed what he had feared: there were those who would stopat nothing to ensnare him, and by extension, his sister. He would not let them succeed.
∞∞∞
Darcy arrived home earlier than expected, his footsteps echoing on the stone steps of the quiet townhouse. The footman stationed by the door started at his unexpected appearance.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” the footman stammered, quickly regaining his composure. “I—I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Clearly,” he replied, his tone clipped. “Is something amiss?”
The footman hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as though uncertain whether to speak. “There’s… a guest, sir.”
“A guest?” Darcy’s brow furrowed. No guests were anticipated in his absence, and Georgiana was not yet of an age to be entertaining company unsupervised.
Without waiting for further explanation, he strode down the hallway and made his way to the drawing room, his steps quick and purposeful. He reached the drawing room and paused. Peering in through the crack of the partially open door, his heart froze.
There, on the settee, was the one person in the world he actually despised.
George Wickham sat on the settee, his frame too close to Georgiana’s slight form. He was leaning in, his head inclined toward her ear, whispering something that made her cheeks flush. Wickham’s hand rested on the back of the settee behind her shoulders, his gaze fixed on her with a look Darcy knew all too well—a perfect predator cornering its prey.
