Page 133 of Companions of Their Youth
Her breath caught as the realization took root.
Wickham did not hate Darcy; he stilllovedhim.
And in that moment, every piece fell into place.
The letters.
The floral scent on the pages, as if to mask something unnatural.
The perfect penmanship.
The forced femininity of the script.
The desperate, near-violent declarations of love.
I need you now just like I needed you then; I vow, Darcy, that we will meet again.
I am coming.
I will finish what we have begun.
She drew in a sharp breath.
It had never been a woman. That assumption had always troubled her—but she had clung to it, because anything else seemed too far-fetched, too dark to consider.
But now… now she saw it.
The intensity in Wickham’s stare. The familiarity. The raw emotion.
He was watching Darcy.
And it was not mere rivalry. It was not ambition or envy or wounded pride.
It wasdesire.
Wickhamwas the author of the anonymous notes.
Elizabeth’s hand shook slightly as she reached for the glass a passing footman handed her. She took a long sip of lemonade and forced her features into composure, though her heart was pounding.
She had to tell Darcy.
The supper dance. That would be their only opportunity.
∞∞∞
Darcy could feel the air buzzing against his skin. The set had ended, but the tightness in his chest remained. His bow to Elizabeth had been perfectly executed, his retreat composed, but it had taken everything in him not to storm across the ballroom the moment Wickham entered.
He found his cousin near the window, as expected. Fitzwilliam’s easy posture straightened at once when he caught sight of Darcy’s face.
“He is here,” Darcy said, too low to carry. “Wickham.”
The colonel’s jovial manner vanished. “Where?”
Darcy tipped his head toward the far end of the ballroom. “There, in uniform. Smiling. As if he belongs here.”
Richard followed his gaze and let out a quiet, bitter noise. “Well, that is bold of him.”
“I nearly lost control,” Darcy admitted, jaw clenched. “Elizabeth prevented me from confronting him.”
