Page 132 of Companions of Their Youth
Elizabeth had felt it at once—the shift in Darcy as he turned his head sharply away from her. The warmth that had filled his gaze during their dance, the glimmer of softness that had sent butterflies unfurling in her stomach, vanished as if snuffed by a cold wind. In its place was something steely and grim.
As the second dance of the set began, her hand tightened reflexively around Darcy’s. She followed his gaze across the room. Her own breath caught when she saw a familiar figure in regimentals through the dancing couples.
Mr. Wickham.
Clad in his uniform, polished and grinning, he moved amongst the people as though summoned by some cruel twist of fate. He looked composed, confident—even charming, as he greeted a pair of ladies with a dazzling smile. The bright red ofhis coat seemed almost garish under the chandeliers, and the gleam in his eyes chilled her blood.
The elegant lines of his face seemed carved from marble, and the hand clasping hers—so gentle a moment before—curled ever so slightly, the tension rising like a wave against her palm. His entire body radiated coiled fury, and yet, remarkably, he did not falter. They moved together in perfect rhythm, every step executed with fluid precision, even as the muscle in his cheek twitched with barely restrained wrath.
Her own pulse quickened, but it was Darcy’s silent fury that held her attention—more chilling than any outburst could have been.
He did not speak, but the intensity in his eyes, fixed on his old friend turned enemy, was a storm unto itself.
Elizabeth’s voice, low and steady, slipped into the space between them. “It is better this way,” she murmured. “If he is here, then he is not at Longbourn.”
He turned to her, still visibly seething.
“If he is here, we know where he is,” she continued, steadying her tone. “We can watch him. That is safer than him lurking unseen.”
Darcy did not respond immediately. But his jaw worked once, twice—then finally he gave a single, taut nod. “You are right,” he said, his voice so low she felt the rumble of it through his hand before she heard it. “But I do not like it.”
“Nor do I,” she replied gently, guiding him with a touch as the set turned again. “But Georgiana is safe. That is all that matters right now.”
And still, though his movements remained flawless, she could feel the storm within him brewing darker with every glance toward the red-coated man across the room.
The music was nearing its final measures, and they moved through the concluding steps of the dance. Her heart beat with painful force against her ribs—so many revelations, so many emotions, she scarcely knew what to feel. But one certainty pulsed strong beneath them all: Wickham was dangerous.
Darcy bowed over her hand once more, and with care, led her back to her parents. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Until later.”
She curtsied and watched him retreat across the room, moving swiftly to where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood near the windows. Darcy leaned in and spoke urgently. Elizabeth watched the brief exchange. No raised voices, no alarm, but the colonel’s brows drew sharply together, and he soon scanned the room with a soldier’s alertness until they landed on Wickham.
Elizabeth followed his gaze.
Wickham was now engaged in conversation with Sir William Lucas and a pair of young ladies—Kitty among them. His bearing was easy, his smile charming. He gestured once, and Kitty laughed aloud at something he said. To any observer, he looked merely like a handsome officer making social rounds.
But it was his expression—his eyes—that caught Elizabeth’s attention. He looked past the ladies every few moments, gaze flicking toward Darcy.
Not with hatred.
Not even with disdain.
But something deeper. Something sharper.
Elizabeth’s stomach turned cold.
She could not watch long, however, for her next partner had already bowed before her. Elizabeth smiled politely, curtsied, and allowed herself to be led out. The music began.
Her mind, however, was not on the dance.
Between each pattern of movement, each turn and step, her gaze darted discreetly across the floor. Mr. Darcy was posted near the far wall now, standing tall beside Colonel Fitzwilliam, eyes never straying far from Wickham. His mouth was tight, his shoulders stiff with vigilance.
Wickham had moved again—now near the punch table. He seemed to make a deliberate show of paying attention to the young ladies clustered near it, but twice—no, thrice—Elizabeth saw his gaze shift back to Mr. Darcy. Not casual glances. Fixations.
It was not envy.
It was something darker. Possessive. Intimate.
The words of Alexander Pope came to her mind: “Love and hate are nearly the same passion, only the direction differs.”
