Page 118 of The Difference of a Darcy
A beat of silence.
Then Wickham barked a mirthless laugh. “Fine. I shall go myself.”
He straightened his coat, spitting blood onto the stone floor before casting a hateful glance toward the gathering crowd. “You will regret this,” he slurred. “Every last one of you.”
No one answered.
He stormed toward the stairs but paused at the bottom of the staircase, where Georgiana stood trembling beside Mrs. Reynolds, her pale hands clutched around the banister.
“And as for you,” he sneered, pointing a shaking finger at her, “once I’ve had my fill of that uppity servant and the maid who thinks she’s above her station, it will be your turn to act like a proper wife.”
Georgiana flinched violently, tears springing to her eyes.
“You always were a weak, pathetic little thing,” he muttered with disgust.
She lowered her head, covering her ears with her hands.
“Maybe I shall be lucky,” he drawled, looking her up and down with a cold smile. “Perhaps you’ll die in childbirth like your mother did. Then I will be free to find a real heiress.”
Georgiana gasped aloud, a broken, strangled sound. Mrs. Reynolds put her arms around her protectively, holding her upright.
Darcy’s entire body vibrated with restrained violence. His hands ached, his heart thundered, and his stomach turned with the what-ifs that clawed through his mind. He took a step forward, fury rising—but Elizabeth’s hand tightened around his, anchoring him. The tension in her arm betrayed the force it was taking to hold him back.
Without another word, Wickham turned on his heel and stormed out into the cold. A few moments later, the pounding of hooves echoed through the frosted air, fading into the distance.
Only when it was silent again did anyone dare to breathe.
Chapter 23
The foyer gradually filled with murmurs as shock work off. The hushed voices spurred Mrs. Reynolds into motion, and she began barking orders with sharp efficiency, dispersing the servants who had gathered to watch.
“Back to your duties! Cook, tend to the injured. You—fetch fresh linens. You two, clean up this mess before the blood sets in.”
Darcy stood unmoving, his fists clenched and chest heaving. Blood pounded in his ears.
Mrs. Reynolds caught his eye. Her voice softened just slightly. “You and Beth—ten minutes. That is all I can spare you. Gather your wits and decide what you are going to do next. Then get out of sight before that wretched man returns.”
She gave a sharp nod toward the small cloakroom beside the staircase. Darcy turned and gently ushered Elizabeth inside, closing the door behind them.
It was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for two, and her form pressed up against the length of his body as he closed the door behind them. A thin shaft of light came in through the hinges of the doorframe. The scent of wool and old leather filled the air.
Elizabeth’s hand trembled in his.
“I am going to kill him,” he said, the words ripped raw from his throat. “I swear to God, Elizabeth—when he returns, I will not hesitate. I will see to it with my own hands.”
She flinched at the vehemence in his voice. “Darcy—”
“No.” He shook his head forcefully. “No, I have had enough. He tried to—hedaredto lay his hands on you, and I—” His voice broke. “I left you alone.”
You were not far. You saved me—”
“I should have been there.” He struck the wall with his fist. “I should never have let him near you.”
“Darcy—”
“Do not call me that,” he said roughly. “That name means nothing here. Nothing. I am no master of Pemberley. I am no brother. No protector. I am only a servant in a world that should not even exist, and I cannot—” His breath caught. “I cannot even keep you safe.”
She moved closer, her eyes shimmering. “This is not your fault.”
