Page 2 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Because you are not out. Because you are not of age. Because you are being deceived.”
“You do not know him!”
“I know him better than you ever could,” he snapped. “And there is no world, no fortune, no condition under which I would approve of such a match. He is a liar. A scoundrel. Lowborn filth who preys upon young girls for money and revenge.”
Her lip trembled. “That is not true. He said you had a quarrel at university, but he had hoped—”
Darcy’s voice rang out like a thunderclap. “You will not see him again.”
Georgiana flinched as if struck. “You are cruel!”
“And you are a child,” he growled. “A naïve girl being manipulated by a man who does not love you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “You do not understand. You never try to understand.”
“I understand far more than you think.”
“You are heartless!” she cried, backing toward the door. “You do not care who I love, you just want to control me! Well, I wish—I wish I did not have a brother at all!”
The words landed like a knife.
Darcy said nothing. He only raised a hand and pointed.
“To your room. Now.”
Sobbing, she fled.
Silence crashed down over the room.
He turned toward Mrs. Younge, who stood trembling in the corner. Her hands were folded tightly at her waist, knuckles white. Her composure had slipped—just a little. Enough for him to see the fear beneath it.
“You will tell meeverything,” he said darkly. “Every word. Every meeting. Every note. And God help you if I find even one lie.”
Her lips parted, then closed again.
Darcy stepped forward. “Do not waste my time with denials.”
She swallowed hard. “I—Mr. Darcy, I—”
“Start with how you came to be in my household,” he bit out. “Those references you provided—who wrote them?”
Mrs. Younge’s eyes flicked toward the door. The footman still stood there.
“I… I was desperate,” she whispered. “My last position dismissed me without warning, and I—”
“The references were forged.”
She gave a faint nod.
Darcy’s nostrils flared. “And how long have you known George Wickham?”
Her gaze dropped. “Since childhood. My mother was his aunt.”
“Of course,” he muttered. “Nepotism and deception—Wickham’s favorite tools.”
“I only meant to introduce them,” she said, voice rising slightly. “It was George who pursued the matter further. He said… he said there would be no harm in it. That you would come round once the wedding was done.”
Darcy’s hands curled into fists. “You aided and abetted a planned elopement with a girl not yet sixteen. That is harm, madam.”
