Chapter 16

On a grey and chilly afternoon not many days later, Georgiana was seated in the drawing room and considering what to play on the pianoforte when Mrs Younge came in, waving a note in triumph. "He has accepted!" she announced.

Georgiana frowned in confusion. "Who, Mrs Younge?"

"Why, Mr Wickham, of course. I have asked him to supper, and he has just sent his reply. He says he would be most honoured to attend us this evening." She approached the pianoforte and handed over the note. Georgiana looked at it curiously. Though politely and gracefully phased, it somehow struck her as odd. The note penned in a very neat hand, with lavish swirls. Almost as if a woman had penned it for him.

Georgiana put the thought from her mind and decided to think about the present. "That is good news. I shall have to make sure Cook has prepared a good supper for us tonight." She stood and walked briskly towards the kitchen. A supper party, though with only one guest, would be a fine time to practise acting as a hostess. She must see to it that their guest received a proper reception.

∞∞∞

Wickham arrived a little early, knowing that Mrs Younge did not mind. Omitting only the obstacle of the militia's late arrival, the scheme was working out exactly as they had hoped. Now, if Mr Darcy would stay away for a little while longer while he worked his powers on the gullible Georgiana, they would be on their way.

The maid let him in. Mrs Younge took him into the parlour, closing the doors behind them. "Miss Darcy is still getting ready. She is very intent on impressing you, you know." He looked appreciatively at her. If Wickham were any judge of women, Georgiana was not the only one making a special effort to impress him that night. Mrs Younge's smile had a particular note of heat to it, or his name was not George Wickham.

He offered her his best smile in return. "It seems I made an impression last night, then. Is that not what we want?"

"It is."

"Then why do you seem upset by it?"

"I am not upset."

Wickham had no intention of arguing with her. "I must say, it is remarkably pleasant, having access to the house of the woman I am trying to seduce. It makes things so much simpler!" He walked about the room, surveying it. "If only every time were so easy."

Mrs Younge walked towards him with a distinct sway to her hips. She stopped directly in his path. Wickham's lips twitched. Though the temptation was nearly irresistible, any indiscretion would not be wise. He was playing for a fortune. Surely a little self-denial was nothing, when it might gain him Georgiana's dowry.

The choice was not left to him. Mrs Younge came into his arms willingly, kissing him on the lips. At that, his control broke. Wickham kissed her back with all the pent-up fury of several weeks of restraint.

"Oh, George," she whispered.

Her murmured words brought him back to the present. He set her aside and walked away, trying to regain his composure. "We cannot go any further, Mrs Younge."

She uttered a short laugh. "Mrs Younge? Come now, George, we know each other better than that." She joined him, running her fingers over his shoulders as she came around to face him. "Anne."

"No. We cannot. What if we should slip while we are in Miss Darcy's company?" he whispered. He glanced toward the door. Really, she should not have closed it. The servants might have wagging tongues, and then where would they be?

He strode to the door and opened it wide, careful to stay a safe distance from Mrs Younge. When he turned to look at her, he made a point of looking for all the telltale signs of age. Those grey hairs, grown increasingly many on her brow. The slight lines that showed she was no longer in the first flush of youth. When Wickham was rich, he would not have to seduce aging widows. Or pander gently to a young, inexperienced girl, applying kisses only to her gloved hand.

An image passed through his mind of a lively and spirited young woman. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, now there was a young woman worthy of his embrace. She was fresh and untouched, without guile or knowledge of how harsh the world could be. He would very much like to show her the ways of the world…

Mrs Younge laughed at him. "You have that look in your eyes. Looking forward to your wedding day?" she hissed. "Or rather, your wedding night?"

She passed him and went out into the foyer. He followed her, resolving to keep his mind to his business. He sobered quickly as Miss Darcy cleared her throat and began descending the stairs.

He made sure to smile widely and take her in with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. Wickham let his mouth fall open just a little to add to the effect. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and took her gloved hand. "Miss Darcy, you are a vision."

It was not a lie. Every charm of youth and privilege was hers, not to mention those shining blonde locks and her clear blue eyes. Miss Darcy embodied innocence and grace. He would have to take care not to forget himself. She was also far too devoted to that brother of hers.

Wickham smoothed down his pristinely pressed red uniform coat and went to work. If he was going to transfer that loyalty from her brother to himself, he would have to tread carefully. Not to mention exhibit as much charm as the young woman could take. Wickham made a point of looking her up and down. "Yes, you have grown up."

"Mr Wickham," Miss Darcy said with a pretty blush. "You flatter me."

"It is true. I have not seen you in what, six years? Seven? You have turned into a graceful young woman. Your parents would be very proud, and I am sure your brother must be as well."

"Do you keep in contact with my brother, Mr Wickham? Forgive me, but he has never mentioned you among his correspondents."

"No, I am afraid not. We parted ways a long time ago, so I could pursue my education. And now that I am in the armed forces and move about so often, it is difficult to keep up with correspondence. Sometimes the letters are delayed so long, or even lost, that I cannot keep everyone I might count among my friends abreast of my news." Wickham said with a shrug as they entered the drawing room.

A cheery fire was burning, and he led Miss Darcy over to the settee so she could warm herself by the fire. He stood across from her near the hearth, appreciative of the low-cut neckline of Miss Darcy's gown. No doubt Mrs Younge had suggested it for his benefit. Or his demise. He was not sure which.

"I am told by Mrs Younge that you play the pianoforte like an angel, Miss Darcy. Perhaps after supper you might delight us with a few selections?" Wickham went on, ignoring Mrs Younge's knowing look.

"I am sure Mrs Younge is too good to me, Mr Wickham," Miss Darcy replied. "I am certainly no angel. However, I would be happy to acquiesce. I find no greater joy in this world than playing music."

He certainly hoped she was no angel, for it would be of material advantage in convincing her to go along with his plans. It might take some time to convince her of his undying love and thus steal her away to Gretna Green. But he would do whatever it took. Once Georgiana was securely his wife, Darcy would give him everything he asked for, if only to make sure Georgiana could live in the style to which she was accustomed. It was the style to which he would be accustomed, if there were any justice in the world.

"Will you play one for us now, while we await supper?" Mr Wickham asked.

"Oh, no, that is not the way of things, is it, Mrs Younge?" Miss Darcy asked, looking alarmed.

Wickham's heart sank. A rule-follower then. It would have been so much simpler if she cared little for social conventions and etiquette. He would have to break those conventions down slowly. "Oh, I do not think it will hurt, will it, Mrs Younge? After all, music helps with digestion, I am told."

"Does it?" Miss Darcy asked. She looked down in embarrassment, no doubt at discussing a topic as coarse as digestion in mixed company.

"Yes, indeed it does," Mrs Younge agreed. She winked at him when Miss Darcy was not looking.

Miss Darcy nodded, then went to the piano. She was gullible, then. That was good. He walked up behind her and stood very close, looking over her shoulder as her fingers danced expertly over the keys. Wickham made a point to lean very close to her ear, nearly close enough to touch. "You play very well, Miss Darcy. Who would have thought that your father purchasing that pianoforte for you all those years ago would amount to this?"

He sensed her tension as her whole being came alive at his whispered words. How he loved the moment when a young woman first fell under his power. Yes, Miss Darcy would fall easy prey indeed.

During supper, he made a point of praising her lavishly.

"Miss Darcy, the menu is impeccable. How did you know roast lamb was my favourite?"

"I did not know. But Mrs Younge suggested you might enjoy it. I am glad it meets with your approval." Miss Darcy smiled sweetly and took another sip of her watered wine.

"Has Miss Darcy told you of her drawings, Mr Wickham? She is a very talented artist, as well as a musician." Mrs Younge chimed in. She raised her glass of wine and toasted Miss Darcy. "She also writes poetry and speaks three different languages, including Latin."

"Mrs Younge, please," Miss Darcy breathed. "Mr Wickham does not care for all that."

"Indeed, I do. In my travels with the militia, it comes in very handy to have someone along who knows several languages. One never knows when we might be sent abroad." Wickham sipped his wine and looked with satisfaction again as Miss Darcy blushed. "Do you enjoy travelling, Miss Darcy?"

"I have not had the occasion to travel very often, sir, no. I am sure I would enjoy it someday, though. My brother has spoken of taking a European tour when I am older."

"You would love France, if not for this war. And Italy, I daresay. There is a cathedral there that has the most astounding acoustics. If you were to play your pianoforte there, I would think I had died and gone to heaven."

Miss Darcy only looked down at her plate demurely and went on eating in small, precise bites. He glanced at Mrs Younge, suggesting with a raised eyebrow that she ought to turn the conversation.

"Mr Wickham, have you not recently been to Scotland? I believe I heard your friend Mr Denny speaking of it," Mrs Younge said.

Wickham frowned at her until Miss Darcy looked up at him. "Ahh, yes. To visit an ailing friend. Unfortunately, he was wounded while he was stationed there."

"In Scotland?" Miss Darcy asked, her eyes growing wide. "Is it not a very wild place?"

"It is," Wickham replied. "But there is beauty in wild things, is there not?" He imbued the words with a suggestive purr. "The people run around there without shoes. Indeed, sometimes with nary a stitch on."

It was a lie, of course, but he wanted to see how deep Miss Darcy's sensibilities ran.

Miss Darcy nearly choked on her mouthful. "Mr Wickham! You cannot be serious."

He chuckled. "Forgive my forwardness. I will strive to be more delicate."

In truth, Wickham had tried his stunt of eloping with a maiden daughter of a lord from Edinburgh. However, it had failed most unpleasantly. He had not found it necessary to inform Mrs Younge of the misadventure, for the information would hardly have made her a more willing accomplice in catching Georgiana. It hardly mattered. This time, he would not fail.

After supper, they retired to the drawing room, where Miss Darcy regaled them with music. He encouraged her to play most of the evening. When she could not be prevailed upon to play any longer, they chatted around the fire. When Miss Darcy pressed him to tell them more of himself, Wickham concealed a triumphant smile and pretended embarrassment before sharing an amusing tale of going on patrol one evening, only to mistake a stag for an intruder and alert the entire camp. Miss Darcy seemed thoroughly amused and quite sympathetic — perfect. He was not opposed to making himself out to be the fool if it gained him his ends.

At one point, Miss Darcy excused herself, no doubt to freshen her face. Mrs Younge turned to him when they were alone, a hungry fire burning in her eyes. "Will you come to me tonight after Miss Darcy has gone to bed?"

Wickham could not risk being caught with her. Not yet, that is. "As tempting an offer as that is, do you not think that would be unwise?"

Her face fell. "Are you certain I cannot persuade you?" she asked. The offer was not without its temptations. But he was not about to ruin all their hard work when he was so close to his goal.

"No, Mrs Younge. You shall just have to be patient."

Mrs Younge did not look pleased, but by then Miss Darcy had returned and sat back down at the pianoforte for one last song, as he had made her promise.

The hour was already late when he was seen out by the ladies. His walk back to the barracks was peaceful, the moonlight shining overhead undisturbed by clouds. He took a deep breath, walking briskly. Mrs Younge had played her part beautifully, encouraging Miss Darcy's affections for him. And he had charmed her until she was positively glowing.

He entered his shared tent and quickly stripped off his coat. Denny sat at the tiny writing desk near the front of the tent. A single candle burned, and he looked up at Wickham with a mixture of amusement and devilry. "How did your evening go?" he asked.

"Oh, very well. I think the young lady is half in love with me already." Wickham sprawled out on his cot, bracing his hands behind his head.

"Will there be wedding bells in your future, my friend? We shall be leaving for Brighton come the winter."

Wickham smiled wickedly. "Oh, I intend to wed her long before that."

∞∞∞

Georgiana was not in love with Mr Wickham. Of that much, she was certain. Indeed, it was too soon for any emotion akin to love to be entering her head. All the same, Mr Wickham certainly was charming. He was much more charming than the boy she remembered growing up with. Of course, George and Fitzwilliam were quite a few years older than she. Perhaps she had simply been too childish to appreciate him. Even now, she had difficulty believing he was interested in her for any other reason than honouring the relationship he had shared with her late father. And yet…perhaps she was only being prideful, but several times during the evening, she had felt his eyes on her and felt that he thought her quite pretty.

"Well, my dear, I think that went well. Do you not?" Mrs Younge asked as Georgiana got ready for bed. The maid stood behind Georgiana, loosing her blonde waves from the elaborate hairstyle Mrs Younge had insisted she wear that evening. It made her look all the more grown up with just a touch of rouge on her cheeks. Her brother would have been scandalised if he had seen her that night.

Not that she had needed the rouge. She had felt her cheeks flush so often, that she was sure her face was too red to be found attractive. Next time, she would refuse to wear any at all. "I like him very much. He seems very happy in his new life, and I am glad of that. I know my father held a special place for Mr Wickham in his heart. It is a pity Papa was not able to see what a fine man he has become."

"And do you think you could be happy with such a man, say, as your husband?"

Georgiana nearly fell off the vanity stool. "Husband? To me? Surely not," she scoffed. "Mr Wickham is not interested in me in that way. I am like a younger sister to him."

Mrs Younge laughed. "Georgiana, I am sorry, but sometimes you are altogether too innocent." She came up behind her and shooed the maid away. Mrs Younge took over plaiting her long hair and then placed her hands on Georgiana's shoulders. "I think he likes you very much, my dear. Take it from someone who has experience with love. He is very handsome, is he not?"

She felt her cheeks flushing again. Georgiana hardly knew what to say. "He is," she answered at last. Still, she could not believe he was interested in her. She must still be a child in his eyes.

Mrs Younge followed her to the bedside and wrapped an arm around her waist. "I did not mean to upset you. I only want you to be aware of the effect you have on gentlemen. You are no longer a child, Miss Georgiana. Surely you can see that." She sighed heavily and helped her turn down the coverlet. Georgiana climbed into bed, feeling more like a child than ever, as Mrs Younge tucked her in. She brushed her fingers over Georgiana's brow. Georgiana suppressed a frown. Odd, how she had come to dislike the gesture.

"You think I should encourage Mr Wickham, Mrs Younge?" she asked.

"I am saying you should follow your heart, Georgiana. What does it tell you?" Mrs Younge did not wait for her to answer. She took up the candle on her bedside table, dismissed the maid with a nod, and walked out.

With the room shrouded in darkness, Georgiana thought over everything that had happened that evening. Mr Wickham was handsome, charming, and attentive. But she was not sure what she felt about him. How was she to decipher her heart when she had never done so before? She had never been in such a position.

Turning over on her side, she propped her hands under her head and wished her brother were there to guide her. Fitzwilliam could be rather stuffy at times, it was true. Mrs Younge had even said as much. All the same, Georgiana would have liked to talk to him. She never seemed to understand herself so well as when confiding in Fitzwilliam.