Compulsively Mr. Darcy (7 page)

He didn't have to be so rude and hateful if he didn't want to talk to her. When she avoided him, she at least had given him a friendly wave before she hid from him. He should have returned the courtesy. Was that too much to ask? She fumed and drank to the droning of George's voice.

Occasionally, she thought she saw William's face replacing George's. It was always a cold and angry one, like the one he had that first time she met him in the hospital, when he was such an ass. She kept drinking, hoping more alcohol would chase his ugly mug off. At some point, William turned from a donkey's ass into a toad, and he kissed her. She kissed back, hoping he'd change back into her prince. The kiss was unpleasant. Not wanting to get infected with warts, she pushed him away.

Abruptly, she was freed. Loud voices assaulted her ears, and blurry people moved around too damn much. She decided she'd had enough and roared she was leaving.

She floated to her room. Someone, probably a bellboy, carried her, so she wouldn't have to walk. How nice of the resort to provide such a wonderful escort service for their drunken guests, even though the bellboy was jostling her around a little too much, making her stomach queasy. Hopefully, the bellboy recognized that she wasn't Vietnamese but an American. She explained to him being drunk on occasion was acceptable in her culture, as long as she didn't drink and drive.

To the bellboy's chest, she talked all about William's rudeness and how he probably hated her and blamed her for his mother's death. She slurred it was so unfair and if she saw him again she'd vomit on him. When they reached her room, despite her nausea, good manners dictated she lift her face to thank the bellboy.

She threw up—all over his blurry face.

He didn't seem to mind. He took her inside her room, gently wiped her face clean, and, with strong arms, tucked her into bed.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into her pillow. As soon as she felt better, she really must compliment the concierge for hiring such a saintly bellboy.

Elizabeth wished the construction workers would wait until she had fully awakened and moved out of their way. The jackhammer had mistakenly been drilling on the sides of her head. She whimpered, “Stop it. You're hurting my head.”

“Shhhh,” a voice soothed and gentle hands stroked her head until the pain lessened. Eventually, the jackhammer moved away, though she could still hear it being used nearby. The voice coaxed her to drink some water. After taking a few sips, she opened her eyes.

William's hazy face appeared. She pushed him away. “You were rude! George said you hated me. You should wear a hard hat when you're doing construction, toad.”

“You're not making sense. Here, swallow these two headache pills. You'll feel better in a while.”

“No.” She felt like being contrary. “I'm not supposed to take pills from men. And I'm never going to accept a drink from any man again, no matter how cute his accent is.”

“I should hope not.”

Annoyed at his snotty tone, she said, “Go away. My head hurts.”

“I'll go away, but promise me you'll at least drink some water?”

Keeping her eyes closed, she nodded. She drifted off to sleep, lulled by the noise of the bulldozers circling around her head, but at least the jackhammer did not return.

When she woke up, her mouth felt like the construction workers had poured cement into it by accident, and her head still pounded. On the bedside table, someone had put a bottle of water, thoughtfully opened, with the cap and two aspirin next to it. She drank some water and took the pills. The effort took all of her energy, and she fell asleep again. She awoke briefly at intervals, drank some water each time, and fell back to sleep. At one point, she thought she saw William's face again and told him he was a donkey's ass. She was sure that he and his cute accent were responsible for the thumping of her head.

The pain in her head was almost all gone when she fully awakened. It took her a few moments to orient herself. A full water bottle, opened as before with a cap to the side, sat on the bedside table next to a piece of paper with her name on top.

She scanned down and saw William's signature at the bottom. Her eyes widened. She hadn't dreamt him being in her room.

He reminded her to call Jane. Her sister had called late last night to check on her. Elizabeth blushed, guessing what her sister probably concluded when William answered. He next apologized for leaving her. Charles was going diving and William needed to accompany him.

As Elizabeth read, her face flushed in embarrassment at realizing that he had witnessed her drunken behavior.

…I'm sorry to have pulled you away from your date with George Wickham last night, but you had too much to drink and I didn't want him to take advantage of you. You talked in your sleep. From your mutterings, I can guess what he has been telling you.

Just for the record, I do not hate you, Elizabeth. I admire you greatly for your dedication and your selflessness in your work.

So that you'll understand, I will explain briefly my history with the Wickham family. George's father, Dr. Frank Wickham, was my mother's doctor and a family friend. George was named after my father, his godfather. George and I were playmates as children.

When I was fifteen and my sister Georgiana not yet two, my mother suffered a miscarriage. My father was away on business. Dr. Wickham treated her in his office. I arrived home and found my mother recuperating in bed. Though I expressed my concern at how pale she appeared, she insisted she was fine. I suspected she suffered from something related to women's problems but was too embarrassed to ask directly the nature of her symptoms. I should have, for she rapidly worsened that evening. By the time I managed to take her to the hospital and convince the busy ER doctors to treat her, it was too late.

She died within hours of arriving at the hospital.

The doctors explained bacteria had suddenly taken over her whole body, causing internal bleeding, and she couldn't fight the overwhelming infection and the blood loss.

After her death, my father withdrew into his work and I left for boarding school. My relationship with my father remained strained until his death seven years after my mother's. I suspect he and I both blamed each other, and ourselves, for not having prevented my mother's death somehow.

A few years ago, I learned a business associate's daughter had died while under the care of Dr. Wickham—in the same eerie fashion that my mother had years earlier. I investigated and discovered that this young girl—and likely my mother—had died because Dr. Wickham failed to properly sterilize his equipment. Had I asked questions years earlier, and thereby stopped Dr. Wickham from practicing unsafe medicine, the young woman's death could have been prevented.

Soon after he was forced to involuntarily retire from medicine, Dr. Wickham died of a heart attack. George blamed me for his father's death and promised revenge. I didn't take his threat seriously and dismissed it as an understandable reaction of a grief-stricken son.

That was my arrogant mistake and my little sister paid for it.

During Georgiana's first term at college, I was traveling a lot for work and didn't keep as close an eye on her as I should have. Sometime around Christmas, she told our cousin Richard—her other guardian—that she had met and fallen in love with someone. Richard assumed the guy was another college student and didn't think it necessary to inform me, since he knew that I would try to intimidate any young boyfriend of Georgiana's.

It turned out George Wickham, a man more than fifteen years her senior, was her boyfriend. He convinced her to join a cult and to turn over a significant amount of her money to them. She had planned to marry George Wickham in a mass marriage ceremony on Valentine's Day, her eighteenth birthday. (I was unforgivably away on a business trip.) Fortunately, Richard discovered her plan and prevented the wedding. George Wickham then admitted to using Georgiana to hurt me.

Though she now knows the truth about George, my sister, understandably, has been in somewhat of a depressive state since. We both have. She had to drop out of college. My work suffered.

My cousin Richard blamed himself for both of our melancholy, which was why he convinced Bingley to take me on this trip.

I am very suspicious of George Wickham's motive in befriending you. I understand now why you have been avoiding me. You may disagree with my warning, but make sure his feelings for you are true and worthy.

Bingley and I will leave Vietnam soon. Thank you for your friendship during our time here. Take care of yourself, Elizabeth.

William Darcy

She put the letter down. Poor William. Poor his young sister. She felt awful. He had been hurt by her avoidance of him these past few days. He must not leave Vietnam thinking that she was dating or even interested in George Wickham. Even if George, whose features she could barely recall that moment, wasn't completely repulsive, she could never be friends with a man who had hurt William.

The dive desk confirmed that he and Charles were on the list of divers for an excursion that would not return for a couple of hours.

Too restless to wait inside, she made her way to the dock where the dive boats came in.

A group of men hanging around a boat asked if she wanted to go for a diving excursion.

She shuddered. “No thank you. I don't swim.”

“No need to be afraid,” one of them said.

“We teach you,” another pressed, eyeing her with an appreciative gleam.

“I don't like being underwater. I panic.” She quickly moved away, lest they decide to throw her in the water for fun, as her first swimming instructor had done. She found a quiet spot on the shallow end of the dock and settled on a small stump.

One of these days, she should conquer her fear of water and learn how to swim. Suddenly, the frightening realization that William was at that moment submerged hundreds of feet deep in the ocean struck her. Her mind jumped to the image of his oxygen supply somehow being cut off by accident.

The air in her chest felt heavy. She couldn't breathe. Forcing herself to move, she stood and gulped in lungfuls of salty sea air. Not paying attention to where she was, she paced.

“Miss, careful, you're too close to the edge!” someone yelled.

Startled, she turned and lost her balance. She tumbled off the dock's edge. A shock of cold seawater hit her face. Her last panicked thought as she drowned was that she hadn't gotten a chance to tell William she loved him.

***

Thrashing, she fought the water from claiming her. Other bodies suddenly appeared next to her. She was jostled about. An octopus of arms lifted her from the sea. Her body surfed atop a multitude of strange men's hands. A whir of voices sloshed in her ears. She gasped, coughed, spit, and opened her eyes. She felt very foolish when she saw that they were all standing in waist-deep water.

She tried to tell them she was fine, but no one listened. They carried her dangling between them toward the sand.

One pair of strong arms blessedly took possession of her. A commanding, familiar voice said, “I've got her. She's fine.”

Voices weakly protested.

His arms tightening around her body, William barked, “Take your hands off her!”

Her overeager rescuers backed off and walked away.

William's angry face stared down at her. “What were you doing, jumping off the dock like that and flailing about in the water?”

She cleared her throat. “I didn't jump.”

His nostrils flared. “It looked like it to me.”

“I was pacing and thinking and forgot where I was when I fell.” She bristled at his attitude. “And I didn't flail about in the water for fun. I was panicking.”

The anger left his face. He set her on the sand. “I'm sorry. I'd forgotten about your fear of water.”

“You're not underwater.”

He looked at her as if he wasn't sure whether she was crazy or not.

She touched his cheek. The roughness of his stubble rubbed against her palm. He hadn't shaved today. Something spicy—that illusive male scent uniquely him, now mixed with the salt of the seawater—wafted toward her. Must not be his aftershave. She shook her head and forced herself to focus. “Your note said you were going diving.”

“No. I don't dive. I had planned to go with Bingley to make sure his equipment was safe, but then I decided he'd be fine without me.” He frowned at her. “I went to check on you again, but you'd gone. Someone told me they'd seen you at the dive desk earlier. I came out here to search for you and saw you going off the dock.”

“Thank you for rushing to save me from drowning. Though, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.” She knew she was being melodramatic, but she couldn't help herself. She was so jealous of his loving care of Charles. He was going to supervise Charles's diving equipment. What more proof did she need of William's feelings for his partner?

“You didn't need to be saved from drowning. You needed to be saved from your enthusiastic rescuers.” He sighed. “And why would you think I wouldn't rush to save you if you were drowning?”

“I didn't really mean that. I mean… I know you would. It's just that… I guess I wouldn't blame you even if you didn't want to… Oh Lord, I'm not saying anything right.” She wove her fingers through her hair and discovered strands of slimy seaweed on her head.

He helped her pick the seaweed from her hair. She stared at his chest and fisted her fingers so she wouldn't be tempted to rake them over the mat of hair outlined underneath his wet shirt. He was not available, she reminded herself.

He tried to pull her toward the resort. “Let's go get you into some dry clothes. You look ill.”

She couldn't believe it! She wanted to explore his chest and he thought she looked ill. “I'm not ill. I'm in love with you. I love you.”

Horrified at herself for blurting out her feelings, she covered her mouth and looked down at the sand. After a moment, hearing nothing from him, she glanced up.

He looked stunned. Then, with a hopeful smile, looking like a little boy who'd just been given a big ice cream treat, he reached for her. “You love me?”

She swallowed. “Yes, I do. But don't worry about it. I'll get over it. I tend to do this, you see, fall for the wrong kind of guy.”

“What? I'm a wrong guy?” His face looked as if she'd knocked down his ice cream cone. “Why?”

“Because of Charles. I know you two are still in the closet about it. And I know you're a little attracted to me, but I don't want to come between you and him. I would never cheat and I wouldn't want to be with someone who would…” She trailed off, concerned.

He appeared to have stopped breathing. His mouth hung open. His pupils dilated. His face was as white as the froth of the waves around them. A man in shock, she decided. She pushed his chin up.

At her touch, he blinked. Then his mouth fish-opened again.

Afraid she'd lose her nerve if she met his eyes, she stared down at her feet. “I mean I love you. But you don't have to say or do anything. I know you've been with Charles for a long time and you're committed to him. Even though I'm very attracted to you, it's not like I expect anything to happen between us. I would never expect you to leave Charles for me.” She raised her head to see if he understood her rambling.

He stood rooted, as if he'd been fossilized on the sand.

She wondered if she needed to check his vitals. Gently, she slapped his cheeks.

He stirred. No sound. After a moment, he closed his mouth, raised his fist to it, and stared.

Self-conscious she probably looked like something a whale had burped up, she tugged at her wet clothes and checked for any lingering seaweed in her hair.

He dropped his fist and opened his mouth again.

She waited.