Chapter 12 - The Dinner Party
A/N This chapter is a bit strange - it's almost midnight, and I've been having terrible writer's block lately, so this may not be as well-written as I would like. Please review to let me know what you think.
The candles were lit, the tableware arranged to perfection, and Darcy and Wickham stood up as the innkeeper announced 'Mr. Bingley to see you, sirs.' Wickham had decided that such excellent rowing as Bingley and Darcy had displayed two nights ago at the race was most deserving of a celebratory dinner. And since his planned seduction of Bingley had most decidedly collapsed when the inept greenhorn couldn't pick up *any* of his hints, he felt that a threesome at dinner would have to do, though a threesome of another sort would have been preferable.
The three men exchanged the customary greetings and sat down in the strategically placed chairs by the fire; Wickham and Bingley on either side of a chaise longue, Darcy in an armchair opposite. A heavy silence fell over them for a moment, which was gamely broken by Bingley as he cheerfully exclaimed how *delighted* he was to have met them, how *delightful* the last few days had been, and how *delighted* he would be to tell his family about it all.
Needless to say, Wickham was heartily sick of the man's delightful conversation by the time dinner arrived. But being an enterprising young man, he charmed his way through and paid an unseemly amount of attention to Bingley, veritably ignoring Darcy. And the effect on Darcy was clear to see: tormented by thoughts of himself with Wickham, Bingley with Wickham, *himself* with *Bingley*, Darcy had come to the conclusion that tonight was not going to be a pleasant night and that he had somehow irrevocably lost his mind. He felt ill at ease, miserable, disgusted with Wickham's behaviour, and mostly disgusted with himself for being so foolish.
As they sat at the table to eat, Wickham grimly reflected that his plan seemed to be working, as they always did. The blond was certainly a dimwit, and so he decided to abandon his featherbed strategy and settle for just using him as a potential rival for Darcy - for desperate times were calling for desperate measures, and he was becoming more and more frustrated with Darcy's single-minded rejections when it was clear to all and sundry what he truly desired. Would the man never forget his blasted *roots* and just cast off his inhibitions for once? Wickham was at a loss - was Darcy never going to turn back? If not, what was the alternative? A daft blond or paid whores.
Daft or not, Bingley was certainly enjoying himself. The food was delicious, the decor tasteful, and the company were *delightful*, especially this Wickham chap - very affable and pleasant. A little overly friendly perhaps, too many pats on the back and such - perhaps he has not many intimate acquaintances and just wishes for a good friend. The other one was a little on the moody side to be sure, but all-in-all a nice sort of fellow. All he requires is a good glass of port and a cigar and I'm sure he'd be on top form, and then what a jolly good time they would all have!
As these *quaint* yet well-meaning thoughts passed through Bingley's mind, the dark moody one sat silently in his chair, looking at him. A sense of well-being was settling over Darcy - perhaps this Bingley chap was just what he needed. A nice, sociable man who could dig him out of the hole he seemed to have been in for the last 7 years with Wickham; someone to distract him, perhaps let him tag along on a couple of social swirls about town - lord knows he wouldn't enjoy it, but anything would be better than the torture he was going through at this very moment.
Meanwhile, Wickham was having some rather anti-social feelings towards the both of them - Bingley remained as pretty and stupid as ever, and Darcy remained as gorgeous and grim-faced as...But *what* is he doing? Why is he looking at the blond with such a complaisant smile upon his face? Why does he refuse to look at *me* in such a manner? As soon as this thought passed through his mind, he berated himself for being so sappy and *needy*. He was George Wickham, dependent on nothing and no one, who could have whatever he chooses, damn it! And he had made the decision that he didn't need Henry Fitz-bloody-william Darcy anymore!
A/N This chapter is a bit strange - it's almost midnight, and I've been having terrible writer's block lately, so this may not be as well-written as I would like. Please review to let me know what you think.
The candles were lit, the tableware arranged to perfection, and Darcy and Wickham stood up as the innkeeper announced 'Mr. Bingley to see you, sirs.' Wickham had decided that such excellent rowing as Bingley and Darcy had displayed two nights ago at the race was most deserving of a celebratory dinner. And since his planned seduction of Bingley had most decidedly collapsed when the inept greenhorn couldn't pick up *any* of his hints, he felt that a threesome at dinner would have to do, though a threesome of another sort would have been preferable.
The three men exchanged the customary greetings and sat down in the strategically placed chairs by the fire; Wickham and Bingley on either side of a chaise longue, Darcy in an armchair opposite. A heavy silence fell over them for a moment, which was gamely broken by Bingley as he cheerfully exclaimed how *delighted* he was to have met them, how *delightful* the last few days had been, and how *delighted* he would be to tell his family about it all.
Needless to say, Wickham was heartily sick of the man's delightful conversation by the time dinner arrived. But being an enterprising young man, he charmed his way through and paid an unseemly amount of attention to Bingley, veritably ignoring Darcy. And the effect on Darcy was clear to see: tormented by thoughts of himself with Wickham, Bingley with Wickham, *himself* with *Bingley*, Darcy had come to the conclusion that tonight was not going to be a pleasant night and that he had somehow irrevocably lost his mind. He felt ill at ease, miserable, disgusted with Wickham's behaviour, and mostly disgusted with himself for being so foolish.
As they sat at the table to eat, Wickham grimly reflected that his plan seemed to be working, as they always did. The blond was certainly a dimwit, and so he decided to abandon his featherbed strategy and settle for just using him as a potential rival for Darcy - for desperate times were calling for desperate measures, and he was becoming more and more frustrated with Darcy's single-minded rejections when it was clear to all and sundry what he truly desired. Would the man never forget his blasted *roots* and just cast off his inhibitions for once? Wickham was at a loss - was Darcy never going to turn back? If not, what was the alternative? A daft blond or paid whores.
Daft or not, Bingley was certainly enjoying himself. The food was delicious, the decor tasteful, and the company were *delightful*, especially this Wickham chap - very affable and pleasant. A little overly friendly perhaps, too many pats on the back and such - perhaps he has not many intimate acquaintances and just wishes for a good friend. The other one was a little on the moody side to be sure, but all-in-all a nice sort of fellow. All he requires is a good glass of port and a cigar and I'm sure he'd be on top form, and then what a jolly good time they would all have!
As these *quaint* yet well-meaning thoughts passed through Bingley's mind, the dark moody one sat silently in his chair, looking at him. A sense of well-being was settling over Darcy - perhaps this Bingley chap was just what he needed. A nice, sociable man who could dig him out of the hole he seemed to have been in for the last 7 years with Wickham; someone to distract him, perhaps let him tag along on a couple of social swirls about town - lord knows he wouldn't enjoy it, but anything would be better than the torture he was going through at this very moment.
Meanwhile, Wickham was having some rather anti-social feelings towards the both of them - Bingley remained as pretty and stupid as ever, and Darcy remained as gorgeous and grim-faced as...But *what* is he doing? Why is he looking at the blond with such a complaisant smile upon his face? Why does he refuse to look at *me* in such a manner? As soon as this thought passed through his mind, he berated himself for being so sappy and *needy*. He was George Wickham, dependent on nothing and no one, who could have whatever he chooses, damn it! And he had made the decision that he didn't need Henry Fitz-bloody-william Darcy anymore!