Chapter 2
2
M iss Bennet’s cold rejection still echoed in his mind.
"With all my heart."
Darcy’s pulse thundered in his ears as he strode down the lane, away from the parsonage, away from Elizabeth. “If you had behaved in a more gentleman like manner.”
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, the sky still overcast from the afternoon storm, but he noticed none of it. His entire being pulsed with energy—anger, humiliation, a bitter, gnawing ache deep in his chest.
"You are the last man on earth I could ever be prevailed upon to marry . "
He clenched his fists, his boots striking the dirt path with force, his breath ragged with barely contained frustration.
How could he have misjudged so thoroughly?
Had he not seen something in her gaze earlier—some spark of undeniable feeling, some trace of unspoken regard?
Yet she had spoken her refusal with such certainty, such force, such contempt.
His teeth ground together, his hands twitching at his sides, longing for something—anything—to release the awful pressure building within him.
He needed to move, to do something, to escape the suffocating weight of rejection.
Without thinking, he turned toward the village tavern, its dim glow flickering like a beacon in the encroaching dusk.
He had no intention of drinking. He only needed space, needed to be among men who did not dissect their feelings, needed to remind himself that he was still Fitzwilliam Darcy—respected, powerful, unshaken.
The doors opened to a welcome sight. A quiet evening among men.
And then, he heard it.
A coarse, laughter-filled voice, rich with amusement, laced with something far more vile.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose instinctively.
He stopped at the doorway, fingers curling against the frame.
There, at the center of a rowdy gathering of red-coated officers, sat George Wickham.
And he was speaking of Elizabeth Bennet.
The words floated to him above the raucous laughter, laced with familiar arrogance, spoken with calculated charm.
"Ah, but you do not know Miss Bennet as well as I," Wickham’s voice was laced with an infuriating drawl. He tipped his glass in a mock toast, smirking as the men around him leaned in with interest.
Darcy’s stomach tightened painfully.
Elizabeth’s name should not be in that man’s mouth.
The officer beside Wickham snorted, shaking his head. "You claim to have such familiarity, but a woman like that would hardly succumb to a scoundrel’s charms."
Wickham laughed, leaning back with an air of indulgence.
"Would she not?" He lifted his glass to his lips, pausing just long enough for the insinuation to settle.
A ripple of laughter spread through the men, and Darcy’s vision darkened.
"Come now, Wickham," another man goaded, nudging him. "You mean to say you’ve… compromised her?"
Wickham feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest in mock innocence. "Compromised? My dear fellow, you wound me. Nothing so crass." He smirked over the rim of his glass. "But a woman does not look at a man as she does me unless she has… fond recollections of our time together."
Darcy’s blood ignited.
A low murmur spread through the group—half-disbelieving, half-intrigued.
Wickham shrugged, setting his glass down. "I should not speak so freely, but… suffice it to say, she is not indifferent to me."
The words shattered the last of Darcy’s restraint.
He moved before he had even registered it, his fury carrying him straight into the lion’s den.
The clatter of boots against wooden floorboards silenced the room.
Darcy did not stop until he was mere inches from Wickham’s seated form, looming over him, his frame taut with fury.
The laughter died instantly.
Wickham’s smirk faltered, though his expression quickly smoothed into mock amusement.
"Darcy," he greeted, feigning nonchalance. "How delightful. I was just?—"
Darcy’s fist clenched at his side. "You will retract your words at once."
Silence.
A few men exchanged uneasy glances.
Wickham, however, only arched a brow, clearly reveling in the moment.
"My words?" he asked, tilting his head. "Forgive me, old friend, but I have said much this evening. Would you care to be more specific?"
Darcy’s teeth ground together.
"You will not speak of Miss Bennet again."
The low, dangerous tone sent a shiver through the watching men.
Wickham exhaled a slow, exaggerated breath.
"My dear Darcy," he drawled, lifting his hands in mock innocence, "I fear you are misinterpreting a bit of lighthearted conversation." A smirk curled at his lips. "You are not… jealous, are you?"
The words were a match to dry kindling.
Darcy slammed his fist onto the table, making the glasses jump. "Enough!" His voice was a whipcrack, hard and commanding.
The men stilled, their mirth fully extinguished.
Wickham leaned back in his chair, though for the first time, his gaze flickered with unease.
Darcy’s voice lowered, but the warning in it was unmistakable. "You will not sully her name with your falsehoods. You will not claim a connection where none exists. You will not, under any circumstances, breathe her name again in such company."
The threat hung heavy in the air.
For a long moment, Wickham said nothing.
Then—a slow, deliberate smirk returned to his lips.
"Or what?"
The words were spoken too carelessly, too arrogantly, as if he truly did not believe there would be a consequence.
But Darcy was not a man to allow such insults unanswered.
His hand moved before he even considered it.
The glove slid from his fingers, his arm swung with deadly precision, and he struck Wickham clean across the cheek.
A sharp gasp rippled through the tavern.
Several chairs scraped back violently.
A few men stood at once, looking to Wickham in stunned silence.
But Wickham—for the first time in his wretched life—looked truly shaken.
Darcy’s voice was calm, controlled, and terrifyingly precise. "I challenge you to a duel."
A flicker of genuine fear crossed Wickham’s face before he recovered, his arrogance slipping just slightly. "That," he muttered, rubbing his jaw, "is quite unnecessary."
Darcy took a step forward, his presence casting Wickham fully in his shadow. "You dishonored a lady," Darcy said coldly. "You have no choice."
Wickham’s throat bobbed.
The watching men held their breath.
Finally—after a long, tortured pause—Wickham forced a smirk, though it did not reach his eyes. "As you wish," he said, voice light but brittle.
The duel was set.
At dawn, Wickham would answer for his slights to Miss Bennet.