Chapter 3
3
E lizabeth had thought that nothing—nothing—could disturb her again that evening.
She was wrong.
Her blood was still hot, her hands still trembling, as she sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the flickering candle before her.
"I have fought against it, but it will not do. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
Darcy’s words would not leave her.
Her rejection had been swift, decisive, absolute—but now, alone in the stillness of her room, her mind would not quiet.
She relived it.
Her humiliation at his assumption that she would accept.
Her anger at his interference with Jane and Bingley.
Her revulsion at how he had treated Wickham.
And then—his confession.
"I did everything in my power to separate them."
Her breath caught at the memory.
Darcy had not denied it. He had admitted it openly, carelessly, as if it were of no great consequence.
"I believed your sister to be indifferent."
The words rang in her ears, feeding the fire of her anger all over again.
He had ruined Jane’s happiness.
He had stolen Bingley away, filled his mind with doubts, convinced him that Jane did not love him?—
Elizabeth shot to her feet, pacing furiously.
How could he—how dare he—presume that he knew Jane’s heart better than she did?
Jane, who was the gentlest, kindest soul in all of England.
Jane, who had loved Bingley in silence, who had wept alone.
Jane, who had borne her suffering with grace and dignity while Elizabeth had been forced to stand helplessly beside her.
"I believed your sister to be indifferent."
No, he had not believed it.
He had simply not wanted his friend to marry into a family so beneath him.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled into fists, her breath short and sharp.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, pulsing with fresh, unrelenting fury.
She had been right to refuse him.
She had spoken truer words than ever before.
She should feel triumphant.
And yet—something unsettled her.
Some deep, twisting discomfort that refused to be named.
She ignored it.
She would not waste another thought on him.
Blowing out the candle, she prepared for sleep.
She had just settled beneath the covers, her thoughts beginning to settle, when?—
The door burst open.
Elizabeth sat up with a start, her heart leaping in alarm.
"Charlotte?"
Her friend stood in the dim glow of the hallway, her face pale, breathless, eyes wide with urgency.
"You must get up," Charlotte whispered. "At once."
Elizabeth threw back the covers, instinctively gripping Charlotte’s hands.
"What is it? What has happened?"
Charlotte hesitated. Then, in a rushed whisper?—
"Collins has just returned from dining with Colonel Forster and the officers. There was an altercation at the tavern. Mr. Wickham spoke of you—inappropriately. Mr. Darcy overheard."
Elizabeth stilled.
Her stomach dropped.
Charlotte’s grip tightened.
"He has challenged Mr. Wickham to a duel. At dawn."
Elizabeth felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
Her breath hitched. A duel?
Her name.
Her name had been spoken.
Her name had been the cause.
She pressed a hand to her lips, the floor suddenly unsteady beneath her.
“Pistols,” Charlotte continued, voice trembling, "before the sun rises. It is already arranged."
Elizabeth could not breathe.
A duel.
A duel.
Over her.
Elizabeth pulled her coverlet up and around her as she sat on the edge of her bed, her hands cold, her thoughts tangled in panic.
"This cannot be real."
"This cannot be happening."
“I’ll stay with you. I’ll…sit here.” Charlotte sat as close as was possible, both of them grappling with the horrific events about to take place.
She had heard of duels before—usually over debts, politics, or grave insults—but never had she imagined she would be at the center of one.
The very idea of it horrified her.
Darcy. Wickham. Pistols. Blood.
The thought of them standing in some mist-covered field at dawn, taking aim, knowing that one of them might fall?—
She shuddered.
Was it truly to the death?
Could one of them truly—die?
Her stomach twisted painfully.
She had no love for Wickham, not anymore, but the thought of Darcy?—
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe. The thought of losing Darcy had a different poignancy than anything she’d ever experienced, despite everything, despite her incredible hurt and anger from earlier.
She had to do something.
The clock chimed the hour—nearly three in the morning.
She could not stay here.
She could not sit in bed and wait while two men risked their lives over something so absurd—so utterly avoidable!
Her mind was set.
She had to find Darcy.
She had to stop him.
She dressed swiftly, throwing on her cloak, tying her bonnet with shaking fingers.
Charlotte, though visibly anxious, did not try to stop her. "I would come with you," she whispered, "but Collins—he would notice, and he would raise the alarm."
Elizabeth nodded, already moving toward the door.
The halls were dark and silent as she slipped from the parsonage.
By the time she reached the lane, the air was thick with mist, the damp chill seeping into her bones as she made her way toward Rosings Park.
Her steps were quick, determined, urgent.
The silence was deafening.
Each step echoed in the emptiness of the estate.
She turned the corner—her heart pounding—and stopped.
Elizabeth froze.
The house was dark. Still.
She had missed him.
Panic surged through her, hot and suffocating.
And then?—
A sudden burst of movement.
From the barn, the sound of hooves striking against wood. A low murmur of voices, the clink of a bridle being fastened, the sharp sound of leather tightening.
She turned just in time to see a dark figure emerge into the mist, leading a massive black horse into the yard.
Darcy.
Her breath caught.
She had never seen him like this—his coat unbuttoned, his cravat undone, his face hard and unreadable in the dim pre-dawn light.
For a moment, she thought he would see her, that he would stop, that she would have time to say something, to plead with him, to demand he turn back.
But he did not.
He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, his movements sharp, driven by purpose.
The horse reared slightly, sensing his urgency.
Elizabeth stood frozen, watching in disbelief as he tore past her, his coat whipping behind him, disappearing down the mist-covered lane.
She could not let this happen.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Without thinking, without hesitation, she turned and ran toward the stables.
The grooms were still stirring, just beginning their morning tasks.
"Miss Bennet?" One of them turned in surprise, but Elizabeth was already grabbing a bridle from the rack, scanning the stalls frantically.
She spotted a small, sturdy bay mare, already saddled, likely prepared for one of the servants’ morning errands.
"Forgive me," she murmured as she threw herself into the saddle, clumsier than she would have liked but determined nonetheless.
The moment her feet found the stirrups, she kicked the horse forward.
She did not know where the duel was taking place.
She did not know if she would reach them in time.
She only knew one thing?—
She had to try.
The mare leapt forward into the mist, and Elizabeth followed the path Darcy had taken—riding straight toward the unknown.