Darcy’s Duel (The Bennet and Darcy Chronicles: Short Jane Austen Adaptations #2)

Chapter 4

4

T he mist curled low over the damp earth, swallowing sound, muffling footsteps, shrouding the clearing in an eerie hush.

To Darcy, it was an unholy hour—just before dawn, when even the birds had not yet stirred.

A place for foolish men and reckless pride.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood motionless, his breath misting in the cold air, watching as George Wickham staggered slightly in the shifting gray light.

Wickham’s second, Captain Denny, muttered something under his breath and reached out as if to steady him. Wickham shook him off.

Darcy’s own second, Colonel Fitzwilliam, took a single step closer, lowering his voice.

"This is madness," Fitzwilliam murmured.

Darcy did not answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on Wickham, who rolled his shoulders, stretching like a man preparing for a fight—though he was clearly not sober enough for one.

His eyes were glassy, his smirk loose, his movements a fraction too slow.

Even Denny looked uneasy.

"George, you are not steady," Denny muttered under his breath. "You do not have to do this."

Wickham let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Do not have to?" he repeated mockingly, wiping a hand over his mouth. "What, and let dear Darcy believe I fear him?"

His voice slurred at the edges, but the arrogance was still there.

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply beside him, shifting his weight impatiently. "This is insanity," he whispered. "Darcy, end this before it begins."

"I would if he would allow it," Darcy murmured back.

But he knew Wickham would not allow it.

Not now. Not after drunken boasting had sealed his fate.

The moment Darcy had called him out in the tavern, Wickham had been left with two choices—to fight, or to slink away in disgrace.

And Wickham would never choose this kind of disgrace.

Even now, his pride, his ego, his jealousy burned too bright to walk away.

Fitzwilliam spoke again, low and urgent. "He can barely stand, Darcy. This is?—"

“Wickham, what say you?”

He hiccuped. And then lifted a hand in the air. “Let the bullets do the talking.” His face grew considerably paler. “Or some other such nonsense. We must carry on.”

"It is already done," Darcy interrupted, voice clipped.

Fitzwilliam cursed under his breath.

Denny ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Wickham in exasperation. "At least have some damned decency and clear your head!" he snapped. "You should be ashamed—coming to a duel in such a state."

"Please," Wickham drawled, waving a lazy hand. "It is hardly a duel." He smirked at Darcy. "Is it, old friend?"

Darcy said nothing.

Fitz frowned. “Will you deny your slander? Will you clear the ladies’ name?”

Darcy’s face remained impassive, his body rigid with control.

This was no friendship. And he had no honor.

Wickham did not respond.

Denny sighed in frustration, then turned to Fitzwilliam.” We will continue in our course," he said reluctantly. "It is too late to stop it."

Fitzwilliam cursed again but said nothing.

Denny looked to Darcy. "Shall we proceed?"

Darcy gave a single, stiff nod.

Denny and Fitzwilliam exchanged glances, then turned to their respective men.

"The rules," Denny stated, clearing his throat. "Each of you will take ten paces, turn, and fire."

Neither man spoke.

"Are we agreed?" Fitzwilliam asked sharply, looking at Darcy.

Darcy nodded once.

Denny turned to Wickham. "George?"

Wickham let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, yes, we are agreed," he muttered.

Denny and Fitzwilliam took their places.

The air was unbearably still.

The pistols were presented.

Darcy took his weapon without hesitation.

Wickham hesitated for a fraction of a second before curling his fingers around his own.

Denny and Fitzwilliam stepped aside.

The clearing stretched long and empty before them.

Ten paces.

A breath of time.

A single bullet.

"Begin," Denny said.

Darcy walked forward.

One.

The cold bit at his exposed skin.

Two.

The mist hung thick, clinging to the trees.

Three.

His fingers curled tightly around the grip.

Four.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

Five.

His heartbeat was steady, determined.

Six.

He thought of Elizabeth Bennet.

Seven.

Her voice, sharp and biting. "With all my heart."

Eight.

He loved her still. Let his actions prove his foolish heart.

Nine.

He lifted the pistol.

Ten.

He turned.

And fired into the trees.

The bullet shot high, tearing into the dark beyond.

Purposeful. A mercy. A choice.

A dull thud as Wickham’s own pistol discharged.

Pain seared through Darcy’s arm.

His vision went white with it.

He staggered.

The sound of Fitzwilliam’s voice shouting.

The sensation of falling to his knees.

Wickham dropped his pistol.

"No, I—" he stammered, staring at Darcy, horrified at what he had done.

Then—without another word?—

He ran.

Vanished into the mist.

Fitzwilliam shouted after him, but he was gone.

Darcy barely registered it.

He was on the ground, blood seeping through his coat, hot and thick.

His breathing was ragged, his vision blurred.

And then?—

A scream.

A figure burst into the clearing.

"Darcy!"

Elizabeth.

She dropped to her knees beside him, breathless, eyes wild with terror.

Her hands pressed against his shoulder, against the wound, against the place where his lifeblood was spilling onto the frozen ground.

"Darcy," she gasped. "Stay with me."

He blinked at her, dazed.

"Elizabeth…" His voice was weak, strained, full of disbelief.

She ignored the confusion, the propriety, the cold reality of their situation.

Her hands trembled, trying to stop the bleeding.

Fitzwilliam cursed, stripping off his coat, for Elizabeth to press to the wound.

"Stay awake," Elizabeth whispered. "Please."

Darcy studied her, his vision hazy, his pulse slowing.

Could it be she cared for him?

She weeped for him.

He managed a weak smile.

"You came," he whispered.

She let out a soft, broken sound.

"Of course I came."

He closed his eyes.

Fitzwilliam cursed. "We must get him help."

Fitzwilliam gripped her arm. "Elizabeth, for the sake of your reputation, you must leave. Now."

Her heart tore in two. She shook her head. “No one is here.”

Darcy’s vision started to blur, everything on the edges went dark.

"Darcy," she gasped. "Stay with me."

He blinked at her, dazed.

"Elizabeth…" His voice was weak.

Her hands trembled, clutching at him.

Fitzwilliam rose abruptly, surveying the clearing, gaze sharp, calculating.

"I will ride for assistance," he declared. "Denny has gone after Wickham—if he has any honor left, he will return."

He turned to Elizabeth. "Stay with him then. Keep him conscious. But watch yourself."

Then—without another word—he was gone.

The sound of his boots retreating into the mist, the distant thudding of hooves as he mounted and rode away, left only the two of them behind.

The silence felt impossibly vast.

Elizabeth looked down at Darcy, her fingers still pressed against his wound, his breath ragged beneath her touch.

"Why?" she whispered, voice thick with emotion.

He stirred slightly.

"Why what?"

"Why did you not aim?" she demanded, blinking back hot, furious tears. "You could have killed him."

Darcy gave the faintest hint of a smile.

"I never intended to."

Her throat closed. "You let him shoot you."

"I let him make his choice," Darcy murmured.

Elizabeth shook her head, overwhelmed, unable to process the sheer weight of it all. "You are a fool," she whispered.

His gaze softened. "I am beginning to believe I am."

Her breath hitched.

His eyes had never looked so open, so unguarded.

For once, he was not Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, not the proud, untouchable master of estates, not the man she had despised—He was simply a man, bleeding into the frozen ground, holding onto consciousness only because she was there. All for her.

A strange, terrifying ache formed in her chest. She lifted a trembling hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, almost like a prayer.

Her heart clenched painfully.

Then—A sound.

Distant, but unmistakable.

Voices.

Footsteps.

They were coming.

Elizabeth’s blood ran cold.

Fitzwilliam had warned her. Her reputation—her entire future—would be destroyed if she was found here.

And yet?—

Her fingers tightened around Darcy’s coat, unwilling to move.

His hand found hers, weak but certain. "Go," he rasped.

She shook her head.

"Elizabeth." His grip tightened slightly, voice rough but insistent. "Go."

Tears burned behind her eyes. She could not leave him like this. She could not let go.

But the voices grew louder.

She inhaled shakily, forcing herself to move.

With one last, lingering glance, she pulled her hand from his and ran.