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

Chapter 6

6

T he world was blurred at the edges.

A dull, distant throbbing pulsed through his arm, heavy and insistent, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing on his chest.

He could not move. Could barely breathe.

Memories drifted like mist, thick and half-formed: The clearing. The shot. The fire in his arm. Pain. Wickham’s horrified face as he fled into the trees.

Fitzwilliam’s curse, hands gripping him, keeping him steady.

And then—Then she was there.

Elizabeth.

He had thought at first he was imagining her, that his fevered mind had conjured her in his final moments, but she was real.

Her hands had pressed against his wound, warm, firm, desperate.

Her voice—her voice—had trembled with something frighteningly close to fear. "Darcy, stay with me."

Her touch had lingered. Her fingers had smoothed back his hair.

Her eyes had burned into his, wide, frantic, utterly unguarded.

"Of course I came."

And then—nothing

Now, reality warped in and out of his grasp.

He was aware of movement.

Of being carried, of Fitzwilliam’s voice low and sharp, commanding.

The cold air vanished, replaced by the suffocating warmth of Rosings’ halls.

A voice—Lady Catherine’s—snapped something he could not decipher.

Hands pulled at him, removed his coat, pressed cloth to his wound.

More voices. Low. Urgent. Pain, sharp and insistent.

Then—darkness.

When consciousness returned, it was slow and unwelcome.

His body ached. His throat was parched. His arm throbbed with every beat of his heart.

A faint murmur of voices floated somewhere nearby.

He tried to move—failed.

His body was a lead weight, pinned to the bed by exhaustion and the lingering pull of laudanum.

Someone shifted beside him. A low voice. Fitzwilliam. "Finally awake, cousin?"

Darcy forced his eyes open, vision blurry, unfocused.

The room tilted.

Fitzwilliam sat in a chair near the fire, arms crossed. His expression was a mix of relief and exasperation. "You look bloody awful," he remarked.

Darcy swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Where?—"

"You’re in Rosings," Fitzwilliam supplied. "You’ve been out cold since yesterday morning. Congratulations, you’ve managed to put half the household into a state of hysteria."

Darcy grimaced. "Lady Catherine?"

"Predictably dramatic," Fitzwilliam said, waving a hand. "But she’s pleased you survived. It would be terribly inconvenient for her to lose you before marrying you off to Anne."

Darcy let out a weak breath of amusement.

"Elizabeth?" He had not meant to say it aloud.

Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted slightly. "She came to Rosings earlier."

Darcy’s chest tightened. "And?"

Fitzwilliam smirked, leaning forward. "And our dear aunt refused her entry, of course."

A sharp pulse of disappointment shot through him.

"However," Fitzwilliam added with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, "I suspect she is not so easily deterred."

Darcy’s heart thudded painfully.

Fitzwilliam stood, stretching lazily. "I should go," he mused. "Lady Catherine will be demanding an update on your condition. I must assure her you are still perfectly capable of producing an heir."

Darcy rolled his eyes weakly.

Fitzwilliam paused at the door. "Try not to move too much," he instructed. "And if a certain lady should happen to sneak in after I leave… well. I saw nothing."

Darcy’s breath caught.

The door closed softly.

Silence.

Then—A faint rustling.

A presence near the doorway.

A hesitant step forward.

And then?—

Elizabeth Bennet stood before him.

Darcy stilled.

For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming.

But no. She was real. She was here.

And she was looking at him with something he could not yet name.

The firelight flickered across her face, soft and uncertain, casting long shadows against the walls.

Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and though her posture was rigid, her eyes…Her eyes were full of something he could not yet name.

They held him captive.

His fingers twitched against the bedsheets, as if reaching for something that was not there.

She took a cautious step forward. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Darcy swallowed, his throat dry. "As if I have been shot."

A small, startled laugh escaped her, a sound so unexpected and beautiful that it sent a dull ache through his chest—one wholly unrelated to his wound.

She exhaled, relaxing slightly. "That is to be expected, I suppose," she murmured.

Darcy watched her carefully.

She was not the same Elizabeth who had rejected him so fiercely at Hunsford.

Something had changed.

He had seen it in the clearing—the panic in her eyes, the way her hands had trembled against his wound, the way she had whispered his name like it was the only thing that mattered.

She had come to him. And now—she was here again.

Elizabeth took another step, then another, until she stood at the side of his bed.

She could see him more clearly now—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the way his fingers gripped the sheets as if grounding himself.

He looked weaker than she had ever seen him.

And yet, he was still Darcy, still watching her, calculating, assessing. Still the same man who had turned her world upside down.

She exhaled slowly, placing a hesitant hand against the edge of the bedpost. "You should not have done it," she murmured.

Darcy’s brows furrowed slightly. "The duel?"

"Yes," she whispered. "The duel."

His jaw tightened. "I did what was necessary."

She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Necessary?" she repeated. "You allowed yourself to be shot, sir. Forgive me, but I fail to see how that was necessary."

Darcy’s gaze did not waver. "If I had fired upon Wickham, I would have killed him."

"And would that have been so great a tragedy?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Darcy’s lips twitched. "I do believe that is the most violent thing I have ever heard you say, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth flushed, looking away. She had not meant to speak so plainly, so… fiercely. But the memory of that moment in the clearing still haunted her. The sight of him falling, the blood staining his coat, the sudden stillness of his body. She closed her eyes briefly, willing the image away. "You frightened me," she admitted softly.

Darcy stilled.

Elizabeth felt his gaze burn into her, but she could not bring herself to meet it. "You frightened me," she repeated, more quietly this time.

The silence between them stretched.

Then—a slow, careful movement.

She felt the faintest brush of his fingers against the back of her hand, where it rested against the bedpost.

A touch so light she could have imagined it.

Her breath caught. She looked up—and found his eyes on hers, unreadable, searching.

"I am sorry," he murmured.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"Why?" she whispered.

His fingers curled slightly, but he did not pull away.

"For everything.”

Elizabeth searched his face. She saw no arrogance, no disdain, no lingering pride.

Only exhaustion. Regret. Something deeper, something fragile and dangerous and wholly unfamiliar.

Her pulse fluttered wildly. She should move. She should step back. She should not let this happen. His fingers were still so close, still barely touching hers, and for once in her life, she did not know what she wanted.

Her throat tightened.

She had come here for answers.

She had come here to tell him he was a fool, to reprimand him for risking his life so carelessly.

She had not come to feel this.

Darcy’s voice broke through the silence, low and rough. "You should not be here."

Elizabeth’s breath shook slightly. "It is true," she agreed. "And yet, I am."

His lips parted—as if he might say something more.

But then—a noise in the hall.

A sharp rap against the door.

Elizabeth jerked back.

Darcy’s fingers curled into a fist, his face returning to that unreadable expression.

She stepped away, her chest tight, her breath uneven.

The door creaked open, and Fitzwilliam entered, his gaze immediately sweeping between them. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "Ah," he said. "I see the patient is well enough to entertain visitors."

Darcy let out a slow exhale, his expression unreadable.

Elizabeth’s face felt warm, but she did not look away.

Fitzwilliam’s smile grew. "But unfortunately," he added, "I do believe Lady Catherine will have my head if she finds Miss Bennet here."

Elizabeth nodded hastily, smoothing down her skirts. "Of course. I was just?—"

Darcy’s voice cut through. "Leaving," he murmured.

Elizabeth looked at him sharply.

Something flashed in his gaze, something unspoken, something that made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She inclined her head stiffly. "Yes," she agreed, turning toward the door. "I was just leaving." She moved past Fitzwilliam, past the flickering firelight, past the suffocating weight of something she could not yet name. But just before she stepped into the hall—A voice. Soft. Rough. Meant only for her. "Elizabeth."

She stopped.

She did not turn.

For she knew, if she looked at him now, she would not leave.

She swallowed hard.

And then—she walked away.