The white square fluttered in the morning breeze. Elizabeth found herself unable to breathe, her entire being focused on that small scrap of fabric.
The handkerchief began its descent, floating downward with agonizing slowness.
The crack of a pistol shattered the morning stillness.
For a heartbeat, Elizabeth thought she had imagined it—the handkerchief was still falling, had not yet touched the ground.
But Darcy staggered backward, dropping his pistol and clutching his chest. Crimson bloomed across the white of his shirt, spreading with horrifying speed.
“No!” Elizabeth cried out as Darcy fell to the ground.
Jane’s hand clamped over her mouth, but Elizabeth was already moving, bursting from their hiding place into the clearing. Later, she would wonder at her own actions—the impropriety, the danger, the sheer recklessness of inserting herself into a duel. In that moment, she knew only that Darcy was wounded, perhaps dying, and she could not stand by and watch.
“Stop!” she shouted, racing toward Darcy’s crumpled form. “For God’s sake, stop this madness!”
Bingley moved to intercept her. “Miss Elizabeth! You cannot be here.”
But she evaded his grasp, falling to her knees beside Darcy. Blood soaked his shirt, staining her hands as she pressed them against the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow.
“You shot before the signal,” she accused, glaring at Wickham. “You cheated!”
Wickham’s face showed a fleeting expression of calculation before settling into wounded innocence. “The handkerchief must have touched the ground. It was a trick of the light.”
“Liar!” Elizabeth spat, shifting her body to shield Darcy from any further threat. “You aimed before Captain Denny even dropped the handkerchief. I saw you.”
Darcy stirred beneath her hands. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy with pain. “Elizabeth?” The word was barely a breath, spoken with such bewilderment that it made her chest ache.
“Yes, I am here,” she said, though she could not say why she felt compelled to comfort the man who had called her a liar before all of Hertfordshire. “You must not try to speak.”
“Why… why did you come?” The words came in broken whispers, punctuated by shallow gasps. “You hate me… said so yourself…”
Elizabeth’s throat closed with unexpected emotion. Even dying, he remembered her cruel words and her rejection. “That does not matter now.”
Jane emerged from behind the trees. “Bingley, we must get him to a physician.”
Darcy’s hand closed weakly around Elizabeth’s wrist. “Liz… for…,” he murmured again. Whatever words he meant to say faded as his eyes closed and his head fell against the blood-soaked grass.
Elizabeth felt tears she could not explain streaming down her cheeks. She had despised him, had rejoiced in his humiliation, had felt vindicated by Wickham’s sympathy. Yet seeing him bleeding into the earth, hearing the broken confusion in his voice, she felt only a terrible, gnawing guilt.
“We must move him now,” Bingley said urgently. “Captain Denny, your help, if you please. Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth—this is no place for ladies. You should return home immediately.”
“I will not leave him,” Elizabeth declared, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat. “Not until I know he will live.”
Something in her tone must have conveyed her determination, for Bingley did not argue further. “Very well. But we must hurry.”
Between them, Mr. Bingley and Captain Denny managed to lift Darcy’s unconscious form. Elizabeth kept pace beside them, her blood-stained hands pressed against his wound, her gaze fixed on his pale face for any sign of returning consciousness.
“I did this to you,” she whispered, though she knew he could no longer hear her. “I am the reason you are dying.”
Behind them, Jane paused to address Wickham. “Lieutenant Wickham, if Mr. Darcy dies, his blood will be on your hands. And I promise you, the truth of what happened here will be known to all of Hertfordshire before nightfall.”
CHAPTER NINE
BURDENED BY BLOOD
Elizabeth’s handswould not stop shaking. Blood—Darcy’s blood—had dried in rust-colored patches across her palms and beneath her fingernails. It stained her morning dress beyond salvation, leaving dark smears across the pale muslin. She had pressed her hands against his wound for so long that his lifeblood had become part of her.
“Miss Elizabeth, you must let go.” Mr. Bingley’s voice penetrated the fog surrounding her thoughts. “The surgeon cannot examine him while you?—”
