Page 149 of Near Pemberley

The other man stumbled backwards, coughing. Wickham staggered but remained standing. “So,” he muttered, wiping blood from his lip. “You have learnt something.”

“I have.”

Wickham snarled and charged again.

This time he aimed low. Darcy barely saw it. The punch crashed into his injured ribs.

Pain shot through his side so fiercely that he bent instinctively.

Wickham seized the opportunity. His fist came down across Darcy’s back.

One of the watching men took an involuntary step forward.

“Sir…”

“No.” Darcy’s voice was strained but unmistakably firm. “No one touches him.”

He straightened slowly. His breathing had become heavier now. His cheek was swelling. Blood had found its way to his collar.

Wickham tried to hit him again, but Darcy deflected it with his arm and landed a hit at his jaw from below. Wickham spat blood.

He looked at Darcy with menace. “You should have seen how your sister ate up every word of mine. She was putty in my hands.”

Darcy hit him. Again, again.

One of the men took half a step forward before Darcy mastered himself.

Wickham smiled triumphantly. “You are tiring.”

“So are you.”

“I can still stand.”

“Barely.”

For a heartbeat, they circled one another in silence.

Wickham had seen Darcy angry before. He had never seen him relentless.

Neither smiled now. Neither spoke.

Then Wickham threw everything into one final attack. He came wildly, abandoning all caution.

Darcy stepped inside the blow. His shoulder struck Wickham squarely in the chest.

The impact threw them both against the overturned table.

Receipts scattered beneath their feet. One of the receipts clung absurdly to Darcy’s boot.

He recovered first and attacked immediately.

Wickham crashed into the chair, recovered before it had finished falling, and snatched it aside with a curse. His eye landed on the poker. He looked back at Darcy for an instant. Then their eyes went to it together. Wickham grabbed it and danced in front of Darcy with it.

Darcy looked at Wickham and realised there would be no honour in this room except his own. Elizabeth’s face came to him. Not her request. Her face when she had spoken of justice. The strain she had carried for weeks. Lydia weeping in his arms. Georgiana in Ramsgate.

He drew one slow breath.

When Wickham rushed again, he stepped aside, caught the poker, and, with his left hand, stomped him, forcing him to let go of the weapon. Darcy threw it away, and his man picked it up. When Wickham attacked again, Darcy met him head-on. Years of fencing had taught balance, timing and discipline.