“I could meet him in no other way.”
— Colonel Brandon, Sense and Sensibility
Lord Sennex’s shot missed.
Darcy heard the ball whistle past. Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground.
The viscount stared at him, at first uncomprehending. Then he exploded.
“You refuse to fire at all? What is the meaning of this? You call this a duel? This is a farce! I command you to fire!”
Darcy stood still. “My lord, I decline.”
“I said fire, damn you!”
Darcy bowed to his lordship and started to leave the field.
“This is not to be countenanced! How dare you insult me in this manner? This is supposed to be a contest of honor!”
Darcy met Colonel Fitzwilliam and they continued walking together toward the others. The viscount walked faster. He rushed over to the open case, threw down his discharged gun, and grabbed the small pistol.
“Stop!”
Darcy halted. The viscount had the pistol aimed straight at Darcy’s chest.
He had not foreseen this, and regretted that he had moved so near the spectators. Elizabeth was somewhere behind Lord Sennex — he could not quite see her — but Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam both stood within the viscount’s range. As, of course, did he.
“Put the weapon down, Lord Sennex,” he said calmly. “The duel is over.”
The viscount was so angry that tremors seized him. He reached up and fully cocked the pistol.
“There were to be four shots fired today.” His hoarse voice quavered. “If you will not take the fourth, I shall.”
“My lord, I will not.”
“Very well, then.”
The viscount pulled the trigger. There was a spark as flint struck frizzen, snapping open the pan.
But no explosion.
The pan was empty.
The viscount’s astonished expression rapidly transformed to one of rage. He looked from the useless weapon to Darcy accusingly. With a cry, he advanced, raising the pistol as if to strike Darcy with it.
He stopped suddenly at two sounds from behind him.
A hammer being cocked. And Elizabeth’s voice.
“Hold, sir! I am armed.”
Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.
— Mansfield Park
While Darcy dealt with the viscount, Anne hurried to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Are you—” Anne extended a hand toward the colonel, but stopped short of actually touching him. “Are you seriously injured?”
“I am not.”
She released a shaky breath. “Good — that is — that is good. I was so…” A soft cry escaped her. She looked away, struggling to regain her composure.
The surgeon came over to assess Colonel Fitzwilliam, insisting that he sit down. Anne knelt beside him. As the doctor cut away the colonel’s sleeve to better access the injury, the patient had attention only for Anne.
“Are you well? Please tell me that Lord Sennex did not—”
“I was quite frightened, but he did not harm me.”
At her assurance, he relaxed, making it easier for the surgeon to tend him. With Anne’s assistance, the doctor staunched the flow of blood and wrapped the arm in a bandage. The wound was in need of stitching, which he preferred to do in his office if the colonel felt himself capable of walking there. Fitzwilliam sent him ahead, saying he would meet him presently.
When the surgeon had gone, he searched Anne’s face. “If any harm had come to you…”
“If significant harm had come to you…” She lowered her gaze. “I–I do not know how I…” Her hands moved nervously in her lap, gripping, then releasing, the fabric of her gown.
He regarded her in silence for a long moment.
“Marry me.”
She drew in a sharp breath and raised her head. “Oh, James, you cannot mean that.”
“I most certainly mean it. Marry me.”
She blinked and brought one hand to her chest. “I am so astonished, I do not know what to say.”
He reached for her hand and took it into his own. “Say ‘yes.’ ”
Emotion played across her features as she looked into his face. She nodded. “Yes.” A smile formed, and spread until her eyes were alight. “Yes,” she repeated.
Delight overtaking his own countenance, he gathered her to him and held her tightly with his good arm. “You should know that I already sought your mother’s permission, and she refused it. But now that marriage to the viscount is impossible, perhaps—”
“It does not matter. I am over one-and-twenty. I can make my own choice, and I choose you.”