Page 148 of Near Pemberley

Wickham’s smile faded. “You want to fight me? You have no chance. I have beaten you before.”

“Now we have witnesses.” Darcy folded the receipts again with deliberate care.

“Makes no difference.”

“It makes every difference. I fight for honour. You fight for your measly life.”

He removed his gloves. He folded them carefully and handed them over.

He removed his coat and handed it to the other.

Wickham watched him curiously. “What are you doing? I had almost forgotten how pompous you can be.”

“I had almost forgotten how cowardly you are.”

That struck home.

Without warning, Wickham swung.

Darcy had expected it. He stepped aside, and the blow glanced off his shoulder.

“You still announce every punch,” Darcy smirked.

“I shall endeavour to impr…”

He never finished. Darcy’s fist came up beneath his guard.

Wickham’s answer came faster. It caught Darcy across the cheek. Pain exploded through his jaw.

Wickham grinned. “There.”

“Better,” Darcy answered with a straight punch that drove Wickham backwards into the table.

The table overturned. Receipts scattered across the floor. One of the watching men instinctively moved.

“No.” Darcy did not even turn his head.

Wickham lunged. He fought without method and without restraint, striking whenever he found an opening.

One blow landed hard beneath Darcy’s ribs. Air left his lungs. Another caught him behind the ear while he was still recovering.

Wickham laughed. “There is the great Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Darcy steadied himself against the wall. For a moment, the room spun. He heard one of the men swear quietly.

Wickham did not wait. He rushed forward again, driving Darcy backwards with a flurry of wild blows. One grazed his temple. Another glanced off his shoulder before a third struck his mouth. Darcy tasted blood.

“Have you forgotten how this ends?” Wickham taunted. “You should have chosen swords.”

Darcy closed his eyes for a moment to fight the pain at his ribs.

Wickham smiled. He shifted his weight almost lazily, as though there were no danger at all.

Darcy recognised the movement a heartbeat before the blow came. Too late. His blow struck the very place that already hurt. Darcy could not breathe.

As always, Wickham mistook advantage for victory. Another punch came, careless in its confidence.

Darcy caught the wrist, twisted sharply, and drove his elbow into Wickham’s chest. He swiftly turned and, with the same movement, punched him in the face with all his might.