After Lizzy’s violent resistance and escape into the woods, Orman had driven home rapidly. In part, this haste was due to the significant gash over his left cheekbone, which was bleeding profusely and ultimately required eight stitches to repair, yet largely due to the sober rationality restored along with the whack from Lizzy’s bucket.
Orman was a relatively brave man, tough when the situation called, but also a dandy, foolhardy and brash. Elizabeth was not the first woman to receive unwanted advances from the Marquis; however, generally he was wiser in his choices and had, therefore, managed to avoid severe unpleasantries. Electing Elizabeth as the object of his seduction was no doubt primarily prompted by his hatred of Darcy, rather than an overwhelming attraction to her. Darcy’s and Orman’s mutual discord was not based on any particular incident but was merely one of those loathing-at-first-sight relationships strengthened over time by further revelations of their widely divergent characters and morals.
Orman may have been foolhardy, but he was not a complete imbecile. Sober rationality told him that, without the slightest doubt, Darcy would exact revenge for this recent impropriety. Therefore, as soon as his wound was treated, he departed with alacrity to a friend’s manor in Nottingham. When he received the news that Mrs. Darcy had suffered an accident, he trembled in fear.
His spies kept close watch on the situation and although information was nearly impossible to ferret out of the tight-lipped, loyal staff of Pemberley, it soon became clear that, for reasons unknown, Orman’s name was not associated with the event. With a false sense of security and atrociously poor timing, the Marquis brazenly returned to his Derbyshire manor the very day that Lizzy’s memory was reinstituted.
Thus, when Darcy, along with Col. Fitzwilliam and Lord Matlock, rode up to his house and ordered the butler to summon his master, Orman was utterly unprepared. Nonetheless, when Lord Matlock coldly intoned the charges and Darcy imperiously issued the challenge, Orman bristled and the miniscule amount of honor he possessed impelled him pridefully to accept.
As the challenger, Darcy had set the rules: duel with short swords to incapacitation, at Lord Matlock’s estate one hour after dawn on the morrow, and seconds as appointed by each party. So, here they now stood. Their swords had been inspected by their seconds—Col. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Gerald Vernor in Darcy’s case, the rules and charges had been reiterated, the ground canvassed for hazards, and coats removed.
Lord Matlock announced the onset of the duel with a loud, “Allez.” The combatants studied each other, circling slowly with their swords forward on point. Darcy had well buried his burning rage. He was calm, heart beating normally, and absolutely focused with emotions tightly controlled.
“So, Darcy,” Orman taunted, “your foolish wife loses herself in the forest, nearly dies, and you must trump charges against me! Such pride. Darcy of Pemberley would never admit to choosing poorly in the country bumpkin of Hertfordshire!”
Darcy did not flinch, although Col. Fitzwilliam swore, detained by his father from personally running Orman through.
“Esteem her quite highly, do you not, old friend?” Orman sneered, “Favor her so beautiful that all men will fall at her feet? Whom else will you accuse…” He lunged abruptly, sword aimed straight for Darcy’s heart.
Darcy had expected this tactic. Not swayed one iota by Orman’s blustering, Darcy parried easily, knocking Orman’s sword to the left and then nimbly pivoting to the right and rapidly raising his sword upwards. He sunk the edge deeply into Orman’s left arm just below the shoulder and then stepped away, sword instantly again at the ready.
Orman was taken by surprise but, to his credit, recovered immediately, sword again on point as the adversaries stalked with eyes locked. Blood soaked his sleeve but he ignored it, face no longer mocking.
The cat and mouse games were finished. Darcy lunged next, deflected by Orman with ease, initiating a round of furious thrusts, parries, and rapid ripostes. They tested each other’s strengths and weaknesses, having never fenced together in the past. Darcy scored again with a glancing cut to Orman’s neck, promptly followed with another superficial graze across his chest.
Orman howled in fury; Darcy baring his teeth in a snarl, the only show of emotion thus far. Orman attacked with rage, normally not a wise tactic and one that would have proven to be his ultimate undoing, as Darcy was primed. Unfortunately, as he stepped to the left, Darcy’s foot landed hard on a sharp stone and he faltered. Orman’s sword was averted poorly and, although not reaching its intended location, sunk completely into the flesh along the edge of Darcy’s right side, neatly gliding all the way through and exiting the back.
Darcy grunted and grimaced in pain, staggering as he jerked backward with his arm pressed tightly to the bleeding wound. Amazingly, he still somehow managed to score a penetrating stab into Orman’s right shoulder. Both men staggered backward a few paces, eyeing each other with rabid hatred and panting harshly.
“Is she honestly worth it, Darcy? A woman?”
“Vermin such as you, Orman, would never comprehend.”
“True love, is it? How touching. Never would have suspected you to be the romantic type. Perhaps her gracing me with her lovely smiles was more than you could bear?”
Darcy merely smiled, a chilling smile without humor that unsettled the Marquis, who frowned. His attempts to rouse Darcy’s anger and ruffle his composure were failing miserably. Orman began to sweat. He knew Darcy’s reputation as a superb fencer and had dwelt on little else all night, in fact. Orman was stouter than Darcy, muscular and potent. However, Darcy had the advantage of height with subsequently longer legs and greater reach. Orman could likely outlast Darcy in a contest requiring endurance, but his skill level with swords did not near Darcy’s and he knew it. He must alter his stratagem.
With a plan in mind, he engaged and another round of vicious thrusts and parries ensued. Darcy received a gash across his chest, not terribly deep, but a scar would remain to match the two on his waist. Orman pressed with a steady barrage, driving Darcy back. He applied no particular finesse, trusting to sheer brute force and stamina to wear his opponent down. Darcy landed three more superficial blows, leaving Orman bleeding from several sites.
Despite the fury of his assault, Orman was unable to connect with the nimble Darcy. Both men suffered from loss of blood and pain, but Darcy was a man vastly more familiar with the rigors of hard labor and the trial of persevering with injury after years of training horses. His breathing was only mildly labored and a light sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Orman, on the other hand, was wheezing and sweating liberally.
After a wild thrust, which Darcy parried with his free hand, earning a shallow slice to his palm, he was successful in piercing Orman’s thigh scant inches below his groin and less than a fingerbreadth from his femoral vein. Orman screamed and pitched forward, the duelists grabbing each other’s sword arms at the wrist, clinched tenaciously nearly nose to nose. They grappled together in a back-and-forth dance of engagement. All of a sudden, Darcy vehemently twisted his right arm free, aggressively smashing his elbow squarely onto Orman’s nose, feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch he had promised Elizabeth, followed by a gush of blood and lusty bellow.
In a fit of raging blood lust, Darcy intended to end it there, and would have, but Orman had one last trick up his sleeve. With blood streaming down his face and tears of pain obscuring his vision, he nonetheless had the presence of mind to sweep out with his uninjured leg, knocking Darcy completely off his feet. He landed hard on his back, air escaping his lungs in a loud whoosh. He lay there for a second, stunned and gasping, but saw Orman closing in with an overhand stroke with one purpose only: to kill. Dimly he heard Richard yell a warning.