George! It was George’s voice beyond those doors! Forgetting protocol, Elizabeth stood quickly, her chair slamming backward into the wall behind her. Lord Darcy was up too, his hand on the knife at his hip in reaction to a potential attack.
Papa lunged in front of Elizabeth when she reached the doors as they flew open. Framed by the dark oak, George was a frightening figure indeed. Blood covered him from head to toe, matting his red curls into a grotesque muddy brown, and his usually kind eyes were dark with a dangerous fury that made Elizabeth's heart grow cold.
She reached around her father's form, fingers stretched towards her sweetheart.
“George?” Her voice shook and tears flooded her eyes. “George?”
The young man focused on her. His body began to spasm, his arms flailed helplessly at his sides. Her father rushed forth and caught him when his knees gave. Lord Bingley, ever gallant, rushed to help, and Lord Lucas poured a glass of wine for George.
“Let us get him into the parlour. We need to lie him down.” Papa put his arm around George's waist, and, with Lord Bingley's support, they hauled Elizabeth's limp betrothed towards the room.
The rest of the party followed, pausing outside the door.
Her father held out his palm to her. “Beloved, stay here with our guests.”
“Papa, I want to know has happened! George is to be my husband. I have the right to know.”
“And ye shall, but not at this moment. I need to inspect him for injuries.”
“Very well,” she said in a whisper.
“Lady Lucas, Lady Charlotte, would one of ye be so kind as to fetch the physician?”
“Of course,” Lady Lucas said.
The doors closed behind them, and Elizabeth sagged into a chair. Charlotte knelt in front of her and wrapped her hands within her own.
“Dearest, this looks very bad at the moment, but things shall right themselves in no time. Ye shall see.”
A weak smile slipped across Elizabeth's lips, and she shook her head slowly in disbelief. Poor George! Just that midday, she had seen her beloved and they had been happy. What had happened? She sighed her frustration and wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. What could she do? How could she help?
“My presence is hardly required any longer. I shall wait in the carriage,” Lady Caroline said, her manner stiff and formal. Drawing her lean body up to its full, proud height, she looked down at Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, I am sorry for any trouble that has befallen ye.”
The lady dropped a curtsey, glared at the smirk on Lord Darcy's face, and slipped away. Elizabeth just did not have the strength to acknowledge her. She was too overwhelmed, too concerned about George. Yet Caroline’s manner was unusual. . .it was trifling, but she was convinced the lady appeared guilty.
“Charlotte, take care of Miss Elizabeth while I am gone for the physician. I shall return as quickly as may be.”
“Yes, Mother.”
* * *
The silence in the hall grew thick as Darcy hovered about them. Would the plain friend ever disappear? Finally, when Elizabeth asked for a glass of water, and Lady Charlotte went to retrieve it since the servants seemed to think better of approaching the parlour in the least.
“My lady,” Darcy said.
She barely looked up, her eyes trained on the door across the hall and what might possibly be taking place within that room.
“My lady,” he repeated and stepped away from the wall he was casually leaning against.
“My lord?”
“Pray allow me to express my sympathies towards your plight.”
“I offer thanks.”
Did she know how badly she made him desire her? Even with tear-stains for another man on her cheeks, she was magnificent. His hands itched for her and his breeches had become unbearably tight. Three steps and he was before her, taking her hands and pulling her from the chair.
“Sir!” She exclaimed, shocked. “Pray unhand me.”