The Eldest | F. Darcy

Chapter 12: Digging the Graves

Darcy sat in the library, seeking refuge from a certain lady while his thoughts remained consumed by another.

Not that he had chosen to think of Adele Bennet, yet there she was—unbidden, unwavering, utterly inescapable. The piercing violet-blue of her eyes, touched with flecks of icy silver, haunted him. Her cascading cocoa-brown locks, which he had only once seen unbound in childhood, remained etched in his memory as though it were yesterday. The way her full lips formed words with effortless grace, how her expressions lived within her eyes rather than her smile—she was unlike any woman he had ever known.

A goddess walking among mortals. And if fate were kind, he would gladly worship at her altar.

But no—he was in the library precisely to escape such thoughts. He had come to immerse himself in the pages of a book, to anchor himself in something other than the tormenting image of her. Yet the same sentence blurred before his eyes, read and re-read a dozen times, as futile as resisting the pull of the tide.

He was failing.

The trance shattered at the sound of approaching footsteps. A footman entered and bowed.

"Mr. Darcy, sir, a Miss Adele Bennet requests an audience with you."

Darcy stilled.

For a moment, he wondered if he had conjured her—if his relentless thoughts had somehow willed her into existence.

"Miss Bennet?" he repeated, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Yes, sir. She waits outside."

He frowned. "Outside?"

"She refuses to enter, sir," the footman clarified. "She requests that you come to her instead."

Before the man had even finished speaking, Darcy was already striding from the room, barely sparing a thought for propriety. Whatever had brought Adele to Netherfield in such a manner—alone and unannounced—must be of the utmost urgency.

As he stepped outside, his breath caught.

There she was, seated astride a striking black horse, the picture of untamed defiance against the soft gray sky. Her riding habit, fitted perfectly to her form, was a stark contrast to the pale glow of her complexion. The wind teased a loose tendril of hair from beneath her hat, and she barely seemed to notice.

She looked divine.

He forced himself to swallow, to school his features into something resembling composure.

"What has happened, Adele?" he asked, approaching her with careful urgency.

She turned to him, eyes ablaze with barely restrained fury.

"It is Mr. Wickham," she said through gritted teeth.

Darcy stiffened, his jaw tightening instantly. "What has he done?"

She shook her head impatiently. "I have no time to explain. I must find him before he poisons my sister's mind against you."

He needed no further encouragement.

"Give me a moment to fetch my horse," he said, already turning.

"Be quick about it," she called after him, impatience evident in every syllable.

For the first time in his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy ran.

Adele was more than vexed—she was livid. George Wickham had once again woven his deceit, this time managing to slip into her sister's thoughts. Sympathy was his weapon of choice, the first seed he planted before his lies took root.