Surprisingly, a pocket of air existed once he stumbled his way to the bottom of the steps. He felt Georgiana slipping from his grip as he fought his way past flaming lips, consuming doorways along the

When the explosion hit, he was far enough from the house to escape the brunt of the debris, but not far enough to go unscathed. Splintered doorways and shards of glass flew like deadly projectiles, many of them lodging in his arms and legs and back, but Darcy kept moving, trying to get his precious Georgiana to safety. Finally, he collapsed to his knees, laying her gently on the dewy grass before uncovering her face.

“Georgie,” he pleaded as he patted her hands and face. For a few long moments he prayed, and then she caught a deep breath and began to cough uncontrollably. A soft moan told him that she was well; only then did Fitzwilliam Darcy allow the exhaustion to overtake him, collapsing—face first—into the dirt.

“Mr. Darcy!” his valet, Henry Sheffield, called as he rushed over to tend to his employer. Covered with ashes and soot, his clothes torn and disheveled, Darcy lay in a defeated heap upon the soft earth.

Georgiana righted herself and crawled to where he lay. “Fitzwilliam,” she begged between fits of coughing. “Oh, please… please…talk to me.”

“He is hurt, Miss Darcy,” Henry told her as he jerked off his coat and wrapped it around her light muslin gown.

“Help him,” she pressed.

By that time, footmen and neighbors had rushed forward, carrying lamps. Mr. Phelps, the owner of the house to the left, examined Darcy’s body.“We should not turn him; he has several lacerations—no telling what might be in the wounds.”As the man spoke, Darcy’s body arched, seeking air before choking on the same gulping breath.“Georgie,” he managed to say between barking gasps.

“I am here,” she assured him, draping her soot-covered arm over his shoulder.