Page 11 of Colour My World
He wore his father’s good name like a mask, fooling those too naïve to look beyond the surface.
Like Darcy’s father. As well as himself. But no longer.
“Darcy.”
Georgiana pressed herself against Darcy’s side, her fingers tightening in his grasp.
“Wickham.”
Wickham stepped forward, hands behind his back.
“Miss Darcy in the village?” He tsked as he shook his head. “Your father must not know.”
“We do not require your concern.”
Wickham smiled. It was not friendly.
“I suppose this is the first she has been outside Pemberley’s walls.” He clicked his tongue. “Poor thing.”
Georgiana moved behind Darcy.
“Will you not greet an old friend, Miss Darcy.” Wickham’s voice held a feigned warmth.
Darcy caught the flicker of something sharper beneath it: calculation. “She is shy,” Darcy said, stepping forward. “Do not disturb her.”
“Is she?”
Georgiana whimpered.
That’s enough.Darcy placed his hand on Wickham’s chest. “Move.”
Wickham held his ground. “Protective, are we?”
Darcy shoved him. Wickham stumbled but caught himself. He flashed a predatory smile. A blur of motion. Pain exploded along Darcy’s jaw, hot and blinding. His vision wavered.
The cobblestones were cool against his hands. It was not the pain that stunned him—it was the audacity.
“Brother!” Georgiana cried out.
Darcy blinked. The world tilted. He heard a grunt. Then a gurgle. A woman gasped. A man muttered a curse.
His vision cleared. An arm pointed. Fitzwilliam had Wickham pinned to the wall. Wickham gagged. Blood trailed from his nose over split lips.
Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy. “Let all hear me.” Then he fisted Wickham’s hair, yanked his head forward, and slammed it into the stone. Then a second time—so hard Darcy thought the wall groaned. Wickham dropped in a limp heap.
Richard turned to the crowd. “A transgression against a Darcy is an insult to Matlock House.” He pointed down. “Thisis the price of insolence.”
Darcy wiped the blood from his lip.
“Richard!” Georgiana cried. She held out her arms.
Fitzwilliam lifted her, and she buried her face in his coat.
“Shh, Georgie,” he murmured. “I have you.”
He pulled Darcy to his feet and did not release his hand. Instead, he stepped in close and pressed his grip tighter. “A fight is not merely a contest for victory, Cousin. Its conclusion must leave no room for a second.”
Chapter 3
