Page 13 of Colour My World
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Darcy stood in his father’s study, spine straight and hands clasped behind him. The bruising along his jaw had faded, but the lesson remained.
Across the desk, his father swirled a glass of brandy with slow, methodical precision. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant roll of thunder.
“You handled yourself poorly.”
The words were not unexpected. Darcy squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
His father lifted the glass to his lips, took a measured sip, and set it down. “Thankfully, your cousin was there to remedy your failing.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. Yes, he had failed. Wickham had struck him to the ground like an untrained schoolboy. He had let the dastard frighten Georgiana. He deserved his father’s disapprobation.
“I wish to learn.”
His father arched a brow. “Learn what, precisely?”
Darcy met his gaze. “To fight.”
“To fight?”
“Yes.”
His father leant back in his chair. “And do you suppose I shall retain a pugilist? Allow others to see you flail about in some tavern ring, bloodied and snarling, like a brute?”
Darcy hesitated.Was it unseemly? Would men of rank sneerat me for wanting more than a gentleman’s fencing bouts?
“No, sir.”
His father regarded him for a long moment. The thunder rumbled, shaking the windows. “Then speak plainly.”
“Fitzwilliam was prepared. I was not. He has trained as a soldier, and I… I have been prepared to lead but not to fight.” His hands tightened behind his back. “If I am to stand one day as Pemberley’s master, I must be equal to defending those entrusted to my care.”
Especially Georgiana.
His father’s expression remained impassive.
“I require masters,” Darcy continued. “Men of skill. Men who understand not only strength but precision.”
His father’s fingers tapped idly against the desk. “And to what end? Shall you call out every man in Derbyshire who offends your pride?”
“No, sir.” His answer was swift. Steady. “Only when necessity demands it.”
His father considered him. At last, he nodded. “You may begin under Master Angelo in London.”
“Fencing?”
“A gentleman’s sport.” His father’s lip curled. “You do remember you are a gentleman.”
“Every day for the past four years.”
The glass hit the desk with a sharp clink. “Do not be insolent with me, boy!”
“No, sir.”
His father drained his glass. “You will depart within a fortnight.” He expelled a great breath. “Take your sister. I will not have her here.”
The storm broke. Rain lashed against the glass.
