Page 15 of Colour My World
She turned to him, brows knitting. “But what if he comes back?”
Darcy exhaled slowly.What if he did?He would not let it happen.
“Then he shall regret it.” He smoothed her curls. “Because I shall be ready.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, with great care, she moved the cloth soldier forward—as if preparing for a fight.
Darcy had not been ready before. But he would be.
* * *
Cambridge, December 1800
The room was cold, but Darcy did not mind. He stood with arms folded, motionless, the silence thick around him. No distractions. No warmth. Just the stillness he needed.
He had planned this well. Every hour accounted for. Term had ended. Three months stretched before him—time to divide,time to manage. One week at Matlock for Christmas. A respectable visit. Georgiana would expect more, but she would understand. She always did.
From there, London. Angelo’s School of Arms. He had delayed long enough. His father’s permission, his own ambitions—they aligned at last. The first step had been taken weeks ago. His father had penned the letter, securing his instruction. Master Angelo himself had agreed to oversee his training. A privilege. An expectation. A necessity.
Darcy tapped his fingers against his arm.A gentleman must be proficient in both sword and reason—his father’s words.
But Georgiana.
He reached for the small, folded quarto on his desk. The edges were smudged with chalk dust and sticky fingerprints. The ink was too neat for Georgiana’s hand; the governess had written this. At the bottom, in large, wobbly letters, was her name.
Dear Brother,
I told Mr Robin you would come home soon. He does not believe me. But I know you will.
Nurse said there are fifty days until Christmas, but I cannot count that high.
Will you come?
Georgiana
She had not counted the days. She had measured them in waiting. He set the letter beside his father’s.
Another log collapsed in the grate.Stay longer. She deserves your attention.
He studied his reflection in the darkened window. Or go. Fulfil your duty.
A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves. A gentlemanmust be proficient in both sword and reason.
The two were not the same. He stared at the hearth, the fire a non-entity. Georgiana would understand. She always did.
* * *
London, December 1801
Darcy’s foil clattered to the floor. A sting bloomed in his ribs as he staggered back, breath tight. His opponent, an apprentice instructor, lowered his blade and stepped aside.
Master Angelo’s sigh echoed through the salle.
“Again.”
Darcy retrieved his weapon, adjusted his grip, and lunged.
Steel clashed. The apprentice turned his wrist, knocking Darcy’s blade aside. Darcy twisted—too slow. The next strike found its mark.
