Page 19 of Colour My World
Darcy turned. “I defeated him.”
Master Angelo’s gaze sharpened. “No. He feared you. And fear is weakness.”
“Then name a man who will not fear me.”
The master raised his blade. “En garde.” The match began.
Darcy lunged. Too quick. Too eager. The master parried and countered; Darcy barely kept pace. Another strike. Another miss. His confidence faltered. He lunged—desperate. Too slow. Steel kissed his throat. Darcy froze.
Master Angelo’s voice was calm. “A man who has never lost”—he lowered his blade a fraction— “has never fought a worthy opponent.”
* * *
Angelo’s, London, December 1805
Darcy pivoted, but the foil’s tip still grazed his sleeve.Too close.A half inch more, and Lord Armitage would have drawn blood. His torn cuff fluttered as he adjusted his stance.
Armitage’s grin was all teeth. “You hesitated.”
Darcy reset. Footwork. Precision. Control.
Armitage advanced. Darcy feinted and lunged; steel met steel. For a breath, they locked. Then, Armitage disengaged, flicked his wrist, and sent Darcy’s smallsword skittering across the hall.
Pain flared along Darcy’s ribs. Armitage’s blade had found its mark.
“Emotion weakens you,” Armitage said, sheathing his sword. “Control it.”
Darcy wiped his brow. “Again.”
The next bout lasted longer. He anticipated Armitage’s tricks and adjusted his footwork.Do not react. Dictate the fight.
But when steel clashed, Armitage still bested him. Disarmed. Defeated. Again. By the final pass, the other students had stopped to watch. Not in amusement as they once had—no one mocked Darcy anymore. They watched to learn.
When Armitage lowered his blade, his gaze met Darcy’s, steady and unyielding. He inclined his head just a fraction.
Acknowledgement.
* * *
Angelo’s, London, October 1806
The fencing academy echoed with the clash of steel. Darcy advanced, each footfall precise. His opponent, Lord Armitage, yielded step by step, his defence quick but measured. Sweat soaked Darcy’s collar, but his grip never faltered.
Victory stood within reach.
Armitage parried high. Darcy saw the opening. He lunged—perfect form, perfect control. The tip struck true.
“Point.”
Darcy turned, heart pounding. Master Angelo inclined his head. Armitage rubbed his shoulder where the strike had landed. A sharp breath. Then…applause. Darcy straightened.
“Brilliant, Cousin.”
The triumph in his chest flickered, then ebbed.
A scarlet-clad Fitzwilliam approached. “I had not realised your skill had grown so.”
“Is that not the point?”
