Page 20 of Colour My World
“You are a master of sport.” Fitzwilliam looked left, then right. “Have you fought a man who does not rise after he has fallen?”
Darcy bristled. “That is hardly the purpose.”
“No?” Fitzwilliam turned to Armitage. “You.”
“Sir?”
“I challenge you.”
Armitage stepped back and bowed his head. “I must decline.”
Darcy frowned. “Why?”
Armitage met his gaze, solemn. “I am not a soldier.”
Darcy blinked.What has that to do with anything?
Fitzwilliam turned to him. “So, Cousin, will you dare stand in his place?”
Darcy’s pride surged hot. “Gladly.”
He took his stance. Arrogance curled in his chest. He had trained for this moment. He had bested every man here. Fitzwilliam would not shame him.
The bout began, and Darcy struck first. A clean, measured thrust. “Point.”
Fitzwilliam had not moved.
Darcy circled. Tested. Lunged again. Another hit. “Point.”
Yet, Fitzwilliam stood still. Sword held low. Face unreadable.
Darcy lowered his blade. “Will you not engage me?”
Fitzwilliam tilted his head. “You wish to fight me?”
“Is that not why we are here?”
“Very well.” He stepped forward. “I pity Georgiana.”
The master raised a hand.“En garde.”
What shall you do when the next man does not fight with honour?Wickham’s taunt echoed.
“Prêt.”
Fitzwilliam exploded forward. Darcy’s blade was torn from his grip; his ribs slammed into the floor. Pain tore his breath away. A knee crushed his chest. Cold steel kissed his throat.
“She looked for you.”
Fitzwilliam drew closer, his breath hot against Darcy’s face.
“She performed before the entire family—the earl, the countess, every bloody cousin. Except you. Twelve years old, hands shaking. But she played the entire piece. And when it ended, she stood, alone, and curtsied.”
Fitzwilliam rose. Darcy accepted his extended hand.
“You have become the man you swore you would never be.”
Fitzwilliam’s dark eyes blackened to coal.
