Page 49 of Colour My World
Her colour drained. She shrank behind her companion.
“You remember me, do you not?” Wickham stepped towards her. “We were very dear, once. Were we not?”
Darcy moved between them. “That is enough.”
Wickham remained fixed on Georgiana. “What a beauty you shall be. I daresay you will have to fend off suitors before long.”
Darcy struck him, and Wickham stumbled. He caught himself, touched his lip, and stared at the crimson on his fingertips.
Then he laughed. “What? No gentle remonstrance, your Highness?”
Darcy lunged. The fight was swift and brutal. Wickham was quick, but Darcy was stronger. Wickham landed a glancing blow to his ribs, but Darcy drove his fist into his stomach, then his jaw. Wickham crumpled. Darcy stood over him. He lifted his boot––
“Brother!” Georgiana’s fearful cry stopped him cold.
Darcy squared himself, shedding his fury like a cloak. He turned to her.
“Please,” she whispered. She moved closer, her wide, fearful eyes on Darcy. “No more.”
“Of course.” He gestured towards the front door. “Mrs Reynolds, if you please.” He stared at Wickham until he heard the doors close behind his siter. “You will leave. If I find you within ten miles of Pemberley, I will ensure you regret it.”
Wickham glanced around, blood at his mouth, eyes burning. “You think this is finished?” He grinned, crimson staining his teeth. “Mark me, Mister Fitzwilliam Darcy. You will never know when nor how, but those you love will suffer before I am done.”
Darcy noted the absence of witnesses as Wickham limp away.
* * *
Darcy,
I write with no small amount of frustration. When will you stop allowing your pride to stand in the way of what needs to be done?
Word has reached me of what transpired. You granted Wickham leave—with a threat upon his lips. Tell yourself he is ruined, that he has no power, no consequence—but know this: a man with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous.
He will not stay away. You know this as well as I.
Mark my words, Cousin—he will return. And next time, you may not be so fortunate.
You are not beyond the reach of vengeance. Stand alone if you must—but do not expect to remain upright for long.
For Georgiana’s sake, cease thinking like a gentleman.
Fitzwilliam
* * *
Matlock House, December 1809
Darcy strode down the corridor, his boots silent against the thick carpet. He had arrived late, too late. Fitzwilliam was already gone. Duty to the King called him elsewhere.
He would greet the earl and countess, pay his respects, and leave for Pemberley in the morning. As he neared the drawing room, the warm murmur of voices carried through the half-open door. He stepped forward and then hesitated. His name.
“Darcy is blind to it.” The countess’s voice was low and resigned.
Then, the earl: “No, my dear. He is not blind. He simply does not look.”
A rustle of fabric. A sigh. He should enter. He should make his presence known. But something in their tone stilled him.
“How can you say such a thing?” The countess’s voice sharpened. “He has done all that is required of him. He has honoured his father’s legacy. He has taken up the reins of Pemberley—”
