Page 10 of Colour My World
He chuckled. Not like Brother. Not like Cousin Richard. “Oh, but I am not a stranger. I am your friend, am I not?”
Georgiana frowned. Friends played with her. Friends read her stories. He had never been her friend before.
“You must miss your brother.” His voice was soft, like the end of a bedtime story.
She nodded.
He tilted his head. “And what shall you do when he grows too busy for you?”
Georgiana froze.Too busy? No. Brother was never too busy.She looked down at her shoes.
He sighed and shook his head. “A girl ought to have more than one protector, do you not agree?”
The wind blew harder. The roses whispered, and Georgiana closed her eyes. Something brushed her sleeve—just a touch.
She felt the warmth run down her legs. She had wet herself.
Crunch. Boots on gravel.
“Miss Darcy!” She opened her eyes.Nurse.
“Ah, Nurse. A pleasant afternoon for an outing.”
She swept past him and pulled Georgiana behind her. “What business do you have here?”
He smiled again. But his eyes did not match. “The world does not often favour little girls left unattended.”
“She was not,” said Nurse.
He chuckled and walked off.
Nurse knelt. “Did he frighten you, little miss?”
Georgiana shook her head. Nurse lifted her. She wrapped her arms around her neck, Daisy-doll crushed between them.
Nurse pulled her close, then away. Everything felt wet. “Come now, miss.” Nurse smoothed her hair. “Let us get you changed.”
* * *
Lambton, June 1800
The village square bustled beneath the afternoon sun. Vendors cried their wares, carts clattered over cobblestones, and housemaids wove between stalls, baskets hooked over their arms. The air smelled of fresh bread, leather, and the damp musk of horses.
“Is Richard coming?”
Darcy looked down and smiled. “He shall join us soon, sweetling.”
Georgiana’s hand fit snugly in his own. She had never been to the village before, but today was an exception. She had clapped her hands with delight when Darcy promised her a sugar plum from the sweet shop. As she walked, her golden curls bounced with every step.
Their father would not have allowed it, but he was away on business.
“You shall have your plums.” Darcy steered her towards the confectioner’s shop.
She squeezed his hand. “Plums,” she repeated and giggled.
A figure stood just ahead, not blocking their path outright but not yielding either. His smile was easy, his posture relaxed, but Darcy knew better.
George Wickham had been raised at Pemberley. The same age as Darcy, he, the steward’s son, had once been a companion of sorts, at least in childhood. But where Darcy had always been bound by duty, Wickham had been free to do as he liked. To charm, take, and deceive.
