Page 4 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Snow clung to the windowpanes, the frost thickening as the night deepened. A single candle rested on the bedside table, its glow barely stretching beyond the heavy counterpane.

Darcy had meant only to look in on her before he retired.

“Bruvver.”

He turned.

“You stay?” Her wide blue eyes peered up at him.

“Not tonight,” he replied. “But I shall remain here until you fall asleep.”

He settled into the wingback chair beside Georgiana’s bed. Not yet four, her tiny frame curled beneath a mound of blankets, golden curls spilling over the pillow. She clutched a cloth doll to her chest.

She nestled deeper. Then, “Papa cross.”

“What makes you say so?” He adjusted her blanket, though it needed no straightening.

“He not talk to me.”

She noticed. “He is…busy.”

She frowned. “Wif you?”

“Yes.”

She turned her face into the pillow. “Not wif me.”

Darcy’s hands clenched around the armrests. She should not know what it meant to be ignored.

A whisper, small and fragile. “I be good.”

His chest ached. “You are good.” He smoothed her curls. “Very good.”

She peeked up at him. “If I be more good, will Papa play wif me?”

The words punched the air from his lungs. “It is not your fault, sweetling.”

She stared at him, unconvinced.

“I must go to school soon, but I will come back to you.”

Her lower lip wobbled. “But you be different.”

“I shall always be your brother.”

Her lashes fluttered, then stilled.

Darcy remained until her breathing slowed. The doll slipped from her fingers. He caught it and set it beside her. As he tucked the blanket higher, she stirred, half-asleep, and whispered into the pillow, barely more than a breath:

“I be good. I be good.”

Darcy closed his eyes, the ache in his chest sharper than before. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

You already are, sweetling. You have always been.

* * *

Eton, April 1798

Rain tapped steadily against the tall windows.

Darcy stood before them, eyes tracing the rivulets as they slid down the glass.

He was past fifteen now and deep into his studies at Eton.

In one hand, he held a letter from his tutor; the other rested against the window frame, cool with condensation.

Behind him, Barty sat at the writing desk, recording something into a journal.

Darcy said, “Is that the travel ledger?”

“Aye,” Barty replied without looking up. “I made a note of the mile count and the livery repairs. You will find it beneath the supply orders.”

Darcy moved towards the desk, brow furrowing. “Is that your left hand?”

The quill froze for an instant and then resumed, gliding neatly across the page. “I use whichever serves, sir.”

Darcy stepped beside him. “I have seen you write with your right. This”—he gestured at the script— “this is near identical.”

“Aye. Takes practice.” Barty dipped the quill again. “Me father said a man ought to write with both hands. That way, no injury nor interruption could keep him from his duty.”

Darcy watched him work. “You never said.”

“You never asked.”

Barty glanced up, a glint in his eye. Darcy chuckled.

“All is in order.” Barty drew a second volume from the desk drawer. “Your private disbursements. I moved the entries to the gentleman’s book.”

Darcy accepted both. “I should like the ink in the study drawer replaced. Black.”

“As you wish, sir.”

* * *

Pemberley, April 1799

The sun made everything golden. It spilled over the sculpted hedges—shaped like horses, sheep, cows—until the leafy green animals almost looked alive. When the wind blew, the leaves whispered as if the animals talked to one another.

Georgiana held her Daisy-doll by the arm as she skipped through the grass. Her boots crunched over scattered leaves. She made sure to avoid muddy spots.

Twirling once, then again, her skirts puffing out like a bell. A white bell. What had Brother read to her? A white daff-a-dill .

Then, a shadow swallowed the light. She squinted against the brightness. One of the older boys stood there.

George Wickham. She knew him. He laughed big and talked fast. He smiled. He always smiled.

Georgiana looked for Nurse. There. Talking to a gardener.

“All alone, little one?” He crouched. His dark eyes were warm, but his smile was not.

Georgiana hugged Daisy-doll tightly to her chest. “Nurse says not to talk to strangers,” she whispered.

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.

He wore his father’s good name like a mask, fooling those too na?ve to look beyond the surface.

Like Darcy’s father. As well as himself. But no longer.

“Darcy.”

Georgiana pressed herself against Darcy’s side, her fingers tightening in his grasp.

“Wickham.”

Wickham stepped forward, hands behind his back.

“Miss Darcy in the village?” He tsked as he shook his head. “Your father must not know.”

“We do not require your concern.”

Wickham smiled. It was not friendly.

“I suppose this is the first she has been outside Pemberley’s walls.” He clicked his tongue. “Poor thing.”

Georgiana moved behind Darcy.

“Will you not greet an old friend, Miss Darcy.” Wickham’s voice held a feigned warmth.

Darcy caught the flicker of something sharper beneath it: calculation. “She is shy,” Darcy said, stepping forward. “Do not disturb her.”

“Is she?”

Georgiana whimpered.

That’s enough. Darcy placed his hand on Wickham’s chest. “Move.”

Wickham held his ground. “Protective, are we?”

Darcy shoved him. Wickham stumbled but caught himself. He flashed a predatory smile. A blur of motion. Pain exploded along Darcy’s jaw, hot and blinding. His vision wavered.

The cobblestones were cool against his hands. It was not the pain that stunned him—it was the audacity.

“Brother!” Georgiana cried out.

Darcy blinked. The world tilted. He heard a grunt. Then a gurgle. A woman gasped. A man muttered a curse.

His vision cleared. An arm pointed. Fitzwilliam had Wickham pinned to the wall. Wickham gagged. Blood trailed from his nose over split lips.

Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy. “Let all hear me.” Then he fisted Wickham’s hair, yanked his head forward, and slammed it into the stone. Then a second time—so hard Darcy thought the wall groaned. Wickham dropped in a limp heap.

Richard turned to the crowd. “A transgression against a Darcy is an insult to Matlock House.” He pointed down. “ This is the price of insolence.”

Darcy wiped the blood from his lip.

“Richard!” Georgiana cried. She held out her arms.

Fitzwilliam lifted her, and she buried her face in his coat.

“Shh, Georgie,” he murmured. “I have you.”

He pulled Darcy to his feet and did not release his hand. Instead, he stepped in close and pressed his grip tighter. “A fight is not merely a contest for victory, Cousin. Its conclusion must leave no room for a second. ”