Page 5 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Georgiana tucked a stray curl behind her ear and reached for her smallest doll. She sat on the floor before the hearth, arranging them in a perfect row.

Darcy leant against the doorframe. She had not spoken much that day. He watched as she set her cloth soldier before the other dolls. “What are they doing, sweetling?”

Georgiana did not look up. “They are safe now.”

Darcy stepped closer. “Safe from what?”

She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the soldier’s uniform. “The bad man is gone.”

His breath caught. She had never called Wickham a “bad man” before. He knelt beside her. “Yes, he is gone.”

She turned to him, brows knitting. “But what if he comes back?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. What if he did? He would not let it happen.

“Then he shall regret it.” He smoothed her curls. “Because I shall be ready.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, with great care, she moved the cloth soldier forward—as if preparing for a fight.

Darcy had not been ready before. But he would be.

* * *

Cambridge, December 1800

The room was cold, but Darcy did not mind. He stood with arms folded, motionless, the silence thick around him. No distractions. No warmth. Just the stillness he needed.

He had planned this well. Every hour accounted for. Term had ended. Three months stretched before him—time to divide, time to manage. One week at Matlock for Christmas. A respectable visit. Georgiana would expect more, but she would understand. She always did.

From there, London. Angelo’s School of Arms. He had delayed long enough.

His father’s permission, his own ambitions—they aligned at last. The first step had been taken weeks ago.

His father had penned the letter, securing his instruction.

Master Angelo himself had agreed to oversee his training.

A privilege. An expectation. A necessity.

Darcy tapped his fingers against his arm. A gentleman must be proficient in both sword and reason— his father’s words.

But Georgiana.

He reached for the small, folded quarto on his desk. The edges were smudged with chalk dust and sticky fingerprints. The ink was too neat for Georgiana’s hand; the governess had written this. At the bottom, in large, wobbly letters, was her name.

Dear Brother,

I told Mr Robin you would come home soon. He does not believe me. But I know you will.

Nurse said there are fifty days until Christmas, but I cannot count that high.

Will you come?

Georgiana

She had not counted the days. She had measured them in waiting. He set the letter beside his father’s.

Another log collapsed in the grate. Stay longer. She deserves your attention.

He studied his reflection in the darkened window. Or go. Fulfil your duty.

A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves. A gentleman must be proficient in both sword and reason.

The two were not the same. He stared at the hearth, the fire a non-entity. Georgiana would understand. She always did.

* * *

London, December 1801

Darcy’s foil clattered to the floor. A sting bloomed in his ribs as he staggered back, breath tight. His opponent, an apprentice instructor, lowered his blade and stepped aside.

Master Angelo’s sigh echoed through the salle.

“Again.”

Darcy retrieved his weapon, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

Steel clashed. The apprentice turned his wrist, knocking Darcy’s blade aside. Darcy twisted—too slow. The next strike found its mark.

“Again.” Darcy gritted his teeth, rising to his feet. Angelo stood over him, expression unreadable.

“You hate losing. Good. You will lose many times before you master this.”

The apprentice reset. Darcy squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Again.”

Barty appeared.

“What is it?”

“The carriage is readied, sir.” He paused. “If you wish to reach Matlock House before nightfall.”

Darcy tightened his grip on the foil. “I shall conclude my lesson first.”

Barty hesitated. “Miss Darcy arrived some hours ago.”

The smallsword felt heavier in his grasp. Darcy gripped it until his knuckles whitened. He then relaxed his stance.

Master Angelo said nothing. He simply watched. Then, after a moment, he lowered his cane. “Go. A man must remember what it is he fights for.”

Darcy set his foil aside. “Another lesson tomorrow?”

Master Angelo smiled.

Barty stepped back. “The weather, sir.”

Darcy marched past him, boots hard against the floor. Each step cracked like flint against stone.

* * *

December 1802

Pain ruled him. It lived in every breath, every step. Bruises darkened his ribs, his hands raw from the sword’s unforgiving grip.

Before dawn, he arrived alone. Shadows stretched across the salle, his only companions. He lunged at them, parried spectres that never tired. He pushed beyond exhaustion.

Master this or return a disappointment. His father’s voice echoed in his mind. Failure was a luxury he could not afford.

“You do realise that air cannot fight back?”

The voice came as expected, curling around him like smoke. He had heard the footsteps behind him—not real ones, never real ones . Just the lazy gait of someone who haunted his imaginings.

George Wickham, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. His cravat was perfectly tied, his coat uncreased. He belonged to an effortless world where sweat and blood meant nothing.

Wickham stepped forward. “You are aware, are you not, that your father sent you here to humble you?”

Darcy adjusted his stance. “If you have nothing useful to say, leave.”

Wickham cackled, the sound reverberating to Darcy’s soul. “Oh, but I think I shall stay. You sweat like a common dockworker. It is rather amusing.”

Darcy lunged. Wickham did not move, did not even blink. The blade passed through him like mist.

Wickham smirked. “Predictable.”

Darcy gripped his foil tighter, his palm slick. Mist. Shadows. Nothing more. And yet, the voice dug under his skin, deeper than any blade.

“I must admit,” Wickham mused, tilting his head, “I am rather intrigued. Do you actually believe this will make you a warrior?” His eyes gleamed with mockery. “I imagine you quite like the idea. Darcy the undefeated. ”

Darcy ignored him.

“But tell me…” Wickham strolled past him, brushing a hand over the long table where swords rested in their racks. “What shall you do when the next man is faster? When he does not fight with honour?”—his grin sharp— “I daresay it will be quite the lesson.”

Darcy kept his grip firm. Wickham was not real. He was nothing.

Wickham sighed. “And yet, a gentleman with scars is not a gentleman at all. Do take care.” He tapped the air as if in mock farewell.

Darcy did not stop his training until his arms shook too much to lift the blade.

* * *

December 1803

The master lunged. Darcy countered.

A clash of steel, a swift strike, and for the first time, Darcy did not yield ground.

The master’s foot shifted back, barely perceptible, but enough.

Darcy pressed. He parried the next attack, faster, sharper. When he struck, he met his target.

Master Angelo grunted and stepped back. A slow smile curved his lips. “At last.”

Darcy straightened, chest heaving.

A polite cough. “Congratulations, sir,” Barty said, tone even. “Shall I send word to Miss Darcy that you will attend her music lesson?”

Darcy frowned. “She expects me?”

Barty inclined his head. “Quite certain.” When Darcy did not respond, Barty bent his head in a sort of acknowledgement. “As you say, sir.”

Master Angelo chuckled. “Many a man would have quit.”

Darcy wiped his brow. “Lesser men do not bear my name.”

“Ah, there is our old friend,” Angelo said to the others who had gathered to watch. “His Arrogance has arrived.”

Darcy did not respond.

“Tell me, sir—have you earned victory?”

Darcy lifted his chin. “I believe so.”

“Foolish.” Master Angelo shook his head. “You have merely stopped losing.”

* * *

The salle had emptied; only the faint scent of oil and sweat lingered.

In the retiring room, Darcy dropped the glove and unfastened the leather guard from his wrist.

Barty waited by the wardrobe.

“You have something to say.”

“Nothing of consequence, sir.” Barty accepted the sodden tunic and wiped down Darcy’s torso. “Shall I lay out the indigo, sir?”

Darcy gave a curt nod. “It will do.”

“Shall I inform Matlock House you will not be attending Miss Darcy’s lesson?”

“I did not say so.”

“No, sir.”

Darcy flexed his hand. A thin red line had risen along the skin.

“We might apply a salve, though I daresay the mark suits.” Barty stepped back.

Darcy touched his cravat knot.

“The master remarked on your timing.”

“He remarked also on my arrogance.”

“Aye.” Barty held the garment open. “But he took a step back all the same.”

Darcy inclined his head and regarded his man. “Indeed, he did.”