Page 6 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Cambridge had its champion.

The cup was his. The hated Oxford had fallen, and more satisfying, it had fallen on its own field of honour. Their uninterrupted streak was broken. The men of his college had cheered, lifted their glasses, and spoken of his precision, his speed, his mastery. But mastery needed proof.

The following morning, the roads lay slick with winter rain, the lamps casting long shadows as the carriage rocked towards the city. Darcy sat rigid, one hand braced on the armrest, the other curled in his lap. Barty sat across from him, quiet, watchful.

The silence stretched. Finally, Barty cleared his throat. “The celebration was shorter than expected.”

“It was sufficient.”

“Shall we stop at Matlock House?”

“For what purpose?”

“To attend Miss Darcy.”

“I never agreed to it.”

“No,” Barty said mildly. “But she has an expectation.”

Darcy turned his gaze to the window, watching the rain streak against the glass. He ran a fingertip along his temple.

Barty adjusted his gloves, smoothing out an invisible crease. “Shall I inform the driver, then?”

Darcy did not answer.

Barty nodded slightly, as if the answer had been spoken aloud. “Very good, sir.”

By evening, he was in London, standing once more at Angelo’s. This was where men were truly measured.

He was no longer a student. He was a master in his own right. At the salle , they no longer met his gaze with amusement. They watched. They measured. And they hesitated.

Darcy allowed himself a small smile as he stepped onto the floor. His opponent, one of Angelo’s finest pupils, adjusted his stance, but Darcy saw the uncertainty in his grip.

The match began. The first strike was his. And the second. His opponent scrambled to regain footing. Darcy pressed harder. He lunged and forced the other man back. His opponent stumbled. With a flick of his wrist, Darcy sent the weapon spinning across the floor.

The master’s voice cut through the air. “And what, sir, have you won?”

Darcy turned. “I defeated him.”

Master Angelo’s gaze sharpened. “No. He feared you. And fear is weakness.”

“Then name a man who will not fear me.”

The master raised his blade. “En garde.” The match began.

Darcy lunged. Too quick. Too eager. The master parried and countered; Darcy barely kept pace. Another strike. Another miss. His confidence faltered. He lunged—desperate. Too slow. Steel kissed his throat. Darcy froze.

Master Angelo’s voice was calm. “A man who has never lost”—he lowered his blade a fraction— “has never fought a worthy opponent.”

* * *

Angelo’s, London, December 1805

Darcy pivoted, but the foil’s tip still grazed his sleeve. Too close. A half inch more, and Lord Armitage would have drawn blood. His torn cuff fluttered as he adjusted his stance.

Armitage’s grin was all teeth. “You hesitated.”

Darcy reset. Footwork. Precision. Control.

Armitage advanced. Darcy feinted and lunged; steel met steel. For a breath, they locked. Then, Armitage disengaged, flicked his wrist, and sent Darcy’s smallsword skittering across the hall.

Pain flared along Darcy’s ribs. Armitage’s blade had found its mark.

“Emotion weakens you,” Armitage said, sheathing his sword. “Control it.”

Darcy wiped his brow. “Again.”

The next bout lasted longer. He anticipated Armitage’s tricks and adjusted his footwork. Do not react. Dictate the fight.

But when steel clashed, Armitage still bested him. Disarmed. Defeated. Again. By the final pass, the other students had stopped to watch. Not in amusement as they once had—no one mocked Darcy anymore. They watched to learn.

When Armitage lowered his blade, his gaze met Darcy’s, steady and unyielding. He inclined his head just a fraction.

Acknowledgement.

* * *

Angelo’s, London, October 1806

The fencing academy echoed with the clash of steel. Darcy advanced, each footfall precise. His opponent, Lord Armitage, yielded step by step, his defence quick but measured. Sweat soaked Darcy’s collar, but his grip never faltered.

Victory stood within reach.

Armitage parried high. Darcy saw the opening. He lunged—perfect form, perfect control. The tip struck true.

“Point.”

Darcy turned, heart pounding. Master Angelo inclined his head. Armitage rubbed his shoulder where the strike had landed. A sharp breath. Then…applause. Darcy straightened.

“Brilliant, Cousin.”

The triumph in his chest flickered, then ebbed.

A scarlet-clad Fitzwilliam approached. “I had not realised your skill had grown so.”

“Is that not the point?”

“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.

“You are your father.”

* * *

Steam drifted from the washbasin. A bloodied towel lay on the sideboard.

Barty pressed a clean cloth to the cut at Darcy’s neck. “Hold still, sir.”

Darcy did not flinch. He sat bare-chested, knuckles pale against his thighs.

“I had two points,” he muttered. “Two.”

Barty said nothing.

Darcy blinked slowly as if waking from a dream. “What good is it? All of it. Discipline, balance, form if a common brawler can bring me low in a single breath?”

“A common brawler, sir?”

Darcy glanced sideways at his man.

“Mayhap not so common.”

Barty pressed the towel again, firmer this time. “Shall I record that in your gentleman’s book or your ledger of regrets?”