Page 1 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Chapter One

Twelve-year-old Darcy trudged up the stairs, shoulders stooped, and brow furrowed in displeasure and frustration.

Once again, George Wickham triumphed. Their scuffle had ended when he pushed the young heir into the pond and drenched him from head to foot.

As he spluttered and splashed, George stood on the bank laughing.

“The water goes a long way in improving your appearance!” he jeered. “Perhaps you ought to remain there!” Cackling, Wickham had scampered off, leaving Darcy to struggle to the bank and return to the house.

Once safely in his chambers, Darcy yanked on his coat, attempting to remove it.

The wet fabric was not easily overcome, and he huffed in exasperation.

With one final tug, the coat came off, and he tossed it on a hard wooden chair in disgust. Another set of clothing ruined, he thought dismally.

Papa will not be happy. His father never believed Darcy when he tried to explain how certain…

incidences occurred. Instead, the older man accused his son of clumsiness and then hired a fencing instructor to ensure improvement.

“Fitzwilliam?” Lady Anne Darcy appeared in the doorway.

She noted his appearance and sighed. Closing the door behind her, she came forward and brushed the damp hair out of her son’s eyes, her fingers lingering on the large red, wine-colored mark that covered his eye and cheek.

The mark crept up into his forehead but was hidden by his brown locks.

“Young Mr. Wickham again?” she asked sympathetically.

Darcy nodded. “I promise, it was not clumsiness this time. We were tussling, and he shoved me—”

“I know, my dear. That boy is bad through and through. I wish your father could see it.” Lady Anne sighed and moved to sit on a nearby chair. Her hands came to rest on her rounded stomach. Darcy’s brother or sister would be born before winter.

“What was it about this time?”

He looked away. “It was nothing,” he muttered.

“Do not lie to me.” Lady Anne frowned. “Disguise of every sort ought to be avoided at all costs. Come now, what did he say?”

Darcy swallowed the tears that threatened. He was the Darcy heir—he would not cry. “He said my face would send ladies screaming someday. When I punched him, he blocked and pushed me into the pond. He laughed from the bank and said… He said I looked better wet.”

Lady Anne’s expression grew foreboding. “What nonsense,” she huffed.

“Mama, we both know that your beauty and Papa’s handsomeness passed me over completely.

” Darcy grabbed a cloth and began to scrub at his damp hair.

It was, in his opinion, his best feature.

The soft brown curls hung in an attractive way.

The color reminded him of chocolate. Unfortunately, such often went unrecognized due to the unfortunate nature of his other features.

Darcy was not ugly—he knew that. He did not have a hunched back or a hooked nose.

His eyes did not turn in different directions.

Instead, his features, which were very much like his father’s, were marred by a large red congenital mark.

It was not only on his face. The ‘wine stain,’ as the servants called it, covered his neck, too, but his clothing hid it most of the time.

Certainly, his ears were large for his head, a fact which George pointed out often, and he had a prominent cleft chin.

With thin lips and a long, straight nose, he looked rather stately at times, particularly when he was upset.

His teeth were tolerable and had come in straight, though he feared Wickham would knock one out someday.

In short, at only twelve years of age, it was clear that the heir to Pemberley would be rendered nothing remarkable to look at, owing to his wine mark.

George’s other words returned to his thoughts.

“’Tis a good thing you have a fortune,” his once-friend scowled. “Otherwise, you would have no chance of finding a bride!”

Darcy was too young to consider such things, of course, but the words had cut him deeply and he wondered if there was any truth to the taunt.

His mother sighed deeply. “You favor my brother,” she said crisply. “The earl is a good man. His countess loves him deeply, despite his birth mark.”

That was a kind way to refer to a blemish. Darcy hated it.

The Countess of Matlock was a rare beauty.

Darcy had heard often enough of the ton’s shock when she had married Lord Matlock.

They had all assumed she had done it to secure a title and fortune, but that was balderdash.

Anyone with eyes and a bit of sense could see it was a love match.

It gave Darcy hope that someone would look past his unremarkable outward appearance someday.

While Lady Anne had always been supportive and protective of her only child, his father had grown more distant with each passing year.

The current master of Pemberley was a strikingly handsome man, with cool blue eyes and dark, wavy hair.

He was six feet tall, with an aristocratic brow and Grecian profile.

His wife, likewise, had been the season’s Incomparable when she came out.

Their match had been founded on mutual affection, but Darcy knew he had driven a wedge between his parents.

“Son.” Lady Anne’s quiet words drew Darcy’s attention back to her.

“I need you to remember something. The true worth of a person is who they are on the inside—not what they look like on the outside. Someone’s character will tell you more about them than happy manners or a handsome appearance.

When you take the measure of another, be sure to look on the heart.

” She came to her feet and walked towards her son.

Lady Anne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You, Fitzwilliam Darcy, have a good heart and a noble character. You behave with honor, even when you are treated shabbily by those you should be able to trust. I am sorry to say that the world, as a whole, places more value on beauty and poise than they ought. Looks fade, and eventually—if we live long enough—we all lose our poise and become stooped with age. In the end, a person’s true worth is what goes unseen—it is what lies within.

” She placed a hand on his chest. “Promise me you will never forget this. Promise me you will be a man untouched by pride and unruffled by those who would judge you by your appearance.”

Darcy choked on a sob and nestled into his mother’s chest as her arms came around him. “I will get you wet,” he said, his words muffled.

“That is no matter.” She stroked his hair again and kissed the top of his head. “Someone will see your heart one day. You will give it to her, and she will treasure the gift. Do not settle for anyone less worthy than a woman who will love you forever.”

“I shall try my best, Mama,” he promised. He pulled away and took the handkerchief she offered. “Do not tell Father,” he begged as she turned to the door.

“I make no such promises,” his mother replied firmly.

“The abuse George Wickham is leveling at you must end. You are a hundred times the person he is, and I will not tolerate his behavior any longer.” Her hand came to rest on her stomach in a protective gesture.

“If he treats you so dreadfully, how will he treat your younger brother or sister?”

Darcy did not reply. He waited for his mother to leave and then stripped off the rest of his sodden clothes.

Father would call him weak and then assign more lessons to “make his son and heir stronger.” Perhaps I am weak , he thought.

Perhaps I shall never amount to anything. Mayhap Father will disinherit me.

He shook his head at the absurdity. No, if there was one thing Mr. George Darcy of Pemberley held sacred, it was the importance of preserving and passing down the estate to his own blood.

As much as George Wickham tried to claim the place of the spare , he was nothing more than the son of a steward.

George Darcy’s legacy would remain with his eldest child.

Later, as Darcy returned to his bedchamber, he heard raised voices coming from his parents’ sitting room. He crept to the door, moving as quietly as he could. It was partially open, and he leaned in to hear what they were saying.

“You coddle the boy too much, Anne!” Mr. Darcy said firmly. “He does not need sympathy; he needs a sound lashing and a lesson in defending himself.”

“Both of which have already been provided by you,” Mama protested. “He is twelve years old and will go to school next year! Fitzwilliam has been looking forward to being away from that boy. You wait—our son will flourish among his equals.”

His father did not answer immediately. At last, he spoke. “I mean to send George with our son,” he said quietly. “’Tis the least I can do to thank his father—”

“His father is already compensated! You pay him far more than other stewards earn. What is this debt you claim to owe him? Why do you favor another child over your own son?” Mother’s voice rose with each question.

Darcy feared for her equanimity. He could picture her shaking with rage, her eyes brilliant as she confronted her husband with righteous anger.

“Wickham saved my life!” Father shouted. “Ten years ago. There was the flood that spring—do not you recall? I stepped onto the bridge, and then of a sudden there was nothing under my feet. He had a rope on his saddle and threw it to me. I would be dead, Anne.”