“William, Richard,” Aunt Matlock admonished them. “Really. Please try to remain focused on the matter at hand.”
“I beg your pardon, Mother,” Fitz said in an excellently feigned apology.
Darcy murmured his own regrets and glared briefly at his cousin before returning to the original subject of their conversation. “What will you say to your friends, Aunt?”
“Oh, the usual, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Another new family trying to overreach. It is better to keep the story simple, and I am sure Miss Bingley’s reputation precedes her.”
He nodded, still disappointed that Bingley was so much like his sisters. “Thank you.” He hesitated, thinking about his own. “I do not suppose Georgiana would welcome a visit . . .”
Aunt Matlock shook her head. “Leave her be until Christmas, my dear, as you originally planned. I will tell your sister that you asked after her.”
Darcy grimaced. “Very well. If she should desire to see me before then, send a note and I shall attend her promptly.”
“William,” his aunt said firmly, “she is regaining her confidence. Allow her the time she needs to face you.”
He schooled his features and acquiesced. As he stood and turned to the door, Fitz followed. “Where are you going?” Darcy asked.
“With you,” his cousin answered glibly.
“I have not invited you to join me,” Darcy pointed out. What he wanted was to be alone to mourn the loss of his sister’s good opinion and the barriers to earning Miss Elizabeth’s.
“Was Angelo’s not an invitation then?” Fitz inquired drolly. “Is your cook serving dinner tonight or will we dine at the club after our match?”
“You know I have hardly slept, and you are trying to gain an advantage. It will not work,” Darcy responded.
Fitz slapped him on the back. Hard. “I require no advantage to best you at swords,” he growled.
Darcy grinned. It was not often he was able to successfully goad Fitz—most often it was the reverse. “Swords, perhaps, but not foils. Fencing takes more than strength and endurance, cousin; it requires a quick mind and an elegance of movement.”
“Yes, that sounds like you,” Fitz replied. “You are so light on your feet. We all know how much you enjoy the dance.”
Darcy knew the match was being observed. He even heard, distantly, the other men chattering like gossiping dowagers. But when it came to fencing and shooting, he was always focused. Fitz was his most difficult opponent, shrewd and experienced, and today they were almost evenly paired.
Darcy’s boast was true—between himself and his cousin, he knew he was the better fencer. He also knew that he held the advantage only because fencing was a sport. Had he ever met Fitz on a battlefield where there were no rules, their positions would be reversed. Darcy had a great deal of respect for his cousin, and he always learned something new when they crossed blades. Today was no different. Fitz had made an alteration to a carte he had always favored, nearly winning a point with it; fortunately, Darcy had registered the move with a second to spare and stepped lightly to the right.
The tip of the weapon slid past, upsetting his cousin’s balance slightly, and Darcy took advantage. Fitz’s eyes narrowed as he acknowledged the hit.
Darcy’s mind wandered just a bit as they moved back to their positions. Why had Bingley not returned to London? Had he stayed to damage Miss Elizabeth’s reputation before he abandoned her sister? He shook his head to clear it and faced Fitz.
They traded feints and parries for a time before Fitz performed a perfect thrust, turning his wrist, raising it above his head, and striking with speed. Darcy turned again at the final moment, but the hit, while not direct, was strong enough that he acknowledged it. Fitz’s expression was smug and satisfied.
Darcy recalled the way Elizabeth had stood toe to toe with him, her little chin lifted bravely, using her words as he used his blade. The way her eyes had flashed with righteous anger. The confusion that had marred her features when he explained about Wickham.
Damn it, he had to stop thinking of her.
He and his cousin moved to their original positions and began again.
“I have you this time, LittleFitzy,” Fitz jibed as he moved swiftly to his right.
The detested nickname had gotten Darcy’s back up as a young man; today he knew his own worth. Fitz would always be tougher. He had attended The Royal Military College and was a decorated colonel. Still, Darcy was no soft boy. He had survived many trials since their boyhoods, including being treated by nearly all he knew as nothing more than a bank expected to offer loans on very easy terms. Even Georgiana had expected him to sign over her fortune to that blackguard with nary a protest.
Well, his sister’s situation was not precisely the same—but it still hurt. He lifted his foil in salute.
At university, Darcy had done everything to distinguish himself from Wickham. He had learned to box, refined his fencing, devoted himself to his studies. It had given him an outlet for his energies—he refused to behave like Wickham, running up debts and visiting brothels. Later, after his father passed, it was a way to release his grief and anger. He was angry at his false friends, angry at a society that cared little for his happiness and everything for his purse. Mostly, he was angry that his parents had passed so early, leaving the responsibilities of their lives for him to complete.
He advanced, his anger hardening into steel.
Fitz retreated, and Miss Elizabeth’s face again appeared in Darcy’s vision. She had not wanted anything from him but the truth. He chased the specter away.