Fitz stared down at his plate.
“I only meant—”
“You meant to spend too much time brooding. Georgie is your closest friend. If he jokes, it is because he is comfortable with you.” Mr. Darcy waved one dismissive hand. “You ought to take a page from his book and laugh a little more. You will never survive Parliament or estate management if a few schoolboy jests unsettle you.”
That night, Fitz burned with humiliation for having spoken at all.
Afterward, he stopped trying.
By eleven, he had become quiet enough at school that masters praised his seriousness while other boys called him proud. By twelve, Georgie’s taunts no longer drew visible reaction.
Outwardly, at least. Inside was another matter entirely.
And then, one day, just before term ended, Georgie crossed a line.
Rain lashed against the dormitory windows and Fitz sat upon the edge of his narrow bed carefully repairing the strap of one satchel with needle and thread. The leather had torn earlier that week, and he preferred mending it himself rather than enduring more commentary regarding his “fussy perfectionism.”
Across the room, Georgie lounged comfortably atop another boy’s bed surrounded by half a dozen students listening eagerly to one of his stories.
“…and then the horse threw the man directly into the pond,” Georgie declared dramatically, grinning as laughter erupted around him.
Fitz kept his eyes lowered toward his stitching.
He had learned by now that Georgie was less likely to notice him if he appeared entirely occupied.
Unfortunately, Georgie noticed everything.
“Darcy,” he called suddenly, “tell them about the time you cried because your Latin exercise smudged.”
More laughter.
Fitz’s fingers tightened slightly around the needle.
“I did not cry.”
“Oh, forgive me.” Georgie pressed one hand theatrically to his chest. “You merely looked as though civilization itself had collapsed.”
The boys laughed harder.
Fitz concentrated upon threading the needle again.
One of the older students snorted. “Darcy always looks like someone insulted his ancestors.”
“That is because Darcy was born forty years old,” Georgie replied lazily.
Even now, part of Fitz still waited for the familiar grin afterward. The clap upon the shoulder. The reassurance that it was all in fun.
Instead, Georgie’s eyes remained fixed upon him with sharp amusement.
Watching. Measuring.
Fitz felt suddenly tired. “Leave it be, Wickham,” he said quietly.
The room shifted almost imperceptibly.
Several boys glanced up.
Georgie smiled slowly. “Oh? Darcy commands now?”
