“I merely asked.”
“And I merely jest.” Georgie rose from the bed. “Youhavebecome sensitive lately. Cambridge scholars shall never survive Parliament if wounded by conversation.”
Fitz resumed stitching without answering. He heard Georgie crossing the room before the older boy suddenly snatched the satchel from his hands.
The leather tore further.
Fitz stood up at once. “Give it back.”
Georgie held it out of reach with infuriating ease. At thirteen, he was already broader and stronger than Fitz despite only being a year older.
“Careful,” Georgie mocked lightly to the watching boys. “Darcy may perish from distress.”
“Give it back.”
“Oh dear. He repeats himself when agitated.”
Laughter again.
Heat crept fiercely up Fitz’s neck. He hated this. Hated the watching eyes. Hated the helplessness.
Most of all, he hated that Georgie understood exactly how to provoke him while still appearing charming to everyone else.
Fitz lunged for the satchel, and Georgie jerked it backward at the last instant, still laughing.
Then, abruptly, his foot shot outward.
Fitz struck the edge of another bed hard enough to lose balance entirely before crashing shoulder-first onto the floorboards.
The room exploded with noise.
Some boys laughed.
Others winced.
Pain shot sharply through Fitz’s arm where he landed badly against the wooden frame.
For one humiliating second, he simply remained there stunned.
Above him, Georgie grinned. “Goodness, Darcy, you truly ought to learn grace someday.”
Something inside Fitz snapped.
He surged upward blindly and struck Georgie squarely across the mouth. The room went silent. Georgie staggered backward more from shock than force, one hand flying to his split lip.
Fitz stood breathing hard, every muscle trembling.
Blood appeared slowly against Georgie’s mouth.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Georgie’s expression changed.
Not amusement.
Not friendship.
Anger.
