All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

1. One

One

“She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Elizabeth nearly choked on her punch.

Tolerable? Tolerable?

Her grip tightened around the glass, and for a brief, delicious moment, she imagined spilling the punch all over Mr. Darcy’s perfectly tailored coat. She wasn’t close enough to pull off the move, but oh, the satisfaction it would bring. He stood across the room, his voice low but clear enough to ring in her ears.

The ballroom seemed to still, the glaring humiliation of his words hanging in the air, stinging as sharply as if he’d directed them right at her. Elizabeth glanced toward Jane, who was entirely absorbed in conversation with Kitty, perfectly unaware of the insult that had just shattered her sister’s pride.

Elizabeth’s toes curled inside her slippers. She shifted her feet, trying to shake off the burning humiliation crawling up her spine. Not handsome enough? Well, if she had any doubts about the man’s character, they had just been soundly confirmed.

“Did you hear that?” Charlotte Lucas’s voice came from beside her, thick with restrained laughter.

“Every mortifying word,” Elizabeth muttered, setting her glass down on the nearest table with a bit more force than necessary. “I suppose I should be grateful he doesn’t think me a complete horror.”

Charlotte bit her lip, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. “I never thought a man’s bad manners could be so entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” Elizabeth shot her a sharp look. “It is outrageous, and I have half a mind to—”

“To what? March up to him and correct his perception of your charms?” Charlotte tilted her head, an eyebrow lifting. “He might take that as a sign of interest, you know.”

Interest! Elizabeth would have laughed, but it… well, it wasn’t funny. At all . She turned back toward Mr. Darcy, who stood brooding like a dark cloud over the festivities. As if anyone could inspire interest in that man!

“No. A gentleman so full of himself is hardly worth the trouble,” she said, with a haughty lift of her chin. “I’m more likely to ignore him.”

Charlotte didn’t look convinced. “Well, if you’re ignoring him, you’re doing a poor job of it. You haven’t looked away since he insulted you.”

Elizabeth blinked. She hadn’t realized her eyes were still pinned to Mr. Darcy as though her gaze alone might convey all the contempt she felt. She pulled herself back, smoothing her skirts with a quick brush of her hands. “I don’t know why I care. It’s not as if I’ve any reason to impress him.”

“Exactly,” Charlotte said lightly, “and you’ve never been one to let some stranger’s opinion wound your pride.”

“I don’t believe it’s about my pride,” Elizabeth protested, but her words felt weak, even to herself. “It’s a matter of decency.”

Charlotte let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Well, if you say so.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms, but Charlotte’s amusement had already worked under her skin. Why did she care? A stranger’s insult—particularly one from a man as dull and disagreeable as Mr. Darcy—shouldn’t have any power over her. Yet here she was, turning three shades of crimson over his words as though they actually held weight.

As if sensing her thoughts, Charlotte stepped a little closer, her voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “In fact, I’d wager that if Mr. Darcy were forced to spend any real time with you, he’d fall quite desperately in love.”

Elizabeth let out a bark of laughter. “I think not! The man barely looks capable of emotion, let alone love.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Perhaps if he were shown the proper attention—”

Elizabeth shook her head, cutting her off. “I have no intention of wasting any attention on him. Nor do I care to tempt him, as you so amusingly suggest.”

“But that’s exactly what makes it interesting!” Charlotte’s eyes gleamed now, sensing a game. “I’ll bet you, Elizabeth.”

“No! No more betting. The last four times I have wagered against you, I have lost—lost more than my pride, too.”

“You certainly did.” Charlotte stretched forth her arm, rolling her wrist about. “By the by, how do you like my new gloves? And the ribbon on my gown—now, I daresay that green is not usually my color, but I could not let it go to waste, could I?”

Elizabeth grimaced. “I was sure Mama would recognize those and announce it for all the world to hear, but it seems the presence of two wealthy, single gentlemen tonight was quite enough to distract her from the topic of my ‘missing’ gloves.”

“Oh, come, Lizzy, it is not as if anyone is surprised. I always win my forfeits.”

“Which is why I am not betting against you. You flirt with Mr. Darcy as much as you please. I have no intention of suffering further humiliation at his hands… or yours.”

“What are we talking about?” Jane appeared from behind Charlotte—features flushed and slightly out of breath. “Is Charlotte putting you up to something again, Lizzy?”

“No, because I do not intend to do it. Tell her, Charlotte. Surely, she could use a laugh.”

Jane blinked innocently. “Tell me what?”

“Mr. Bingley’s friend insulted Lizzy. But honestly, Lizzy, it sounded to me like the sort of thing a man says when he means precisely the opposite and is terrified to admit the truth.”

“There, do you see, Jane?” Elizabeth gestured toward her friend. “She is at it again. If I am not careful, Charlotte will own my best ball gown, my new bonnet, and half my pin money,”

Jane laughed. “Let me guess, Charlotte. You put Lizzy up to provoking a dance invitation from Mr. Darcy to force him to publicly favor her after being heard insulting her? Lizzy, how could you pass that up?”

“Oh, not just a dance,” Charlotte corrected. “Lizzy, if you set your mind to it, you could make ‘Mr. Darcy of Pemberley with ten thousand a year’ fall in love with you. I have every confidence in it.”

“Now you’re just being preposterous.”

Charlotte gave a soft shrug. “Is it preposterous? Or are you afraid it might actually work?”

The challenge sat between them, making the very air crackle. Impossible! There was no way a man as proud and insufferable as Mr. Darcy could ever be tempted by her. And why would she want him to be?

“You’re serious?” Elizabeth asked, eyes narrowing.

“Absolutely. I stand by my wager.”

The absurdly of it was almost too much to consider. “And if I don’t succeed?”

“The usual terms,” Charlotte said, a glint in her eye. “But I think we both know you’re far too clever to fail.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “And if by some miracle I do succeed? What then?”

“Then you own the forfeit.“ Charlotte’s tone was light, but there was a knowing look in her eyes, the kind that made Elizabeth suspicious.

Elizabeth smiled, her head shaking in disbelief. “I think I would much rather let Mr. Darcy keep his indifference.”

But even as she spoke, the idea of forcing Darcy— Mr. Darcy —to fall for her, only to have the pleasure of rejecting him, sparked something wicked in her.

“Lizzy, do not let her bait you again,” Jane cautioned. “You know she sees you as a soft mark by now.”

“Indeed, and yet I let her swindle me time and again, because she is simply too persuasive—and persistent —for me to refuse indefinitely.”

Charlotte laughed. “What else have I to amuse myself at these Assemblies? I scarcely ever have a dance, but I do usually find other diversions. What say you, Lizzy? Do you feel confident enough to venture it? Or has Mr. Darcy’s insult shattered that courage you are so proud of?”

That did it. Somehow, Charlotte always found just the right leverage to work upon her. She straightened. “Very well, Charlotte. If you are so confident in this ridiculous wager, I’ll play along.”

“And your forfeit?” Charlotte asked.

Elizabeth’s stomach roiled with denial. She already knew what Charlotte would demand—the thing she had been trying to force for years. The very thought made her bristle. No . It couldn’t come to that.

Charlotte merely smiled, leaning in closer. “You know what you’ll have to do.”

Elizabeth tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but Charlotte’s knowing look only made her heart beat faster.

“No,” she decided. “Because I do not intend to lose.”

“I have not seen a more spectacular example of buffoonery since Eliza Townsend exposed herself with George Whitmore at Lady Framton’s ball,” Caroline Bingley declared, sinking into her chair with a sigh of exaggerated suffering.

Darcy kept his focus on the fire, willing himself not to engage. The conversation was predictable: provincial gatherings were beneath her; the company lacked refinement. It was a routine he knew too well.

“Really, Charles, I don’t know how you can find any pleasure at all in such company,” Caroline continued, swirling her wine. “The conversation was insipid, and as for the dancing—”

“Indeed, the dancing,” Bingley interrupted. “I thought it was rather enjoyable. And as for the company, you do them too little credit, Caroline. Why, everyone was lively, their manners pleasing. Perhaps a bit more… vigorous than a London ball, but I have never passed a more delightful evening in my life!”

“Charles, you cannot be serious. Why, there were children there—girls not more than fourteen, dancing and flirting shamelessly!”

“Caroline, this is not London. I saw nothing inappropriate—why, every family in the neighborhood was there, and it is rather common in the country for the children to attend such events.”

“Well!” Caroline sniffed. “I thought the entire affair rather tawdry.”

“Tawdry! You are far too harsh on people you met only this evening. I, for one, have never met so many charming people anywhere. Even in London. Darcy, you do not agree with my sister, do you?”

Darcy’s mouth twisted in discomfort. He might as well come out with it. “I saw little breeding and no beauty whatsoever.”

Caroline Bingley hid a smile behind her glass, but Bingley cried out in dismay. “Surely you exaggerate! You gave yourself little enough trouble to seek enjoyment. Surely you could have joined us on the floor and had a more pleasant evening?”

Darcy turned to meet his friend’s gaze, his arms folding across his chest. “I did not see the need.”

“No need?” Bingley frowned. “Was it the music, or was the company not to your liking?”

Darcy allowed a pause. The music had been tolerable enough, though the room... not so much. “The company was adequate, but you know how these things go. Too much attention paid to the wrong dance partner, and suddenly, there are expectations.”

“Expectations?” Bingley blinked, incredulous. “From a dance? ”

“Yes, a dance. You have seen it happen. A man dances twice with the wrong woman, and by the next day, half the town believes there is an attachment.”

Bingley stared at him as though Darcy had suggested something utterly nonsensical. “Darcy, you’re being melodramatic. It was an assembly, not a proposal.”

Darcy held his ground. “You underestimate the power of idle chatter. It only takes a little encouragement for desperate ladies to start assuming more than they should.”

Caroline let out a delicate laugh. “Oh yes, they must all feel dreadfully forsaken that Mr. Darcy did not condescend to dance. How thoughtful of you to spare the ladies their broken hearts.”

He ignored her, his focus still on Bingley. There was no use in trying to clarify himself to someone like Caroline, but Bingley... perhaps Bingley could still be reasoned with.

“You may find it absurd,” Darcy continued, “but when you’ve spent as long as I have fending off fortune hunters and overly ambitious mothers, you begin to tread carefully.”

“Fortune hunters? In Meryton?” Bingley was laughing now, his eyes bright with disbelief. “Darcy, I danced with a dozen ladies tonight, and I’ve no reason to believe any of them expect to marry me tomorrow.”

Darcy’s expression remained unchanged. “You may be fortunate in that regard, but that has not been my experience.”

Bingley leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You truly believe that behaving like a gentleman—a gentleman , Darcy, not a cad—necessarily leads straight to matrimony?”

“All too often, when one has wealth and no inclination to marry,” Darcy replied curtly. “A few dances here, a bit of polite conversation there, and suddenly a man is trapped in expectations he never intended.”

Bingley grinned, clearly unconvinced. “You make it sound like common courtesy is as good as a leg shackle. Surely, a man can be pleasant without every woman assuming he’s about to propose.”

Darcy shook his head slightly. It wasn’t that simple, and Bingley knew it. “You’ve been spared the worst of it, but not every man can enjoy such freedom.”

Bingley sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing with an almost mischievous gleam. “I think you’re making excuses.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Excuses?”

“Yes. I believe you’re avoiding courtesy simply because it’s easier to stand aloof and judge the room than actually engage with people.”

Darcy fixed him with a sharp look. “That is outrageous.”

“Is it?” Bingley’s grin widened. “I’ll wager that it is possible for you to be a perfect gentleman without giving anyone the wrong idea. All I’m saying is that you’re overcomplicating things.”

Darcy frowned, his patience wearing thin. “I’m not entertaining this.”

But Bingley leaned forward, too amused to let the moment pass. “No, listen. Sir William Lucas tells me it is quite the thing here in Meryton to wager—why, even the ladies have their own amusements. Perfectly respectable and expected, and I think it a harmless diversion.”

“I do not.” Darcy crossed his arms.

“Yes, well, I am now a part of this town, and I shall do as they do. I will wager you, Darcy, and I challenge you on your honor to consider accepting. You claim that behaving as a gentleman leads to unwanted expectations. I am saying it is entirely possible to be polite—dance, talk, the whole lot—without sending anyone rushing to the altar.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. Bingley’s optimism was charming but misguided. “It is not as simple as that.”

“Then prove it,” Bingley dared, his smile still in place. “Let us see if your theory holds up. For the rest of our stay in Hertfordshire, you act as a perfect gentleman—dance, converse with every lady in your path, and show the courtesy you claim leads to disaster.”

Darcy gave him a long, level look. This was foolishness. A game. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I suppose I’ll never know whether you’re right,” Bingley said, still grinning. “But I’ll wager you are overthinking the whole thing.”

“I do not need to prove that I am right. I know I am. That is enough.”

“Yes, but how are you going to prove it to me? You see, I know you, Darcy. You can hardly stand for anyone not to think you are in the right.”

He kept his face impassive. “It matters little to me whether you believe me to be right or wrong. I have no intention of putting myself out merely because you desire to engage in some local amusement by trying to provoke me into acting out of character.”

“So, you admit that you are unsociable? That you are downright unapproachable and prideful, above your company?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “I am no such thing. I simply do not lower myself to indulge in ribaldry.”

“Poppycock. That Assembly was everything respectable. You , however, were little better than a wall hanging adorning the edge of the room. Can you deny it?”

“I have no wish to deny it.”

“Then you may as well admit it, Darcy. You are unpleasant in company because you find it expedient. You will not give yourself the trouble of being merry and engaging because you prefer to be miserable and alone.”

Darcy sighed. “I am perfectly willing to return to London if you find my company tiresome.”

“No, no, don’t you dare!” Bingley laughed. “You cannot show up as my guest, looking like a black cloud, and then leave town the next day. Think of the questions I shall have to answer! I repeat my challenge, Darcy. If you refuse, I shall form my own opinions on your manner.”

He pursed his lips. “And if I accept your wager?”

Bingley leaned back, his grin widening. “Then we’ll see just how easily you can behave like a gentleman without being ‘trapped in expectations.’ I daresay you will surprise even yourself.”

Darcy considered this for a moment. It was ridiculous. But the idea of proving Bingley wrong—of showing him the truth of how these situations unfolded—was almost tempting. “And if you’re right?”

“If I’m right,” Bingley said, shrugging lightly, “you owe me nothing. I will have the satisfaction of knowing my dearest friend in the world does not send my neighbors running for the woods in fear of his displeasure.”

“And if you are wrong? If I show myself to be everything you deem ‘amiable’ and half the mothers of Meryton begin buying wedding clothes for their daughters?”

Bingley laughed. “Darcy, if I am wrong, it will not be because of raised expectations among the town, but because you failed to be properly ‘amiable.’”

Darcy sucked in a sigh and shifted in his seat. “Try me.”

“Very well. If you win... well, then I’ll finally take your advice about the business.”

Darcy’s expression darkened. “The business?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Bingley said, more serious now. “You’ve been telling me to sell my father’s business for years. And I’ve resisted every time. But if I’m right and you lose the wager, I’ll sell it and reinvest as you’ve been advising.”

Darcy studied him in silence. There was no joking in Bingley’s tone now. They’d had this conversation before, many times. And though it was in Bingley’s best interest to let the business go, the younger man had never been able to sever the sentimental tie. But here was a chance to prove a point—and perhaps to do some real good.

“If you know it is for your own good, why not just sell it now?” Darcy asked testily. “Why try to force me into this charade?”

“Because I have no desire to sell it. You’ll have to prove that you’re willing to listen to me when I tell you something that is for your own good.”

He stared at Bingley, who was still watching him with that maddening grin. Darcy exhaled slowly, the flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are incorrigible, Bingley.”

“And you’re a cynic, but we’ve always known that.”

Darcy shook his head, already regretting the decision, but there was something about the challenge he couldn’t resist. “Very well. I accept your wager.”