All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

2. Two

Two

Darcy unfolded the letter carefully, the firelight illuminating his sister’s neat handwriting. Georgiana’s letters were always the same—polite, self-effacing, and filled with concerns she wouldn’t voice aloud in person. He could see her hesitance in every measured line, the way she danced around her true feelings.

My dearest brother, I hope this letter finds you well. I must apologize for troubling you, but I have received another invitation from Mrs. Pomeroy to join her family at their estate this winter. While I am certain her intentions are well-meaning, I fear she may try to forward a match with her nephew. I cannot help but feel uneasy...

Darcy set the page down, his fingers tightening against the edges. Mrs. Pomeroy was a perfectly respectable woman. And Darcy had it on good authority that this nephew Georgiana spoke of, a Mr. Eli Fitzsimmons, was already betrothed to a girl from Lincolnshire, of whom it was said he was excessively fond. There could be no reason for Georgiana to fear anything from that quarter. Darcy had made it clear after Ramsgate that such manipulations would not be tolerated, but this was not such a case. However, Georgiana’s reluctance to confront even the mildest impropriety made her seem to jump at shadows these days.

She continued:

I hope you do not think me ungrateful. Mrs. Pomeroy has been very kind, and I am certain her intentions are respectable. But I feel my presence may only encourage... assumptions. If you believe it is best for me to go, I will, of course, defer to your judgment.

Assumptions . Georgiana’s polite euphemism for the relentless matchmaking she endured whenever Darcy was not present to shield her. At least she was aware of her vunlerability now—a young, unguarded heiress was a prize to be won, to be sure. If any good thing had come from her near brush with disaster this summer, it could be this—that Georgiana was now sensible of her own value to others. But that “value” was not why Mrs. Pomeroy sought Georgiana’s company for her daughters. At least… not precisely in the way she feared.

He folded the letter carefully. It was not only Georgiana’s dowry and noble connections that made her a target, but also her connection to him— a bachelor of seven and twenty, in full possession of a rather large inheritance. And his young sister was old enough now to be in company with some of the same ladies who had set their caps for him.

If he thought Bingley could be made to understand, he would point to this—to Georgiana’s “usefulness” to the schemes of anyone interested in cornering a Darcy for themselves. This, this was why he was always on his guard! Every encounter, every polite conversation, was another opportunity for someone to misread intentions, to plot, to manipulate. His “ungentlemanly” behavior wasn’t just a matter of practicality—it was a shield. Necessary. Effective. He could not afford to let sentiment or civility weaken his resolve.

A tap at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Bingley entered, his face alight with the same easy cheer he’d worn at the assembly. “Darcy, I was looking for you. You slipped away so quickly after dinner.”

Darcy placed the letter on the side table. “I did not realize I needed to announce my every movement.”

“Well, no, but it might have saved you from Caroline’s latest critique of the evening.” Bingley grinned, flopping into the chair opposite him. “Apparently, the company was not up to her standards. Again.”

Darcy leaned back, his gaze drifting to the fire. “She is not entirely wrong.”

“Oh, come on,” Bingley said, leaning forward. “It was not so bad. The people were friendly enough. And the dancing—”

“I did not dance,” Darcy interrupted flatly.

“Exactly my point,” Bingley said. “You stood there like a marble statue while I mingled and enjoyed myself. Tell me, was it really so unbearable to engage with the locals?”

Darcy glanced at the letter again, Georgiana’s words flickering in his mind. He exhaled sharply. “Engagement often leads to expectation. I’ve no desire to give anyone reason to believe I am interested.”

Bingley tilted his head, his grin softening. “Not everyone is out to trap you, Darcy. You cannot assume every dance leads to a proposal.”

“Perhaps not, but a single dance can lead to speculation. I have seen it often enough.”

“Speculation.” Bingley shook his head. “You sound as though you are bracing for battle. It is one thing to be cautious, Darcy, but you are taking this to an entirely new level.”

Darcy’s lips thinned. “You call it caution. I call it experience.”

Bingley drummed his fingers on the armrest, studying him with that insufferable air of earnestness. “You know,” Bingley began, his voice lighter now, “for a man so quick to judge others, you are not always great at holding up a mirror.”

Darcy arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean that you are quick to assume the worst in people, but you do not stop to consider how you are perceived.”

“I do not concern myself with such frivolities.”

Bingley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And that, my friend, is exactly the problem. You act as though being cautious is the same as being impenetrable. Do you really think that is what makes you respectable? Walking around like an iceberg, avoiding anyone who might take the slightest interest in you?”

Darcy’s fingers tightened on the chair’s arm. “Being respected is not about indulgence or frivolous engagement. It is about maintaining one’s dignity.”

“Dignity, of course. But at what cost? You cannot behave as though everyone is out to scheme against you, Darcy.”

Darcy glanced at the letter again, the tight knot in his chest refusing to loosen. “Not everyone, no. But enough to warrant caution.”

“Fair enough,” Bingley conceded. “But here’s a question for you. When was the last time you actually enjoyed a gathering like tonight’s? Or allowed yourself to laugh with someone new? To have a conversation without looking for an ulterior motive?”

“I hardly see how that is relevant.”

“It is relevant because you have convinced yourself you have to keep the world at arm’s length to survive. And maybe, for some people, you do. But not everyone is looking to use you, Darcy. What if there’s another way to be?”

Darcy looked back at Bingley, unsettled. There was no guile in his friend’s expression, just the relentless optimism Darcy had alternately admired and found maddening since their first acquaintance.

“You think it is as simple as that?” Darcy asked finally.

“I do.” Bingley grinned, leaning back. “You think being a gentleman means setting yourself up for heartbreak. I think it means showing people a bit of kindness—without assuming they’re all plotting your downfall.”

“That is naive.”

“Perhaps.” Bingley shrugged. “But you are the one who keeps insisting you are right. So prove it.”

“Prove it?” Darcy’s voice turned wary.

“Yes. You are so certain that engaging with people leads to trouble. I am saying it does not have to. See it through, Darcy. Take the bet.”

“I already agreed, did I not?”

“But not wholeheartedly.”

Darcy shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve no interest in playing your games.”

“Then do not think of it as a game,” Bingley said, his tone growing more serious. “Think of it as an experiment. Prove to me—and to yourself—that you can be a gentleman in every respect—including dancing with ladies you do not know, Darcy —without losing control. That you are not doomed to spend your life dodging every conversation that might lead to... what did you call it? Expectations?”

The fire cracked in the hearth, and Darcy’s gaze lingered on the flames. The suggestion irritated him, yet something about it struck a chord. Could it be possible to act with civility without opening himself—or Georgiana—to further vulnerability? Was there a way to strike a balance between engagement and self-preservation?

Not all ladies were harmless, that was the devil of it. Some were, surely. Miss Lucas, whom he had met this evening. Darcy felt he could pass several evenings in her company trading as many or as few civilities as he liked, and he would be quite safe. But there were others, such as Elizabeth Bennet...

Her face flickered unbidden in his mind, sharp eyes and quick wit cutting through the stifling monotony of the evening. She had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. But perhaps—no, surely—her effect on him had been incidental.

Still, the idea of the wager hung in the air, tantalizing in its own way.

“Very well,” Darcy said finally. “I shall commit wholeheartedly to this little whim of yours. We shall make a study of it. But do not mistake this for anything more than what it is.”

“And what is that?”

“A reminder that there is no winning when you play by society’s rules.”

Bingley grinned as if he’d won a great victory. “Then we shall see just how much of your dignity survives a few polite conversations and a dance or two.”

“It is not my dignity that concerns me the most,” Darcy muttered.

Charlotte waved the letter over her head. “It is official. We have been invited to dine at Netherfield. My father is already rehearsing his questions for Mr. Bingley. He imagines himself quite the sage advisor.”

Elizabeth looked up from her needlework, an amused glint in her eye. “I pity Mr. Bingley. Does your father plan to expound on crop rotations or the precise weight of a prize hog?”

Charlotte folded the letter with a smirk. “Perhaps both.”

“I hope he spares Mr. Bingley his thoughts on pig feed. I cannot imagine a less appetizing topic over dinner.”

Charlotte sat down beside her, placing the letter in her lap. “If it were not pig feed, it would be the merits of crop rotation or the foolishness of importing sheep. You know how he enjoys an audience.”

“Poor Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said, turning a page. “I imagine his sisters will develop sudden ailments to excuse themselves from the table.”

Jane looked up from her embroidery. “I think Mr. Bingley is kind enough to bear such conversations. He has a patience you might do well to emulate, Lizzy.”

“Patience is an excellent virtue, Jane, but I see little use for it when the reward is utter tedium.”

Charlotte leaned back, her smile turning sly. “What of Mr. Darcy? Do you find him equally tedious?”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Tedious would be an improvement. At least tedium is tolerable .”

Jane sighed. “Elizabeth, you ought not to speak so harshly. He may be proud, but there is no harm in giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

Elizabeth shut her book with a decisive thud. “After he insulted me in plain hearing? I shall be sure to extend such generosity the next time a gentleman compares me to a cow.”

Charlotte laughed. “He did not compare you to a cow, Lizzy.”

“No, but ‘tolerable and not handsome enough to tempt him’ is hardly a compliment.”

Charlotte shook her head. “You are fixated on him.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “I am not.”

“You are,” Charlotte said. “You cannot help yourself. He has insulted you, and now you cannot rest until you have bested him. You would not have agreed to the wager otherwise.”

“I agreed because you made it impossible for me to do otherwise, and you know it. ‘Twas not a fair dare.”

“Still,” Charlotte said, “you cannot deny he has been on your mind. And the next time you should be in company with him—”

“I shall take great pleasure in avoiding him entirely.” Elizabeth picked up her needlework again. “Or perhaps I shall seek him out, just to prove how little I care.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “You seem very invested for someone who cares so little.”

Elizabeth stabbed her needle into the fabric with more force than necessary. “The wager was your idea, Charlotte. I am only indulging your whim. The moment it ceases to amuse me, it will be forgot.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said, though her smile suggested otherwise.

Jane sighed. “This may be in poor taste. You ought not to treat another’s affections—or your own—as a game.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “There are no affections to treat. Mr. Darcy is as impervious as a stone wall, and I... I find the idea of his affections laughable. If he has a heart, I am certain it is locked away in some cold and inaccessible chamber, far beyond the reach of ordinary mortals.”

“You may laugh now, Elizabeth, but I have every confidence that the gentleman will surprise you. After all, every man has feelings, no matter how shallow they may be.”

Jane frowned, her needle paused mid-stitch. “I doubt Mr. Darcy is such a man. I may know little of the gentleman, but his eyes spoke rather too much for me to consider him a man of only shallow sentiments.”

“He is no deeper than a mud puddle,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Mr. Darcy will return to London entirely unscathed by any weapons I might be able to wield, I am certain of it.”

“But he is still a man,“ Charlotte said with a shrug. “And men do experience desire, even if their heart is not lightly touched.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “I shall not demean myself to become a strumpet like Lydia just to… to give Mr. Darcy a little ‘manly thrill’. I would appeal to… perhaps his intellect, I suppose. I assume he has one.”

“Oh, good plan, Lizzy,” Charlotte grinned, winking at Jane. “You should have no difficulty winning the wager in that case. You cannot possibly do him any harm, for his ‘feelings’ will die off as easily as they are inspired.”

Elizabeth said nothing, though her needle paused mid-stitch. She had agreed to the wager in jest, her pride stung by Mr. Darcy’s insult. Yet now, when she considered the prospect of facing him again, she found herself less certain of her ability to remain unaffected.

”I shall win,“ Elizabeth said at last. “And I shall enjoy the satisfaction of proving him no better than the pompous fool he appears to be.”

Charlotte grinned. “Then you must come to tea at my mother’s on Thursday. I expect the Netherfield party will be there.”

Elizabeth turned, her pulse quickening at the thought. She forced a smile. “Then I shall. I cannot think of anything more delightful than facing Mr. Darcy in full command of my wit.”

Jane sighed again, setting down her embroidery. “I hope you know what you are doing, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth’s smile faltered. “So do I.”

Charlotte fussed with the tea service with a knowing glance at Elizabeth as the Netherfield party arrive. “You must admire my mother’s persistence,” she whispered. “Every pot of tea is another step toward securing Mr. Bingley for Maria.”

Elizabeth smirked. “I doubt Mrs. Lucas will find him quite so pliable, but I admire her spirit.”

The guests entered, and Elizabeth caught sight of Darcy at once. He was the same as the night of the Assembly: tall, severe, and surveying the room as though it were a field of battle. For a moment, his gaze landed on her, and she stiffened, though she could not say why. He nodded briefly, then turned his attention to Sir William.

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. If Darcy thought her unworthy of notice, she would simply have to make him notice.

She would not lower herself by playing the flirt. That would only confirm his view of her as an insipid country girl. His mind… she must make his mind her plaything. Surely even a man as reserved as Darcy could not fail to appreciate wit and lively conversation.

And if he did, then she would simply enjoy besting him in debate.

When the company was seated, she waited for her moment. Charlotte’s father was in the middle of an elaborate speech on the merits of turnips, his words sailing far over the heads of their guests. Elizabeth caught Darcy’s expression—carefully blank, though his fingers tapped the edge of his teacup. It was almost... restless.

“You must find this fascinating, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, tilting her head as though genuinely interested.

Darcy blinked, his gaze snapping to hers. “Sorry?”

She smiled innocently. “Sir William’s discourse on turnips. Surely such agricultural pursuits are of interest to a gentleman of property.”

Darcy’s brow creased. “Indeed.”

“Tell me, Mr. Darcy, do you believe there is an optimal size for a turnip, or do you think variety is key to cultivation?”

There was a moment of silence. Charlotte coughed into her teacup, while Sir William brightened considerably. “An excellent question, Miss Bennet! A lady with a mind for farming—now that is a rarity!”

Elizabeth kept her gaze on Darcy, who seemed caught between irritation and complete bafflement. “I… I cannot claim to have given turnips much thought,” he said finally. “But I suspect… variety might be more desirable, depending on one’s soil and climate.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “How diplomatic of you, Mr. Darcy. You are not one for strong opinions, then?”

His gaze sharpened. “I have strong opinions where they are warranted.”

“And turnips do not warrant them?”

“Rarely.”

Elizabeth bit back a laugh. She had caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly. His tone was measured, his words precise. Still, there was something in the way he looked at her —something that suggested he was not entirely immune to her efforts.

“Perhaps we ought to move to a safer subject,” Darcy said. “Do you often enjoy provoking conversations about turnips, Miss Bennet, or was today an exception?”

Elizabeth set her teacup down with deliberate care. “Not turnips specifically, Mr. Darcy. But I do enjoy hearing the thoughts of men who pride themselves on their intellect. It is often quite revealing.”

His expression did not change, but his eyes darkened slightly. “And what, precisely, have I revealed?”

“That you are quite practiced at avoiding questions.” She smiled sweetly. “I shall have to work harder next time.”

His reply was cut off as Mrs. Lucas bustled in with another round of tea. Darcy turned away, giving her little choice but to withdraw. Still, as she sipped her tea, she could not help but feel a flicker of satisfaction.

Darcy might not admit it, but she had seen the spark of something—not interest, surely. But annoyance… yes, annoying him would do. The sort of annoyance that could develop into a grudging respect, with enough little pricks of the pin.

She would consider it a small victory.

Charlotte nudged her. “You engaged Mr. Darcy quite readily.”

“Engaged? Hardly,” Elizabeth said. “I was simply amusing myself.”

Charlotte’s lips quirked. “And what do you think Mr. Darcy would say if I asked him?”

Elizabeth tilted her head, pretending to consider. “He would say... nothing at all, I imagine. Silence seems to be his greatest skill.”

She laughed lightly, but as Darcy stood to refill his tea, his glance lingered on her for just a moment longer than it should have. Elizabeth’s heart gave an unexpected flutter, but she pushed it aside. This was a game, and she had no intention of losing.