All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

5. Five

Five

“You are staring out that window as though you can melt the snow with the very heat of your glare,” Charlotte said as she breezed into Longbourn’s drawing room the next day.

Elizabeth turned from the glass, blinking as if caught in a mischief she had not meant to admit. “Nonsense. I was merely admiring the view.”

Charlotte arched a brow as she settled into a chair. “Admiring it, or trying to escape it?”

Elizabeth’s lips curved somewhat, but the smile felt too thin. “And what precisely would I need to escape, Charlotte?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Charlotte leaned forward with a smirk. “Perhaps a certain tall, brooding gentleman who seems to have taken an uncharacteristic interest in you.”

Elizabeth scoffed and crossed the room with deliberate ease. “If Mr. Darcy has any interest, it is in finding faults to catalog. I imagine he has compiled an extensive list by now.”

“Perhaps he has,” Charlotte said. “And yet, he seems determined to look your way all the same.”

Elizabeth paused. “You are imagining things.”

“Am I?” Charlotte tilted her head. “I watched him at your aunt’s tea the other day. He barely spoke to anyone but you.”

“Perhaps he finds my faults more entertaining than most,” Elizabeth replied, sinking into the chair across from her friend. “I shall endeavor to provide him with more material.”

Charlotte laughed softly. “You always deflect, Lizzy. But tell me—how fares the wager?”

Elizabeth waved a hand as though swatting a fly. “As dull and pointless as the day it was made.”

“I would not call it pointless. You are winning, after all.”

Elizabeth’s brow arched. “Winning?”

Charlotte leaned back. “You have him watching you, Lizzy. Speaking to you. Thinking of you, I would imagine.”

Elizabeth hesitated, her retort catching on her tongue. Finally, she said, “If he watches, it is only to confirm his low opinion.”

“And what if it is not? What if he is beginning to admire you?”

Elizabeth barked a laugh, though it came sharper than intended. “Mr. Darcy? Admire me? Pray, Charlotte, do not start writing novels. No one could credit the stories you make up.”

“You jest, but I think he finds you more intriguing than you care to admit. I told you you could turn his head!”

Elizabeth snorted. “I am simply fulfilling my part of the bargain by becoming an object of curiosity for a bored man.”

“Are you? Or are you starting to enjoy it?”

Elizabeth’s breath caught—not enough to be noticeable, but enough for her to feel it. She masked it quickly with a quick wave of her hand. “You give me too much credit. I am merely testing my wits against his pride, nothing more.”

“And if it were more?“ Charlotte asked, her tone gentler now. “Lizzy, you are so determined to win this wager that you may not realize the stakes are changing.”

“The stakes,” Elizabeth said coolly, “remain the same. I either win or lose.”

Charlotte’s smile was faint but knowing. “And yet, you will not even consider the horror of what you will owe if you lose.”

Elizabeth’s face tightened imperceptibly. “It is nothing worth discussing.”

“Because you believe you cannot lose? Or because you are afraid you might?”

Elizabeth stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts. “What it would cost me is a bit of pride, nothing more. I have no intention of losing.”

Charlotte rose as well. “Be careful, Lizzy. Winning may cost you more than you think.”

Elizabeth whirled on her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Charlotte only laughed. “ It is easy to play at a game, but far harder to stop when it begins to play with you .”

Elizabeth’s mouth opened for a retort, but Charlotte had already reached the door. “Good day, Lizzy. I leave you to your view.”

The door closed behind Charlotte, and Elizabeth returned to the window, her teacup cradled between her hands. The landscape blurred as her thoughts turned inward. Winning the wager was supposed to have been a matter of pride—a way to restore what Mr. Darcy’s insult had taken from her.

And yet...

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as her reflection stared back at her in the glass. It was supposed to be simple. Why did it feel like anything but?

Darcy re-folded the letter with careful precision and reached for a fresh sheet to pen a reply. This was Georgiana’s second request now. Her reluctance practically trembled through the page, each word chosen with the same delicate care she used to play her pianoforte. He ran a finger along the edge of the paper, his jaw tightening.

She had sounded hesitant in her last letter, of course. That much was natural. The thought of going anywhere unfamiliar after what had happened in Ramsgate last summer would unsettle anyone, let alone a girl as sensitive and trusting as Georgiana. When she had written to him then, he had replied, urging her to set aside her fears—to think not of the shadows of the past but of the opportunities the visit could offer.

He had meant every word. He had believed it was for the best. But now...

Darcy re-opened her letter before him as though it were a ledger of debts he could not balance. Georgiana’s reply had come today, more unhappy than before, more direct in her quiet plea. Her words were circumspect, of course—she never spoke plainly when she feared disappointing him—but the message was clear. She did not want to go with Mrs. Pomeroy’s family.

He dipped his quill into the ink, but the paper remained blank. What was there to say? He had already reassured her once. He had reminded her that Mrs. Pomeroy’s family was well-respected, that she would be among girls her own age. That she would, he had said carefully, be ‘looked after.’ There would be no... incidents.

And yet Georgiana had written again.

Darcy set the quill down and rubbed a hand over his face. He could not fault her for her fears. They were, after all, too fresh. He remembered all too well the tears in her eyes when she had confessed what nearly happened. How she had trusted the wrong man. How she had nearly...

He drew a sharp breath and sat straighter. Georgiana was strong in ways she did not yet understand, but how was she to grow if he allowed her to avoid every challenge? This visit was a chance for her to see a different world, to spend time with companions of her own age, to leave the memories of Ramsgate behind her. Would it not be wrong—selfish, even—to shelter her so completely?

The door opened behind him, and he glanced up to see Bingley stepping in. “Ah, there you are! I had begun to wonder if you had locked yourself away for good.”

“Not for good,” Darcy replied, setting his quill aside. A reply would have to wait.

“Then only for now.” Bingley laughed, moving to lean against the mantel. “What has you so grim this morning? Your valet did not cut you shaving, I trust? Nothing the matter with your breakfast?”

Darcy shot him a look but said nothing, folding Georgiana’s letter and slipping it into his pocket.

Bingley’s gaze flickered to the papers on the desk. “Ah. Correspondence. That explains it. You always look as though the fate of the empire rests on your pen.”

“I do not tend to waste time on trivial matters.”

“And is this matter trivial?”

“No,” Darcy said after a beat. “But it is private.”

Bingley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more. I shall leave you to it. Though I do hope you plan to take some air at least. Brooding is bad for the constitution. I am going for a ride, if you care to join me.”

With a final grin, Bingley departed, closing the door behind him. Darcy exhaled slowly and returned his attention to the blank page.

He dipped the quill again and began to write.

My dearest Georgiana,

I have read your letter with the greatest care, as I always do, and I can see how earnestly you feel about this visit. Let me say first that I would never press you to do anything I believed to be truly against your well-being. You are my highest priority, always. You know, however, how deeply I believe in your strength and goodness, even when you do not see it yourself. The family of Mrs. Pomeroy are well thought of in every respect, and I assure you, you will be as safe with them as you would be at Pemberley itself. The daughters of the house are known for their cheer and good nature, and I feel it would be a great opportunity for you to grow comfortable in the company of your peers. It is only natural, after all, to feel uncertainty about unfamiliar surroundings, but those uncertainties often prove baseless when we face them. I hope you will think on this, my dearest sister, and know that I trust entirely in your ability to meet any challenge with grace and courage. If, however, after giving it all due consideration, you still feel strongly against the visit, I will not press you further. Your peace is more important than any plan, and I trust your instincts implicitly.

Yours always, Fitzwilliam

Darcy blotted the ink and folded the letter, slipping it into an envelope and sealing it with a firm press of his signet. As he held the envelope for a moment longer, his mind turned, inexplicably, to Elizabeth Bennet. She would be here at Netherfield tomorrow with her family for dinner, so he must face her again, and soon. An odd thought pierced him, that his anxious dread of that scenario was a sort of mirror for how his sister must be feeling about going with the Pomeroys.

But that was… well, it was preposterous. The two situations were nothing alike! One was the growth of an impressionable young lady, and the other was the dignity of an eligible gentleman. In one instance, a little boldness in the face of trial was perfectly wise, but as for the other…

He shook the thought away and placed the letter with the others to be sent. This was no time for distraction.

The clink of silverware and the hum of conversation filled the air at Netherfield’s dining room, the candlelight flickering over fine china and polished crystal. Elizabeth could feel the heat of it flaring against her skin—the weight of too many stares, too many opinions.

At least two of those stares belonged to Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley, though their purposes could not have been more opposite.

Miss Bingley was on the offensive tonight, her tone sharp and her remarks carefully aimed. And it became rapidly apparent what the point of this dinner party was meant to be—Miss Bingley was claiming her turf, exerting her superiority, and every other female in Meryton was meant to feel it. From the moment Elizabeth had stepped into the room, Caroline Bingley’s smile had been too sweet, her comments too pointed. The subtle mockery in her voice was an art form, and Elizabeth could not deny its skill, though she had no intention of losing to it.

She lifted her glass of wine with practiced ease, tilting her head just so as Miss Bingley leaned forward with a conspiratorial air.

“Do you not find it charming, Miss Eliza,” Caroline said, her voice dripping honey, “how country gatherings such as these bring out such... candid personalities?”

Elizabeth’s lips thinned, the beginnings of a smile forming. “I suppose it is rather charming. One does learn so much about one’s company when people speak freely.”

Caroline’s smile tightened, but she pressed on. “Indeed. Of course, there are times when one wishes for a touch more... refinement.”

“Refinement is an admirable goal,” Elizabeth said lightly, “though I confess I find it less entertaining than honesty.”

Across the table, Mr. Darcy’s fork paused briefly above his plate. His eyes flicked toward Elizabeth, not so much with surprise as with interest—as though her words were pieces of a puzzle he had not yet solved.

Miss Bingley laughed. “Oh, Miss Eliza, you are too generous. Surely you would agree that a certain level of refinement is necessary for—well, for harmony.”

“Harmony is a fine thing, but I fear too much of it leads to dull company. Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer than was proper, his fork now forgotten. “I believe harmony and honesty are not mutually exclusive, Miss Bennet.”

“Indeed? Then perhaps we must agree to disagree. I find too much harmony quite stifling.”

Darcy’s cheek twitched, the faintest trace of amusement crossing his otherwise serious face. “Then I suspect you are never stifled, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth felt a small jolt at his reply—not just at the words themselves, but at the way he delivered them. She detected no mockery in his tone, no disdain. If anything, it was... admiring.

Miss Bingley’s laugh, however, was quite the opposite. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are far too indulgent. Miss Eliza has quite the way with words, does she not?”

“She does,” Darcy said simply, his gaze never leaving Elizabeth.

Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by the frankness of his statement. There was no irony in his voice, no polite veneer. He meant it. She felt the warmth of it spread through her chest… and she hated that she felt it at all.

But then Mrs. Bennet’s voice broke through like a thunderclap. “Of course, Mrs. Hurst, everyone dearly loves my Lydia. She does have such a lively nature. Just this morning, she was quite determined to go to Meryton, and you know I could not possibly stand in her way. All the officers would have been so disappointed to miss her, you know!”

Across the table, Sir William Lucas gave a hearty laugh. “Lively spirits are the heart of any gathering, are they not, Mrs. Bennet? And I daresay all the young men must surely agree. Why, I remember many such youthful excursions in my day!”

Elizabeth’s stomach churned as her mother prattled on, unaware—or worse, uncaring—of the glances her words invited. Mrs. Goulding, seated further down, whispered something to her husband, who nodded gravely while reaching for his wine. Lydia, perched near the end of the table, was too busy giggling with Kitty to notice the mortified expression on Elizabeth’s face.

Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and her sister offered a small, helpless smile. From the far side of the table, Mrs. Purvis—one of the neighborhood’s more reserved ladies—shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as though contemplating escape.

“I do hope your family has a similar appreciation for liveliness, Miss Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet continued, her tone almost triumphant.

Caroline smiled thinly, her eyes flicking toward Darcy as though to gauge his reaction. “I find a lively spirit charming in moderation,” she said smoothly. “Though I confess, I prefer quieter pursuits.”

“Quiet pursuits,” Elizabeth said lightly, “can often disguise the loudest ambitions.”

Caroline turned toward her, her smile tight as a bowstring. “I suppose you would know, Miss Eliza. You do have such a way of making yourself heard.”

Elizabeth’s smile brightened. “Thank you, Miss Bingley. I find it impossible to stay silent when there is so much of interest to remark upon.”

Across the table, Mrs. Purvis’s delicate sigh broke through the tension, her fan fluttering lightly against her cheek. “Such spirited conversation this evening. It is always a pleasure to see. My congratulations, Miss Bingley, on a thrilling evening.”

Darcy coughed softly, though Elizabeth thought it might have been a laugh. Caroline’s eyes narrowed, her composure cracking just slightly, and Elizabeth felt an undeniable rush of satisfaction.