All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

8. Eight

Eight

Elizabeth stepped into the breakfast room with her usual brisk confidence, though the moment her eyes landed on Mr. Darcy seated by the window, her stride faltered for the briefest of heartbeats. He was there alone, the sunlight streaming through the tall panes behind him, casting a faint glow around his silhouette. He appeared uncommonly relaxed, a book in one hand, his other resting idly on the table beside a half-empty teacup.

And he looked rather… ahem .

Well, she could not very well say what he looked like, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip when she ran her hand over it. How very silly!

For an absurd moment, she considered retreating—but no, that would not do. She had wagered her pride and her wit on this game, and she would not cede the field so easily.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she said brightly, stepping further into the room. Her tone was warm, her smile practiced but disarming. If he thought he could avoid her with polite indifference, he was sorely mistaken. She would make him notice.

Darcy’s head lifted, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a brief flicker of what might have been surprise before his expression smoothed into something more obscure. He rose from his chair with impeccable courtesy. “Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth made her way to the sideboard, filling her plate with leisurely disinterest. She could feel his gaze lingering, though whether it was out of politeness or wariness, she could not yet tell. “You are an early riser,” she remarked, her voice light and conversational. “I find the house is far quieter at this hour.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied,. “It affords one the chance to collect one’s thoughts without distraction.”

Elizabeth turned, plate in hand, and raised an eyebrow as she took a seat across from him. “And have you much to think about, Mr. Darcy? Or do you merely enjoy solitude for its own sake?”

Darcy hesitated for a fraction of a second, then set his book down with deliberate care. “Both, I suppose. Reflection is a necessary exercise.”

“I imagine it must be difficult to achieve, then, in a house so filled with activity.”

His gaze met hers, steady but guarded. “It requires discipline.”

“Discipline,” she repeated. “What a noble virtue. Though I confess, it seems rather a dry way to spend one’s morning.”

Darcy’s lips tightened—was that almost a smile?—before his expression returned to its usual reserve. “Not everyone shares your appetite for early morning activity, Miss Bennet.”

“True,” Elizabeth said, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. “But I have found that even the gravest of dispositions can benefit from a little animation to stimulate the blood early in the day. Do you not agree?”

“I find animation is best when balanced by purpose.”

Elizabeth’s smile widened, though her confidence wavered just slightly. He was more adept at this game than she had given him credit for. She would have to be sharper. “I daresay you do excel at purpose, Mr. Darcy. Though one must hope it does not prevent you from ever enjoying yourself.”

Darcy studied her for a moment, his gaze thoughtful in a way that made her pulse quicken. Then, with the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes, he said, “I enjoy many things, Miss Bennet. Solitude among them.”

It was not quite the rebuttal she expected, and it left her momentarily at a loss. She took another bite of her breakfast to buy herself time, her mind racing for the next volley. But before she could speak, Darcy stood.

“Please excuse me,” he said. “I have letters to attend to.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, masking her frustration behind a practiced smile. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I would not dream of keeping you from your reflections.”

Darcy’s gaze lingered on her for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering there, and then he bowed and departed the room.

Elizabeth sat back in her chair, her fork resting against her plate as she stared after him. The quiet confidence she had felt when she first stepped into the room had been replaced by something altogether more unsettling. Darcy was polite, certainly. Reserved, absolutely. But there was something in his manner that hinted at layers she had not anticipated.

For the first time since accepting Charlotte’s wager, Elizabeth found herself wondering if she had underestimated her opponent.

Darcy tugged on his gloves, his expression carefully neutral as he waited for the others to assemble near the front entrance of Netherfield. The morning had cleared to a brisk, sunny day, and it was decided—much to Darcy’s dismay—that a walk through the grounds would be an ideal activity after breakfast.

He had considered claiming a prior engagement, but Bingley’s infectious cheer had worn him down. Now, as the door opened to admit Elizabeth Bennet, bright-eyed and fresh as the dew in her walking dress, he cursed his momentary lapse in judgment.

“You are joining us, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked lightly as she pulled on her gloves. Her tone was pleasant, but there was a glint in her eye he did not trust. The vixen.

“I am,” he replied evenly. “The morning is... agreeable.”

“It is indeed. I imagine even you cannot find fault with it.”

Caroline Bingley, appearing at his elbow, interjected before he could respond. “Mr. Darcy finds fault with nothing, Miss Eliza,” she said with an air of superiority. “For that would be ungentlemanly. He, of course, is the very model of civility.”

Elizabeth glanced at him, her brows lifting in mock surprise. “How fortunate for us all. I confess, I had begun to wonder if Mr. Darcy ever allowed himself the luxury of a flawed opinion.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression neutral. “I find opinions are most useful when grounded in reason.”

“And yet,” Elizabeth countered, “reason alone can make the world rather dull.”

Caroline’s smile faltered as Elizabeth’s words hung in the air, but Darcy merely inclined his head. “Reason is often misunderstood, Miss Bennet. It is not an enemy to joy and enthusiasm, but a companion to it.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his response. Before she could reply, Bingley strode into the room, his voice booming with enthusiasm.

“Everyone ready?” he called, clapping his hands together. “Oh, dash it all, I see Hurst will not be joining us. But I say we shan’t let that spoil our morning. I thought we might take the path by the pond—Caroline, Louisa, you must see the swans.”

As the group began their walk, Darcy deliberately slowed his pace, keeping a calculated distance from Elizabeth. But fate—or perhaps Bingley’s endless enthusiasm—had other plans.

“Darcy, you must walk with Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said, gesturing with a grin. “She will at least provide interesting conversation. I fear Caroline and Louisa might bore you with talk of London fashions.”

Miss Bingley rounded on her brother with a sharp protest, but Bingley, the bounder, cut her off by taking her arm and marching her down the path. “I say, Caroline, I was thinking of hosting a ball,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear them. “I will, of course, depend on your wisdom and talents there. Did not Lady Aston write a fortnight ago about a new musician she had brought on for her last ball? I was hoping you might…”

Bingley’s voice trailed off as they gained distance, and Darcy found himself reluctantly strolling beside Miss Elizabeth. Her brows arched as she looked his way. “Do not worry, Mr. Darcy. I shall do my best to prevent your morning from becoming dull.”

The words were polite, but Darcy felt the faintest tug of challenge in her tone, as though Elizabeth Bennet were daring him to falter. She was testing him again, probing for some crack in his demeanor. Darcy inclined his head. “Your company is rarely dull, Miss Elizabeth.”

They walked on in relative silence for a few moments. Darcy welcomed the quiet, using the time to steady his thoughts. Yet, he could sense Elizabeth’s restlessness beside him, as if her very presence demanded conversation.

“You seem unusually subdued this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she said at last. “Surely the beauty of the autumn countryside inspires some thought or reflection. One must be an ogre, indeed, to fail to appreciate those colors.”

Darcy followed the direction of her gaze. “It is, indeed, beautiful. But I find it more conducive to quiet observation than conversation.”

“Ah,” she replied, her voice light, though he detected the faintest hint of mischief. “So, it is silence you seek. I marvel, then, at your enjoyment of Mr. Bingley’s company.”

Darcy stopped, turning to face her fully, weighing his response. “Mr. Bingley is an exceptional friend. His good nature is an asset I do not take lightly.”

“A loyal defense, Mr. Darcy. Though I must wonder if you were not tempted to strangle him when he paired us together for this walk.”

Darcy hesitated, his calm facade wavering just enough for a flicker of irritation to pass through him. She was too perceptive for his liking—and far too comfortable pressing him. “I assure you, Miss Bennet, I am quite capable of exercising patience.”

She laughed—a clear, melodic sound that startled him with its warmth. He looked away quickly, his thoughts spiraling toward the vexing realization that he had noticed, too keenly, how her presence unsettled him.

“Patience, Mr. Darcy? I am impressed,” she teased. “I had thought you too unflappable altogether to require the exercise of such a virtue.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. It would not do to let her provoke him further. “Speaking of patience, Miss Bennet, I trust your sister continues to improve under your care. No doubt your attentiveness brings her comfort.”

Her expression shifted slightly, though her smile remained. “Jane is much better this morning, thank you. Though I confess, it was not my attentiveness that helped her rest—I believe it was my restlessness that kept her from it. Thus, my temporary removal from the room has probably purchased her more comfort this morning than my presence could have done.”

Darcy blinked, caught off guard by the ease of her retort. “I see,” he said, unable to suppress the faint lift of his brow. “In that case, I hope this walk proves sufficient to ease your restlessness, for her sake.”

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with a slight curtsey, her smile deepening. “For her sake.”

Before he could find a suitable reply, Caroline’s voice carried over the path. “Mr. Darcy, you must come and see the swans! They are magnificent this year.”

Seizing the opportunity for reprieve, Darcy inclined his head. “Excuse me, Miss Bennet,” he said, his tone polite but firm, before striding ahead toward the Bingleys.

As he approached the others, he resisted the urge to glance back. He could still feel the lingering effect of her laughter and the sharpness of her wit, like the faintest tug at the edges of his resolve. Her presence was entirely too vivid, too insistent, and he despised how easily she unraveled his carefully guarded composure.

Elizabeth sat rigidly in the library, her embroidery hoop lying forgotten in her lap. She had taken it up in a half-hearted attempt to appear industrious, and this room had some of the best lighting in the house for the task, but her needle had hovered motionless for several minutes. Across the room, Mr. Darcy occupied a solitary chair near the window, seemingly engrossed in a book. If he noticed the tension threading through the air, he gave no indication.

The man was impossible.

She had spent the better part of the morning attempting to draw some measure of civility—no, warmth—from him, only to be met with politeness so cold and measured it could have rivaled a frosty January morning. It was galling. For all his elegance and wealth, Mr. Darcy had the social charm of a well-carved statue, and Elizabeth could feel her patience fraying.

She had to struggle to remind herself why she cared at all. Jane’s sly smile and Charlotte’s brash confidence as they dared her into this wretched bet resurfaced in her mind. To win his approval —not his actual love, heaven forbid, but the faintest mark of regard—was to prove that her wit could breach even the stoniest of barriers. Yet, the longer she studied his detached demeanor, the more she questioned the wisdom of her endeavor.

Still, Elizabeth Bennet did not shy away from challenges.

She glanced at him, noting the precise manner in which he turned the pages of his book, each movement deliberate and unhurried. Her frustration mounted. Surely, no one could be so absorbed in a single volume. She cleared her throat lightly, enough to catch his attention. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers with a questioning tilt of his brow.

“Mr. Darcy, what are you reading with such profound concentration? I wonder what holds such sway over your attention.”

For a moment, he said nothing, and Elizabeth wondered if he might ignore her entirely. Then, closing the book with an infuriating slowness, he answered, “It is a volume of poetry, Miss Bennet.”

“Poetry! Surely not the melancholy sort? I would have imagined you a reader of history or philosophy.”

“I find poetry… instructive,” he replied. “It conveys truths about human nature that are often obscured in other forms of writing.”

Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her smile sharpening. “Then you must share a passage that you find particularly revealing. I confess, I am eager to hear which truths you hold in such high esteem.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as if weighing whether to humor her or retreat into his solitude. Finally, he opened the book again, his voice almost impossibly deep and harmonic as he recited a short stanza. It was a reflection on constancy and the quiet strength of enduring devotion—an apt choice, though Elizabeth suspected his selection was carefully deliberate.

She pretended to ponder his words. “It is beautifully written, I grant you, but does it not run the risk of being overly earnest? There is such danger in laying bare the heart—especially in verse.”

His brow lifted slightly, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his face. “A true sentiment is not less true for being plainly spoken.”

“Perhaps. But a plain truth rendered in rhyme often becomes an unintentional comedy. I confess, bad poetry is one of my great terrors. I find it the surest way to extinguish any affection.”

There it was again—the faintest flicker of something almost cunning in his expression, gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. His tone remained perfectly composed as he said, “Then I shall be sure to choose my stanzas carefully in your company, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth raised a brow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Do you mean to say you write poetry, Mr. Darcy?”

“I mean only that one must always consider one’s audience.”

Her pulse quickened at the subtle edge in his words. For a moment, she thought she had caught a glimpse of something beneath his polished exterior—a hint of passion, of conviction—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“You speak as one who holds his principles dear,” she said lightly, masking her thoughts behind her usual wit. “I fear you may find me lacking in that regard, Mr. Darcy. I am far too easily swayed by whim.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “I do not find you lacking.”

Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard, but before she could reply, Darcy returned his attention to the book, his expression unreadable. The conversation was over—or so he seemed determined to make it.

She searched his face for any trace of mockery but found none. How maddening that he could unsettle her with so few words when she had spent the morning attempting the same with no success.

“Well, sir,” she said, regaining her composure, “I thank you for your good opinion, though I shall not let it go to my head.”

“Indeed,” he said, his mouth curving slightly, though whether it was a true smile or merely the shadow of one, she could not say. “You seem far too grounded for such vanity.”

Before she could muster a response, Caroline Bingley swept into the room, somewhat out of breath. “Mr. Darcy! Oh… and Miss Bennet. There you are. Mr. Hurst is organizing a game of cards in the dining room. Shall we join them?”

Darcy was holding his breath, she was sure of it. He had clenched his hand above the page of his book, and the muscles of his jaw appeared to be twitching in the light from the window. But an instant later, he forced a polite expression and set his book aside. “By all means, Miss Bingley.”

“There, just as I hoped! I told my brother I was certain you would wish to join us. I am afraid, though,” she added, frisking Elizabeth with another glance, “that we’ve only one empty chair at the table.”

Elizabeth rose. “No matter, Miss Bingley. I shall entertain myself by the fire.” She followed Miss Bingley into the drawing room, her thoughts darting between her lingering frustration and the mounting determination to adjust her strategy. He was not a man to be lightly touched—that much was obvious. A passing good nod from him would never suffice if she meant to make his mind her plaything. So, how could she… break him, for lack of a better word?

As they entered the drawing room, she glanced behind her to see Mr. Darcy hesitating just briefly before he complied with Miss Bingley’s urging to join them. His expression remained neutral, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his reluctance.

Taking her seat, Elizabeth kept one eye on him as he moved to his place at the card table. His every motion was deliberate, his demeanor composed, but there was no mistaking the faint flicker of irritation that crossed his face when Miss Bingley leaned toward him, smiling in that overly practiced way she seemed to reserve for his attention alone.

Elizabeth studied the exchange with interest. Miss Bingley’s comment, whatever it had been, drew only a brief, monosyllabic reply from Mr. Darcy. He did not turn toward her fully, nor did his expression soften in the least. He treated her with the barest veneer of politeness, offering no more than was necessary to maintain decorum. His disengagement was so apparent that Elizabeth marveled at Miss Bingley’s obliviousness to it.

It struck her then that Miss Bingley’s attempts to charm Mr. Darcy lacked any subtlety. She flattered him excessively, fawned over his every word, and deferred to him on every point, no matter how trivial. And yet, for all her efforts, Mr. Darcy barely spared her a glance unless compelled by circumstance. He seemed, Elizabeth thought, quietly weary of her attentions.

The realization deepened as Elizabeth considered the broader picture. A man of Darcy’s wealth and status would undoubtedly be accustomed to such behavior—not only from Miss Bingley, but from countless other women who saw him as a prize to be won. To him, such fawning must be tiresome, if not outright irritating. Miss Bingley, for all her elegant manners and fine gowns, was likely just one more in a long line of ambitious women vying for his favor.

Her gaze flicked back to Darcy, now engaged in conversation with Mr. Bingley. His tone, though restrained, carried a touch more warmth. And then there was the way he had spoken to her earlier. It was different—not warm, precisely, but sharper, more engaged. He debated with her, answered her challenges, and even, on occasion, offered something resembling a compliment. It was hardly the behavior of a man who dismissed her outright. But then again, it was hardly encouragement, either.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her embroidery hoop as she mulled over the distinction. She could not, would not, become another Miss Bingley, hovering like a moth around a flame, desperate for even the faintest flicker of approval. She did not even like the man! She certainly had no intention of demeaning herself to turn his head, even if such measures had any chance of success.

No, if she was to gain his regard, it would have to be on her own terms. She would need to provoke his interest—not with empty flattery, but with something more substantial.

But how?

Jealousy? Oh, hardly! How could she make such a man jealous? She would have to dangle something before him that he wanted above all other things, and she had nothing of the kind within her power to offer.

But he did like to be right. And he liked it best when he had a chance to prove he was right, rather than every word of his being accepted with all the eclat of a proverb.

Her thoughts churned as she watched Darcy rise briefly to retrieve the cards, his movements precise, his expression intentionally composed. His manner bespoke a man who kept others at arm’s length, who had little patience for superficiality or pretense.

If that was the case, then perhaps the answer was simpler than she thought. She would not seek to please him, nor would she attempt to curry his favor. Instead, she would do what she did best: be herself. But more herself, even, than she had been. Bold, observant, and unapologetically forthright.

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as her resolve hardened. She would win this wager yet—not by simpering or flattering, but by reminding Mr. Darcy that she was unlike any other woman he had encountered. If that meant ruffling his feathers a little more, so much the better.

After all, she had never been one to shy away from a challenge.