9. Nine
Nine
“You play with such conviction, Miss Elizabeth. One might think you mean to make a point rather than entertain.”
Elizabeth’s hands did not falter on the keys, though her smile widened slightly, a glint of mischief flashing in her eyes. “Why, Miss Bingley, I was not aware music required one to sacrifice purpose for entertainment. I rather thought the two might coexist.”
Her response was as swift and pointed as the notes she struck, and Darcy found himself both irritated and intrigued. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her as she played with a confidence that seemed designed to command attention—not to charm, as others might, but to provoke thought.
She was succeeding.
The room’s focus was entirely on her, but Elizabeth seemed oblivious to it. Her performance was not a bid for admiration or applause; it was a conversation—one she controlled with every sharp trill and measured pause. The piece she selected was one he recognized immediately—Haydn, spirited and complex, with a rhythm that seemed intent on defying confinement.
Though her skill was not a match for Georgiana, or even Miss Bingley, her hands moved swiftly, confidently, across the keys, producing a sound so rich and unrestrained that it seemed at odds with the very idea of predictability. It was deliberate, he realized. Perhaps even a challenge to his defense of poetry as a means of expression. She had taken his words and turned them into music, as though daring him to critique what was undeniably skillful.
His gaze settled on her again, this time with renewed focus. Her expression was not one of polite concentration, as was often seen in performers eager to please. No, Elizabeth Bennet played as though she were addressing each note to someone specific—someone whose reaction mattered. Her eyes did not seek out Mr. Bingley, or Miss Bingley, who sat stiffly nearby, but they flicked toward him, if only for a fleeting moment, before returning to her task.
It was maddening.
When the final notes faded, a polite smattering of applause broke out, led by Mr. Bingley, who leaned forward in genuine admiration. “Brilliant! That was absolutely brilliant, Miss Bennet. You must play another.”
Elizabeth shook her head with a polite smile. “You are too kind, Mr. Bingley, but I would not wish to weary my audience.”
“Nonsense,” Bingley protested. “No one here could tire of such talent.”
“Oh, I am certain they could, sir. But I am not so impervious to praise that I cannot be worked upon.”
There it was again—that sharpness, so finely tuned that it might have been missed by anyone who did not know to listen for it. Darcy was certain she meant to unsettle him, and worse, she was succeeding. He had dealt with countless women who sought his approval, but Elizabeth Bennet was unlike any of them. She did not flatter. She did not simper. She challenged, and he found it… irksome.
“Then, you will play again,” Bingley asked, almost petulantly.
She laughed. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley, but I should not wish to monopolize the evening. Perhaps another guest might favor us with a performance?”
Miss Bingley immediately rose, her mouth drawn into a tight smile. “What a charming sentiment, Miss Bennet. Indeed, we cannot expect our audience to be satisfied with only one piece. Mr. Darcy, do you not agree? We must have more to admire.”
Her sudden appeal drew his attention, though he barely resisted the urge to sigh. “Miss Bennet’s performance was admirable enough,” he said simply.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled as she rose from the pianoforte, her expression too serene to be sincere. “High praise indeed, Mr. Darcy. I shall treasure it.”
The words were delivered with perfect composure, yet Darcy detected the subtle edge beneath them, a glimmer of satisfaction at having unsettled him. He could feel the faintest heat rising at the back of his neck.
As she moved to retake her seat, she glanced at him again, her smile faint but unmistakable. Darcy returned the look with studied indifference, though his thoughts churned. There was something new in her manner—something irreverent and perfectly unrepentant—that set his nerves on fire tonight.
Miss Bingley’s hands were now poised over the keys, but Darcy found he could not summon the energy to feign interest in her playing. Instead, his mind lingered on Elizabeth, on the way she had so effortlessly turned the performance into an exchange, a contest, a challenge.
And, much as he loathed to admit it, she had won.
Elizabeth stepped onto the upper balcony, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Laughter and chatter from earlier in the evening had long since faded into whispers, and the household had gone quiet as it settled for the night. Though reassured by Jane’s steady breathing when she had looked in on her moments before, she fancied the idea of a bit of fresh air for herself.
Stars scattered across the clear sky as her gaze drifted to the shadowed gardens below. The solitude was a welcome balm after the strain of polite conversation, yet it did little to ease the vice twisting her mind. The wager she had made now seemed frivolous, a childish game entangled in a man far too complex to decipher.
Three days she had been in this house. Though she had not come with the intention of working upon Mr. Darcy, the opportunity was not one she could readily pass up. But three days now of twisting her mind to wring out some answer, some easy victory, had exhausted her energies. Darcy was not easily won over—nor easily understood—and with every passing moment, her own motives felt increasingly muddled.
Behind her, the quiet click of a door opening broke her reverie. She turned sharply, freezing as Mr. Darcy stepped onto the terrace. His attention was fixed on the horizon, his expression unguarded in a way she had never seen before. He appeared distracted, even haunted, his hand resting against the railing as though to steady himself, entirely unaware of her presence.
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between retreating unnoticed and announcing her presence. Before she could decide, Darcy’s eyes wandering the sky caused him to glance her way. He started slightly, his composure returning so quickly that she might have imagined the flicker of surprise. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, almost tentative. “Forgive me—I did not realize you were here.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Elizabeth replied. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You disturb nothing,” he said quickly, his eyes meeting hers briefly before skimming back to the horizon. For a moment, silence settled between them, laden with unspoken thoughts. Then, more softly, he added, “I was… seeking air.”
“As was I.” She studied him as he looked away. There was something uncharacteristically unsettled in his posture—the way his shoulders tensed, the faint line between his brows. “You seem preoccupied, Mr. Darcy. Is everything quite well?”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly before he exhaled. “It is nothing of consequence.”
“Then it must be a very loud ‘nothing.’ You look as though the weight of the world rests upon your shoulders.”
His lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained distant. “A heavy imagination, perhaps.”
“Or a heavy letter,” Elizabeth said gently, glancing at the folded paper in his hand. “Though I would not presume to pry.”
Darcy glanced at the letter absently, as though only now remembering he held it. “It is nothing that should concern you.”
“Concern? No, not likely. And yet, I find myself curious. A rare thing, Mr. Darcy, for I do not often find myself curious about those who avoid conversation.”
His brow lifted slightly, and this time, he met her gaze with more intent. “You find me deficient in conversation?”
“Deficient? No. Selective, perhaps.”
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, as though against his better inclination, he said, “Do you ever find yourself mistaken in your judgment, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth blinked. Mr. Darcy? Questioning his own judgment? How very curious. “Frequently. Though I confess I am often reluctant to admit it.”
Darcy’s lips pressed, almost forming a smile. “A reluctant admission is better than none at all,” he murmured. He straightened, his hand tightening slightly on the railing. “I received a letter this evening—two, rather—that troubled me.”
“Oh?”
“It pertains to my sister,” he continued after a pause. “Georgiana.”
“I have heard of her, yes.”
He nodded briefly, as if satisfied that she recognized the name. “She is but fifteen. I do not suppose you were aware of that fact.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed, I was not. Why, Miss Bingley spoke of her as young, but I supposed almost any unmarried lady might fall under that category for her.”
Darcy coughed—or perhaps he was choking on a laugh. She could not be sure. “Indeed. My sister is… very young. Impressionable,” he said carefully. “Too trusting, perhaps.”
Elizabeth caught the hesitation in his voice. She stepped closer, folding her hands. “And this letter has made you worry for her?”
His jaw tightened again. “I have always worried for her.”
The admission hung in the air, quiet but profound. Elizabeth felt her breath hitch slightly, the rawness in his tone unexpected. “She is fortunate to have such a devoted brother,” she said softly.
Darcy turned to her then, his gaze sharp, as though searching for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he relaxed—minutely. “Devotion is one thing,” he said. “Wisdom is another. I fear I have sometimes failed her in the latter.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak, he straightened fully, the mask of composure sliding back into place. “Forgive me. I have spoken too freely.”
She smiled faintly. “You have said nothing that requires forgiveness, Mr. Darcy. Only that which invites understanding.”
She saw the faint workings of his throat and the clenching of his jaw in the moonlight. A long, indrawn breath, and then a slow exhale. “Indeed. Then… perhaps you will humor me some while longer, Miss Bennet.”
“If it pleases you, sir. I have nowhere else to be.”
The edge of his mouth turned up. “I sent her to stay with a family in Bath for the winter—people I trust and respect. It seemed the best decision for her. But tonight, I received two letters that have made me doubt myself.”
“What did the letters say, if I may ask?”
“The first was from my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said. “And my sister’s other guardian, I might add. He wrote to urge me to consider Georgiana’s own wishes, which he implied I have… neglected to account for. The second was from Georgiana herself. She…” He paused, his voice catching briefly. “She sounded… rather unhappy.”
Elizabeth’s heart softened at the quiet anguish in his tone. “And you regret your decision?”
“I do.” His admission was blunt, his gaze fixed on the darkened garden below. “Georgiana depends on me entirely. Her letters, her confidences—they often reveal more than she intends. I believed I was acting in her best interests—still, I believe that. I think it would be profitable for her to gain some experience in the world. She must learn to be comfortable in company, and such a thing takes practice.”
Practice? And this, coming from the man who never gave himself such trouble? Elizabeth could hardly restrain the burst of laughter that threatened. But she sobered just in time. “Does it?” she asked instead, hoping desperately that he did not hear the thick irony in her voice.
“Naturally. And this would have been a prime opportunity for her, but now… now I am not so sure.” He turned to face her. “She is unhappy. No, it is more than that. She sounds positively desolate. How is she to… to…” He stopped, his hand clenching in the air. “Forgive me. You have no context. I suppose this makes little sense to you.”
Elizabeth stepped closer, though unsure why she did so. “Mr. Darcy,” she said gently, “it is clear to me that you care deeply for your sister. Whatever doubts you may have, your concern alone speaks volumes.”
Darcy lifted his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers. “Concern is not enough if it leads to mistakes. She trusted me to know what was best for her. If I have failed her yet again…”
“You have not failed her,” Elizabeth interrupted. “You acted with the information you had at the time, and it is clear you are willing to listen and adjust. That is no failure, Mr. Darcy. That is care.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “You speak with a certainty I do not feel,” he said at last.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Certainty is a luxury I rarely afford myself. But I do believe, Mr. Darcy, that your sister is fortunate to have someone who takes his responsibilities so seriously.”
A shadow of gratitude passed across his face, and he inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I do not often confide in others, but tonight… I find your perspective unexpectedly welcome.”
Her breath caught briefly, surprised by the candor of his words. For a moment, the usual battle lines between them blurred. The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged, wrapping around her like the night itself. The stars above were unrelenting in their brilliance, sharp pinpricks of light that felt too distant, too indifferent to the storm inside her.
The wager—how utterly absurd it seemed now!—mocked her, a shallow, meaningless endeavor that could not survive the raw humanity she had just glimpsed. This was not the Fitzwilliam Darcy she had crafted in her mind—the cold, haughty figure she had so eagerly battled against, all for the pleasure of thwarting him once the victory was hers. What she saw tonight was a real man, one with feelings that were on the verge of breaking, his control brittle and barely holding.
Whatever he was most of the time, tonight at least, he was not arrogant; he was human, carrying a weight so personal, so crushing, that it pulled him into himself. And she had been toying with him—mocking him—while he stood there unraveling. Shame coiled hot and tight in her chest, but beneath it, something deeper stirred: the aching realization that she had misjudged him completely.
When Darcy finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough. “I should let you retire, Miss Bennet. The hour grows late.”
Elizabeth nodded, sensing the conversation had reached its natural end. “Good night, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly. “And… I hope you will not be too harsh on yourself. Even the best of brothers must learn as they go.”
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he inclined his head. “Good night, Miss Bennet.”
As he stepped back inside, Elizabeth turned toward the garden once more, the cool air soothing her flushed cheeks. Her resolve to unsettle him had vanished entirely, replaced by something far more complicated—and far more troubling.
The fire had burned low in the grate, casting flickering shadows across the walls of Darcy’s room. He stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds below.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as if the motion could dispel the image of her standing on the balcony. Her words had been gentle, her voice warm with genuine concern, and it had disarmed him completely. How had she managed it? How had she reached into a part of him he thought fortified beyond intrusion? He had been so careful—so determined to keep her at arm’s length—and yet, tonight, she had breached every defense without effort.
And it had been… comforting.
He turned from the window, pacing the length of the room, his boots muffled by the thick carpet. The events of the day turned over in his mind, each moment more vexing than the last. She had been irreverent, impertinent, maddeningly witty at the pianoforte. She had toyed with him, caught him off guard, and delighted in his discomfort. And yet, when she had spoken to him tonight—when she had offered him solace with that piercing sincerity—it had felt as though she truly saw him. Not the man society revered or envied, but the flawed, burdened soul beneath. The one whose existence he worked so hard to deny.
He despised how much he had let her affect him.
Darcy paused, leaning heavily against the mantel. He should not have confided in her. That much was certain. His concerns for Georgiana were his alone to bear, and sharing them with Elizabeth Bennet—no matter how innocently done—had been a mistake. She was nearly a stranger, barely more than an acquaintance, and yet, in that moment, she had felt like the only person who might understand. The thought made a rush of heat scald his face. Egad, he had told her so much!
He had been reckless. Foolish. To allow a woman like Elizabeth Bennet—sharp-tongued, unpredictable, wholly unsuitable—to occupy so much of his thoughts was unforgivable. He was a man of reason, of discipline, and yet he had spent the day entirely undone by her presence. Worse still, he knew this had been building for weeks. Ever since that first encounter in Meryton, she had lingered at the edges of his mind, challenging every expectation, every judgment.
His jaw clenched as he turned back toward the window. She was nothing like the women he had known, and that was precisely the problem. He had always valued order, predictability. Elizabeth was chaos—beautiful, compelling chaos—and she had no place in his carefully constructed life. To even entertain the thought of her was absurd. She had neither fortune nor connections, and her family—he grimaced at the memory of Mrs. Bennet’s cloying chatter—was an embarrassment.
And yet…
Darcy’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. He could not ignore the truth, no matter how much he wished to suppress it. Her wit, her courage, her refusal to defer to him—they both frustrated and fascinated him. But fascination was a dangerous thing. It clouded judgment, bred mistakes. He could not afford mistakes.
The moon hung high in the sky, its pale light spilling over the garden paths and illuminating the shadows of the trees. Darcy’s gaze lingered there, his thoughts as tumultuous as the clouds drifting across the horizon. He had resolved long ago that his life would be dictated by duty, by responsibility—not by passion. He would not deviate from that path, no matter the temptation.
And Elizabeth Bennet was temptation itself.
Straightening, Darcy drew a deep breath, forcing himself to still the chaos within. Tomorrow, he would be better. Tomorrow, he would redouble his efforts to maintain his distance. She would not unsettle him again. She could not.
And yet, as he extinguished the lamp and climbed into bed, the memory of her voice—soft and steady, cutting through his doubt like a lifeline—lingered in his mind, refusing to be banished.