All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

10. Ten

Ten

Elizabeth perched on the edge of Jane’s bed, her arms crossed and her expression equal parts affectionate and exasperated. “Jane, you are the most stubborn patient I have ever met.”

Jane smiled faintly, her cheeks still pale but no longer fevered. “That is a fine thing to say, Lizzy, considering I am trying to follow your orders.”

“By insisting you are well enough to march to the drawing room tonight?” Elizabeth arched a brow. “I would hardly call that obedience.”

“I feel much improved. And it would be ungrateful to leave without expressing my appreciation for all their kindness.”

Elizabeth groaned, throwing herself back on the bed. “You are too good, Jane. No one will think ill of you for escaping back to Longbourn the moment you are able to stand upright. I would think it a triumph.”

Jane laughed softly. “You would. But I must show them I am better before we leave. It would feel ungracious otherwise.”

Elizabeth propped herself up on one elbow, eyeing her sister critically. “You could nearly have it in your power to determine the fortunes of every house in Meryton, you know.”

Jane blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Elizabeth said with a grin, “that half the town has wagered on how long it will take for you to recover.”

Jane’s eyes widened in alarm. “Surely not.”

“Surely yes.” Elizabeth sat up, counting on her fingers with mock solemnity. “The Lucases, the Philipses, even Mr. Long himself has joined in. Mama pretends to be scandalized, but not so scandalized as to prevent her from placing her own wager. Papa said as much in the note he sent with my trunk when it was brought.”

Jane pressed a hand to her cheek, her laugh faint but horrified. “Lizzy, that is dreadful!”

“It is,” Elizabeth agreed cheerfully. “And entirely within character for our neighbors. And so, if you mean to go home tomorrow, would you like to know who is favored to win? I suppose it would help if we named a time…”

“Certainly not! I would rather not think of myself as the subject of such... frivolity.”

Elizabeth cast a hand over her heart. “They wager because they care.”

Jane snorted, then crumbled into a reluctant laugh as she cupped a hand around her mouth. “And am I supposed to believe you have no stake in this yourself?”

“Me? No, no, I lost two days ago.”

Jane doubled over, holding her stomach. “Oh, Lizzy, do not make me laugh! I will start coughing again.”

Elizabeth sighed. “And yet, you insist on going downstairs tonight. I shall repeat myself—you are always too gracious for your own good. Truly, you are not required to sit with them tonight if you are not ready. No one will think you unkind.”

“I feel ready to try. If I can sit with them for an hour, then we will leave in the morning. That is my plan.”

Elizabeth sighed, knowing better than to argue further. “You are determined, then?”

“I am.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Very well. But do not think I will let you martyr yourself. If you so much as blink too sluggishly, I will throw you over my shoulder and drag you back to bed myself.”

Jane laughed again, leaning back against her pillows. “I believe you would.”

“Believe it entirely,” Elizabeth said with a mock glare. She hesitated, then asked, more softly, “Are you certain you do not wish to know the wagers? It might be diverting.”

“Lizzy!” Jane swatted at her lightly. “I do not. But do not forget there is another wager Charlotte will want to hear of.”

Elizabeth’s smile faltered entirely, and a hot rush flooded her cheeks. She looked down.

Jane leaned in a little more closely. “And how are you faring, Lizzy? Charlotte will indeed ask.”

Elizabeth drew back slightly, her face carefully neutral. “How am I faring? Why, splendidly. I have not offended Mr. Darcy so much that he has fled Netherfield.”

“ Yet ,“ Jane teased gently. “But truly—how is it to be under the same roof as him? You must have gained some ground.”

Elizabeth looked away, fiddling with the edge of Jane’s blanket. “I hardly know. He is as inscrutable as ever. At times, he seems... less unpleasant than I first thought. But then he says or does something that makes me want to throttle him. It is rather exhausting, if I am honest.”

Jane tilted her head. “Does he still stare at you so?”

Elizabeth huffed a laugh, standing to retrieve Jane’s shawl from the nearby chair. “I imagine he stares at everything that displeases him, which must include half the world. Now, enough of that—Charlotte will have to wait for her answers. Let us focus on getting you through tonight without causing another flurry of bets.”

Jane smiled, letting the subject drop, but her thoughtful expression lingered as Elizabeth draped the shawl around her shoulders.

The murmurs of conversation reached him before he rounded the corner, voices low but unmistakably familiar. Darcy paused, drawing back into the shadows of the hallway just beyond the drawing room.

“I am relieved, I must confess,” Caroline’s voice carried into the corridor. “Miss Bennet is a… a charming girl—fair company when there is so little else to be had, but her lingering presence has quite disrupted the house.”

“But surely, they shall be going tomorrow,” Mrs. Hurst opined. “It cannot be so very much longer now. I hear her fever broke this morning.”

“Yes, and now, surely we shall have to entertain them both in the drawing room this evening before they go tomorrow. Would that he had simply offered the carriage this afternoon! We both know Mrs. Bennet has no interest in hastening her daughter’s return, but I cannot imagine why Charles feels the need to let the thing drag on.”

Louisa hummed in agreement. “It is all very tiresome. And Miss Eliza? The way she parades herself about as though she belongs here—it is insufferable.”

Darcy’s hand tightened around the edge of the doorframe. Elizabeth Bennet? Parading herself? He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity. If anything, her stubborn independence stood in sharp contrast to the obsequious airs of the company Caroline preferred.

“She will be leaving soon,” Caroline continued, her tone airy. “And none too soon, I daresay. I can only imagine the relief Mr. Darcy will feel to be free of her sharp tongue.”

Darcy’s throat tightened. Relief? Yes, of course—relief. That was exactly what he should feel. He stepped back, taking another path through the house to avoid further hearing what he could not unhear. The sisters’ petty disdain needled him more than it should.

By the time Darcy reached the quiet of his room, his thoughts had unraveled into a tangled mess. The image of Elizabeth on the balcony the night before lingered in his mind, her wit tempered with surprising softness, her sharp eyes turned curious, even kind.

He pressed a hand to his temple. This would not do. He had resolved to remain guarded, and yet, in her presence, he found his defenses slipping—worse, crumbling. If this carried on, and with Bingley’s injunction against any sort of incivility hampering his usual defenses, Darcy could well find his honor engaged before he could make his escape to London.

His breath in his throat, Darcy sat at the writing desk and took up a sheet of paper. If civility and distance had failed to curb Elizabeth’s disconcerting effect on him, then perhaps another approach was needed. He had one evening left, after all, in which to make his stance known for good.

He stared at the blank page, Elizabeth’s mocking words echoing in his mind: “Bad poetry is one of my great terrors. I find it the surest way to extinguish any affection.”

A small, sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Bad poetry . If Elizabeth found it repellant, then perhaps it could serve a higher purpose.

Reaching for his pen, he dipped it into the ink and began to write.

Darcy trailed into the drawing room after dinner, his palms damp despite the coolness of the hall. He clasped his hands behind his back, willing the perspiration to subside. It was absurd. He was absurd. How had it come to this?

Elizabeth Bennet . That was how.

She had been seated opposite him at dinner, and it had taken every ounce of discipline not to stare. Every sharp turn of her wit, every arch of her brow as she replied to Miss Bingley’s thinly veiled remarks, had unraveled his composure bit by bit. By the time she excused herself to escort her sister back down to the drawing room, his toes were curled inside his shoes, the roots of his hair felt like they were on fire, and he was halfway through his second glass of wine.

Now, she reentered the room with Miss Bennet on her arm, the latter still pale but looking hale enough to at least maintain her feet. Darcy’s heart hammered as Elizabeth’s smile softened while she guided her sister to a seat near the fire. It was a smile full of care and sweetness, utterly disarming in its sincerity. And for a fleeting instant, last evening came rushing back to him—her genuine concern and patience in the face of his doubts. Lucky would be the man Elizabeth Bennet chose to lavish her affections on…

That was when he started coughing.

Elizabeth glanced his way, one eyebrow edging upward. Darcy cleared his throat and claimed a seat, fixing his gaze on the fire. The rug. The steaming coffee service that had just been brought in. Anything but Elizabeth Bennet.

“My sister is feeling much better,” Elizabeth said brightly, answering a question nobody had yet asked. “The warmth of the fire will do her good.”

Bingley all but leaped from his seat to arrange a cushion for Jane Bennet. “You must tell me at once if you feel chilled, Miss Bennet. Or fatigued. Or—well, anything at all.”

Miss Bennet murmured her thanks, but Darcy’s attention was elsewhere. Elizabeth sat beside her sister, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze flicking briefly toward him before focusing on the conversation between her sister and Bingley.

Miss Bingley, seated nearby with her embroidery untouched, gave a hollow laugh. “It is such a relief to see you feeling better, Miss Bennet. We were all so dreadfully worried. Were we not, Louisa?”

Mrs. Hurst, who was perched beside her sister with a glass of sherry, nodded. “Oh, quite. We have been simply beside ourselves.”

Elizabeth’s expression remained polite, but there was a faint, familiar edge to her smile. “You have both been such kind hostesses. I am certain the strain of your worry must have cost you many hours of sleep.”

Darcy bit back the urge to smirk. She was so good at that—cutting just deep enough without ever drawing blood. Miss Bingley seemed not to notice.

In the corner, Hurst grumbled something incoherent about cards—no doubt, he was petulant that no one else wished to join him—and poured himself another drink. Darcy ignored him, his focus narrowing again to Elizabeth. She sat straighter now, leaning slightly toward her sister as though shielding her from the insincerity radiating from the Bingley sisters.

The paper in Darcy’s pocket crinkled faintly as he shifted. The poem. The utterly idiotic poem.

Earlier, the idea had felt inspired. He had convinced himself that it was a clever way to put her off, to gain the upper hand and make her feel all the same unease that had begun to torment him.

But now… now it felt like a reckless gamble. Surely, she would see through it. Surely, she would know he was baiting her. And yet, the alternative was to let her continue infiltrating his thoughts unchecked.

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “You are very quiet this evening. Is something on your mind?”

Darcy stiffened, his gaze snapping to hers. She sat poised, her head tilted ever so slightly, the flicker of a challenge gleaming in her eyes. Her tone was polite, everything ladylike and respectable—but the teasing undercurrent was unmistakable. It was like a gauntlet thrown at his feet.

“Quiet, Miss Bennet? Perhaps I am simply observing.”

“Observing what, I wonder?” Elizabeth said, leaning slightly forward, the firelight catching the sparkle in her eyes. “Surely not the weather—it has hardly changed all day.”

Darcy arched a brow. “Must one always speak to be occupied?”

“Not always. But silence often speaks louder than words. I cannot help but wonder what yours might be saying.”

He hesitated, feeling the faint stir of heat creeping up his collar. “Perhaps it says nothing of interest.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she replied with a smile—sharper now, like the edge of a blade concealed behind silk. “I have always suspected you of being a man of hidden depths, Mr. Darcy. But perhaps I am mistaken and you truly are as dull as any other man.”

He swallowed. Was that a trickle of sweat itching beneath his cravat? Impossible! “Dull? That would not be for me to judge, Miss Elizabeth, but I would not have taken you for one to make such mistakes lightly.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, the sound as infuriating as it was captivating. “Even I cannot claim infallibility. But I do pride myself on my intuition. And just now, my intuition suggests that your thoughts are far from dull.”

“Your intuition flatters me,” Darcy said, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. “But I am afraid you overestimate the complexity of my thoughts.”

Elizabeth’s brow lifted, a knowing glint flashing in her eyes. “Then perhaps you might share them, so I might judge for myself.”

“Share them?” He hesitated, the papers in his pocket crinkling against his fingers. The idea had seemed daring, even clever, earlier in the safety of solitude. Now, under her keen gaze, it felt reckless—yet maddeningly tempting.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its edge. “I confess, I am curious. Surely even a man as composed as yourself cannot be entirely immune to intrigue or interest?”

His jaw tightened. “You think me composed, Miss Bennet?”

“Oh, excessively so,” she said with mock seriousness. “I cannot imagine you ever giving way to whimsy—or indulgence. Do you even allow yourself the luxury of frivolous thought?”

Darcy stiffened, his hand twitching against his side. A sharp reply hovered on his tongue—something cutting, deflecting, anything to push her back. But then Bingley turned, looking at him expectantly, his brows slightly raised as if bracing for Darcy’s usual brusque retort.

Politeness Bingley had demanded… he could not dare respond in his accustomed way. He had to go above and beyond in civility—civility so pungent, so cloying and loathsome that she would nearly trip over herself to back away from him. And yet, Bingley would have nothing of which to accuse him on the matter.

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He could feel the edges of the papers in his pocket like a taunt. The poem . He had written it for precisely this reason: to steer her away, to show her how ridiculous this game was. All he needed was the nerve to follow through.

He took a breath, steeling himself. “Perhaps I will concede, Miss Elizabeth. There may be some value in frivolity. I was thinking—” he said slowly…

Did he dare do it? He had to decide before the next words left his— “that this evening might benefit from a touch of... diversion.”

There. He had said it.

Bingley straightened. “A diversion?”

Darcy nodded, sliding his hand into his pocket. The paper felt heavier than it should have. “I have been experimenting with... with verse.”

Bingley’s mouth dropped open. “You? Writing poetry?”

“Yes,” Darcy said firmly, though his throat felt dry and his stomach felt like a twisting brood of vipers. “I thought I might recite something.”

Miss Bingley sat up taller, her eyes lighting with transparent delight. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! How marvelous! I had no idea you possessed such a talent.”

Elizabeth, meanwhile, tilted her head, her expression suddenly dark with curiosity. “A poem, Mr. Darcy? That is… quite the revelation.”

Her tone was neutral, but the glimmer in her eye betrayed her skepticism. He swallowed hard. His hand trembled faintly as he withdrew the paper, but he forced himself to ignore it. “I hope you will be kind enough to forgive its imperfections.”

Bingley blinked rapidly, as though trying to reconcile this Darcy with the one he had known for years. Miss Bingley practically glowed, clearly assuming the effort was for her benefit.

And Elizabeth... she leaned back slightly, her arms crossing loosely over her lap, her expression full of a thousand questions and her gaze unwavering. “Oh, I am certain there could be no imperfections at all, if you are the author, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy straightened his shoulders, determined not to falter now. “If you will indulge me,” he said, the words catching in his throat but refusing to be retracted.

Elizabeth shifted slightly in her chair, watching Mr. Darcy retrieve a crumpled paper from his pocket with an air of grave determination. She was not sure what she had expected when he had proposed to share his thoughts, but this... this did not feel promising.

“Did you…” Miss Bingley’s voice faltered slightly as she leaned forward, her face lighting with hopeful curiosity. “Write this recently, Mr. Darcy?”

“I did,” Darcy replied, his tone stiff. He unfolded the paper carefully, his eyes scanning the words with what could only be described as grim resolve. “I composed it today.”

Elizabeth blinked, her brows lifting as Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. He was truly going to read this? Mr. Darcy? The idea was absurd, incongruous—utterly baffling. And yet, there he stood, as though ready to recite something epic and eternal.

He cleared his throat, his voice deepening as he began:

“O fairest star that graces night, Thy glow doth set my heart alight. Thy laughter rings, a silver chime, A melody that halts all time.”

Elizabeth’s stomach turned. She cast a furtive glance at Jane, who had turned an alarming shade of pink and was now staring fixedly at her lap. Mr. Bingley had shifted forward, one hand pressed firmly to his mouth, his shoulders faintly trembling.

Darcy’s eyes flicked up, then back to the page as his voice grew stronger, almost fervent:

“Thy gentle eyes, like pools of dew, Reflect a world both kind and true. Thy spirit fierce, yet soft as spring, Doth make my silent soul to sing.”

Elizabeth gripped the arm of her chair, her jaw tightening against the onslaught of saccharine rhymes. Was it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment? She risked a glance at Miss Bingley, who was leaning forward with a strained but delighted smile, as though determined to absorb the poem as a personal ode.

Darcy’s shoulders were bunching under his coat, but he droned on, apparently oblivious to the collective agony of his audience as his voice rose with an almost theatrical intensity:

“O angel bright, in mortal guise, Thou art the sun to my sunrise. Thy every word, a honeyed grace, Doth lift my heart to heaven’s embrace.”

The silence in the room grew oppressive, broken only by the faint, muffled sound of Mr. Hurst snoring in the corner. Elizabeth’s pulse thundered in her ears. She dared not look at anyone now, certain her composure would shatter.

Darcy drew a deep breath for the final stanza, his voice nearly trembling with conviction:

“And though I’m bound by duty’s chain, My love for thee shall not be vain. For fate itself cannot efface, Thy name, my heart’s eternal place.”

As the last syllable fell into the heavy air, Darcy lowered the paper. His face was ashen and his brow prickled with beats of sweat, as though the exercise had cost him every shred of his fortitude. And his gaze swept the room, as though daring anyone to challenge the earnestness of his expression.

No one moved. No one spoke.

The silence stretched, thick and stifling. Elizabeth stared at her hands, willing herself not to burst into laughter or tears—she was not sure which would win. Jane had turned impossibly red, her lips clenched together between her teeth in what seemed like an attempt to suppress either a giggle or a sob. Mr. Bingley’s hand remained firmly over his mouth, though his wide eyes betrayed his disbelief.

Miss Bingley was the first to break the stillness, her voice high and brittle. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! How… how beautiful! Such... passion!”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, his face impassive. “Thank you.”

“I trust,” Miss Bingley preened, her lashes fluttering, “that these sentiments have their inspiration in present company?”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Merely strings of words that I fancied sounded well together, Miss Bingley.”

Elizabeth finally looked up, her eyes locking with his. He seemed utterly unaffected by the devastation his poem had wrought, as though he had read a military dispatch rather than the most cloying verses ever composed.

Forcing a smile, Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice betraying only the faintest tremor, “you have outdone yourself.”

He blinked, tilting his head slightly, as if unsure whether to take her words as a compliment or not. “I appreciate your kind attention, Miss Bennet.”