All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

19. Nineteen

Nineteen

“Now remember, Jane, you must not refuse Mr. Bingley if he asks for a second dance,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “None of your modesty for this night! A gentleman so besotted is sure to propose before the evening is out.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and adjusted her gloves, casting a sideways glance at Jane, who offered a calm, noncommittal smile in response. The carriage rocked gently beneath them as the grand house loomed closer, its windows glowing with the promise of warmth and festivity. Elizabeth tried to ignore the restless flutter of nerves in her chest. This evening was not about Jane’s impending engagement, nor her mother’s endless matchmaking schemes—it was about winning her wager and, perhaps more pressingly, finding a way to survive Mr. Collins’s attentions unscathed.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the Bennets alighted, their arrival met with the glow of lamplight spilling from the great house and the soft murmur of voices and music beyond the open doors.

“Come, girls,” Mrs. Bennet said, bustling them along. “Do not dawdle.”

Inside, Netherfield’s grand hall was already filling with guests, the air humming with the anticipation of an evening’s revelry. Elizabeth scanned the room quickly, her eyes seeking out familiar faces. Mr. Bingley stood near the entrance to the drawing room, already surrounded by well-wishers, his cheerful disposition drawing people in like a flame. Elizabeth gave her sister a gentle nudge.

“Go on, Jane. I believe your evening has just begun.”

Jane hesitated for a moment, then allowed herself to be guided forward. Elizabeth watched as Bingley’s face lit up at Jane’s approach, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. At least Jane would have a promising night.

Her own satisfaction, however, was short-lived.

“Such a grand house, is it not, Cousin Elizabeth?” Mr. Collins declared as he stepped beside her, effectively cutting off her view of the entrance hall. His gait was brisk, his voice overly loud, and he offered her an arm with an air of importance that made Elizabeth grit her teeth. “Mr. Bingley is to be commended for his fine taste, though, of course, it cannot rival the splendor of Rosings Park.”

Elizabeth kept her expression carefully neutral, though inwardly she sighed. “Yes, it is quite elegant.”

Collins beamed, clearly taking her lukewarm response as wholehearted agreement. “Indeed, indeed! I am sure the guests shall be just as impressed by our entrance. And may I say, Cousin Elizabeth, that you look most radiant tonight. I daresay your appearance shall be the talk of the ball.” He adjusted his cravat as if preparing for an audience.

Elizabeth plastered on a smile. “You are too kind.”

“Not at all, not at all,” he insisted, straightening and offering his arm. “Come, we must find a place near the dance floor. As you know, it is my privilege to open the ball with you, and I would not wish to miss the opportunity.”

Elizabeth took his arm reluctantly, casting a quick glance around the room. Her gaze landed on Darcy, standing a short distance away, his eyes already fixed on her. He did not move toward her, nor did he offer any sign of greeting. Instead, he turned slightly, as though deliberately distancing himself from her line of sight.

Elizabeth’s irritation flared. If he was so intent on avoiding her, then why had he been watching her in the first place?

“Shall we take in the room, Cousin?” Collins prompted, his grip tightening slightly on her arm as he began leading her forward. Elizabeth bit back a sigh and allowed herself to be escorted, though her mind was already working furiously. She had planned to approach Darcy early in the evening, hoping to coax a dance from him before anyone else could lay claim to his attention. A smile on the dance floor, perhaps even a second dance to seal the deal beyond any doubt, and that would be sufficient.

Now, however, she found herself shackled to Mr. Collins and at the mercy of his overzealous attentions.

“What a splendid assembly this is! And how grand of Mr. Bingley to host such an event. It is a testament to his fine character, would you not agree, Cousin Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth nodded absently, her eyes once again drifting toward Darcy again. He stood with Bingley now, their heads bent in quiet conversation. Bingley’s face bore its usual open cheerfulness, but Darcy’s was more guarded, his gaze flicking briefly in her direction before returning to his friend.

She could not tell what passed between them, but the sight of Darcy speaking with Bingley only served to heighten her frustration. If only she could find a way to rid herself of Mr. Collins...

“Cousin Elizabeth, are you quite well?” Collins asked, his tone solicitous. “You seem… distracted.”

“I assure you, Mr. Collins, I am perfectly well,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Merely taking in the atmosphere.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding sagely. “Such grandeur can be overwhelming to a young lady. But fear not, dear cousin. I shall remain at your side throughout the evening, ensuring you are never without proper company.”

Elizabeth’s smile stiffened. “How very thoughtful of you.”

As they reached the edge of the dance floor, the music swelled, signaling the start of the first set. Collins turned to face her fully, his chest puffed out with pride. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth had no choice but to nod and allow herself to be led into position. All the while, she could feel Darcy’s eyes on her, watching from the periphery of the room. He remained where he was, a silent observer, yet his presence was as tangible as if he stood beside her.

And so the dance began, with Mr. Collins stepping on her toes at least twice before the first turn was complete.

From where Darcy stood, he could see Elizabeth Bennet entering the room, her eyes flicking about as though taking in every detail at once. He noted, with some satisfaction, the faint crease of concentration on her brow—until Mr. Collins, ever-oblivious and ever-intrusive, shifted his large frame beside her, leaning in too close and speaking too loudly.

Darcy’s jaw clenched as he watched the man hover by Elizabeth’s side, puffed up with importance, no doubt imagining himself her gallant protector for the evening. As much as Darcy somehow loathed the idea of Elizabeth being subjected to Collins’s tiresome company, he could not help but see the man’s usefulness. For all his faults—and they were plentiful—Collins was a convenient barrier. As long as the clergyman remained glued to Elizabeth’s side, Darcy would have little cause to be drawn into closer proximity to her.

“Darcy, there you are.” Bingley’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I am simply beside myself with how grand the room looks tonight. Do you not agree?”

Darcy blinked, refocusing his attention on his friend. He gave a curt nod. “Yes. Your housekeeper has done well.”

“Still as enthusiastic as ever about these gatherings, I see,” Bingley teased lightly, but Darcy offered no reply. His eyes had drifted back to Elizabeth, who now stood at the edge of the dance floor, Collins gesturing animatedly beside her. Her expression was carefully composed, but Darcy could sense the frustration simmering beneath it.

Bingley followed his gaze, a knowing smile forming on his lips. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth. She does look well tonight, does she not?”

“She always looks well,” Darcy said quietly before he could stop himself.

Bingley’s smile grew. “High praise, coming from you.”

Darcy forced himself to look away. He could feel Bingley’s scrutiny, but he had no intention of indulging it. His goal tonight was clear: remain distant, remain excessively polite, and most importantly, remain unnoticed in regard to Elizabeth Bennet. Any appearance of particular attention would only serve to stoke the unwholesome flames of gossip that Caroline Bingley had so gleefully kindled.

But as the first strains of music filled the air, and the dancers took their places, Darcy found his resolve tested. Elizabeth had taken to the floor with Collins, and though Darcy had no desire to be in the clergyman’s place, he could not look away. Collins stumbled through the opening steps, his movements clumsy and exaggerated. Elizabeth, by contrast, moved with grace, her expression a mask of polite endurance.

Oh, dash it all, what was the use? Everyone else was looking at her. Elizabeth Bennet did capture attention— his attention, most dangerously of all. And that was precisely why he had to ensure that no one else noticed.

It was a delicate balance. He had no intention of indulging his own feelings, but he could not deny that he felt protective of her, especially with Wickham probably lurking somewhere in the crowd. The man had a knack for inserting himself where he was least wanted, and Darcy had no doubt he would attempt to engage Elizabeth before the night was through.

“Darcy, you have not forgot the supper set, have you?” Bingley asked. “Our deal?”

Darcy’s grip on the stem of his glass tightened slightly, though his outward composure remained intact. “I had not forgot.”

“Good,” Bingley replied, smiling faintly. “One dance, Darcy. Then you may safely ignore her for the rest of the evening. That is all it will take to silence Caroline’s teasing and prove your point. And I…” he sighed reluctantly. “I suppose I will be obliged to write to my solicitor and sell the mill.”

Darcy made no immediate reply. The very idea of dancing with her left him uneasy.

“I shall ask her,” he said at last, his voice low. “At the appropriate time.”

“Excellent,” Bingley said with satisfaction. “You might even enjoy it, Darcy.”

Darcy said nothing in response, though inwardly he braced himself. One dance might satisfy Bingley’s challenge, but half an hour on the dance floor, followed by an hour or more sitting beside her at supper...

His gaze drifted back to Elizabeth, who was still enduring Mr. Collins’s attentions with remarkable patience. He allowed himself one brief moment of indulgence, imagining how different the evening might be if he could approach her without consequence, without the burden of reputation weighing upon every action.

But such thoughts were dangerous, and Darcy had no intention of entertaining them further. He would ask Elizabeth for the supper set, fulfill the terms of the wager, and ensure that no one—not even himself—could mistake it for anything more.

Elizabeth had scarcely finished the third dance with Paul Goulding when she noticed Darcy approaching. At last! His expression was as composed as ever, yet there was something in his bearing—something deliberate—that caught her attention.

“Miss Bennet,” he said as he reached her, bowing slightly. “Might I have the honor of the supper set?”

For a moment, Elizabeth could only blink at him. This was… entirely too easy. She had imagined a game of cat and mouse throughout the evening, with herself as the cunning predator, coaxing Darcy into revealing more than he intended. Yet here he was, asking her directly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

She smiled, masking her surprise. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy. I would be delighted.”

Mr. Collins, who was still lingering too close for comfort, looked fit to swoon. “Ah, Cousin Elizabeth! You are much sought after this evening, but I trust you will not forget your humble relation. Perhaps you might join me for another—”

“I believe, Mr. Collins, that Sir William was hoping to speak with you,” Darcy interrupted. “I trust you were aware? Sir William is quite keen to hear more about your recent efforts at Hunsford. On my honor, I heard him speaking to Mr. Bennet about it not five minutes ago.”

Collins’s face lit up. “Indeed? Well, if that is the case, I must not delay.”

With an elaborate bow, he excused himself, leaving Elizabeth momentarily stunned by the ease with which Darcy had dispatched him. She scarcely contained her amusement as she turned back to Darcy. “That was well done.”

“I have found that certain conversations are best left to those who appreciate them.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Poor Sir William. He may never forgive you.”

“I am willing to risk it,” Darcy replied, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. After a brief pause, he added, “Would you care for some punch, Miss Bennet? Or are you otherwise engaged?”

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the unexpected civility of the offer. “Yes, thank you. That would be most welcome.”

Darcy inclined his head and turned toward the refreshment table, leaving Elizabeth to watch his retreating form with a mix of curiosity and newfound amusement. She had expected Darcy to keep his distance tonight, but instead, he seemed intent on behaving like… like a gentleman . Without even being provoked to it. How very unexpected—and how very intriguing.

They approached the refreshment table together, and Darcy selected a glass of punch and handed it to her.

Elizabeth accepted the glass, offering a small smile. “I must admit, I did not expect to enjoy myself tonight.”

“I can hardly credit that statement. You always seem to enjoy yourself in company.”

“And you do not.”

He swallowed and raised a brow. “You intend to change my mind, Miss Elizabeth? Or are you merely being contrary for the sake of provoking a debate, as you seem fond of doing?”

She permitted her smile to widen. “I leave you to discern that on your own. Meanwhile, I shall perhaps observe that balls are generally predictable affairs.”

“Predictable in what sense?” Darcy asked.

“Oh, the usual,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Too many people in too small a space, far too many opinions on matters of little importance, and always the same assortment of characters—gossips, dancers, and those who merely endure it.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, considering her words. “And which are you?”

Elizabeth smiled wryly. “I suppose I fall somewhere between the last two.”

“That would explain why you often find yourself at the center of attention, yet never entirely content with it.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Why, Mr. Darcy, you would teach me to doubt my own feelings!”

“I am correct, am I not? Tell me that you do not immediately seek to deflect the focus of others from yourself and toward one of your sisters when you feel the sun shines a little too warmly on you?”

She laughed. “I think what you call deflection is the natural result of having one sister, at least, who can outshine the sun.”

He raised his glass toward her. “There, you are doing it again.”

Elizabeth sipped her wine and shook her head. “And you, Mr. Darcy? Where do you place yourself in my little cast of characters?” She made a mock pout. “For surely, I did not take you for a gossip, but you seem perfectly content to blather nonsense at the moment.”

Darcy’s mouth curved, and he twirled the stem of the glass in his hand. “I endure it,” he said simply, though there was a flicker of something wry in his eyes. “Balls are necessary obligations, nothing more.”

“And yet here you are, obliging yourself to fetch punch for me,” Elizabeth teased, tilting her head slightly. “Surely that is not merely obligation?”

Darcy met her gaze evenly, his expression calm but unreadable. “It is civility.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth said, feigning disappointment. “Civility. How very dull.”

To her surprise, he smiled—a real, unguarded smile that transformed his normally severe features. “Perhaps civility need not always be dull.”

“I suppose it depends on the company,” she said softly, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away.

Darcy inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words without further comment. For a moment, the conversation lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable silence, one that needed no urgent filling.

“I should join my friends,” Elizabeth said at last, though she found herself reluctant to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. For the punch.”

“You are welcome, Miss Elizabeth.”

“The Boulanger,” Elizabeth remarked as they stepped into line, her hand resting lightly in Darcy’s. “An interesting choice for a supper set, is it not? Lively enough to keep everyone awake, yet formal enough to remind us all of propriety.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, his grip steady but precise as they moved into place. “It serves its purpose. A balance between energy and decorum.”

Elizabeth smiled, as though she had anticipated such an answer. She glanced away, scanning the crowded ballroom as if assessing her surroundings, but Darcy noticed the faint curve of amusement lingering at the corners of her mouth. It was a look he had grown familiar with—Elizabeth Bennet, perpetually entertained by the world around her, and often at his expense.

Around them, couples moved into place, preparing for the opening steps. The buzz of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional rustle of skirts and clink of glassware from the supper room beyond. Darcy noted the eyes of several guests drifting their way, some curious, some speculative.

He forced himself to focus on the rhythm of the music, the precision of the steps. And yet, even as the first notes sounded, and the people around them began to move into his sphere, his attention remained anchored to Elizabeth. She moved with a willowy sort of seduction, each step light and sure, and though he maintained the proper distance between them, he could not help but be acutely aware of her—of the warmth of her fingers in his, of the delicate rustle of her gown as it swirled around her feet.

“You have fallen quiet again, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth remarked as they stepped together. “One might think you are concentrating.”

Darcy met her gaze briefly, then looked past her toward the other dancers. “Is that not expected during a dance?”

“It is expected,” she agreed, tilting her head slightly, “but I find it rather disappointing. Surely a man of your talents could manage both concentration and conversation.”

“And what would you have me say, Miss Bennet?” he asked, his tone as measured as his steps. “Am I to offer witticisms, or merely endure your observations in silence?”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief as they parted for the next figure. “Oh, I would not dream of imposing too greatly upon your wit. Perhaps you could recite poetry instead.”

Darcy raised a brow as they turned through the group, his voice carrying over the music. “You mean to mock me, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, no!” she cried innocently. “But you find the exercise a pleasure, and so if I wish to make myself agreeable for the half hour, I can do you the courtesy of listening.”

Darcy arched a brow as they reached the end of their line. “I fear that would be a far greater imposition than silence.”

When they came back together, Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Then I must insist upon it. Surely a man as accomplished as yourself has no shortage of verses to recite.”

“I do not recall boasting of any such accomplishment,” Darcy replied. “But if you insist, I could attempt a line or two.”

“Please do,” Elizabeth said, her smile widening as they turned again.

Darcy took a steadying breath, his mind racing. He had not intended to humor her, but something about the sparkle in her eyes and the way she leaned ever so slightly closer as they moved was impossible to resist.

When they met again in the steps, he said, his tone as serious as if he were quoting Byron himself:

“The moon is high, the night is fair, Yet I find myself trapped in this despair.”

Elizabeth blinked, then laughed—a bright, genuine sound that drew glances from the nearby dancers. “Trapped in despair, Mr. Darcy? Over a mere dance? How melodramatic of you.”

“Perhaps my muse is too stern,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I shall try again.”

“Please do,” she replied, her tone encouraging, though her laughter still lingered.

As the dance brought them apart again, Darcy’s thoughts turned toward the absurd. He could scarcely believe he was indulging her like this, yet the challenge in her eyes spurred him onward.

When they rejoined, he added, with mock solemnity:

“A ballroom bright, a crowd unkind, And yet, your sharp wit fills my mind.”

Elizabeth feigned shock, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why, Mr. Darcy, I believe that is almost a compliment.”

“It was not my intention to flatter,” he replied, his voice perfectly dry.

“Ah, but that is what makes it so rare,” she countered, her eyes gleaming.

Darcy held her gaze a moment longer, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered—clever, quick-witted, and entirely unafraid to meet him on equal footing.

“Shall I try again?” he asked as they moved through the next sequence.

“Oh, please do,” Elizabeth said, her tone bordering on delighted.

As they met once more, Darcy leaned in just enough to lower his voice, a glimmer of mischief entering his own expression.

“Though words may falter, steps may fail, I find no wit in your travail.”

Elizabeth gasped theatrically. “Now that is quite unkind, sir! My steps have been nothing short of perfection.”

Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “I concede the point. My muse must be defective.”

Elizabeth laughed again, shaking her head. “Then perhaps we should leave the poetry to others. I should hate to see you ruin your reputation with such efforts.”

Darcy inclined his head, his tone gentler now. “And what of yours, Miss Bennet? Surely such provocations risk damaging your own standing.”

“Oh, my reputation is quite ruined already,” she said airily, her grin as bright as the chandeliers overhead. “But I find I enjoy myself far more this way.”

As they turned for the final figure of the dance, Darcy realized that he, too, was enjoying himself more than he had in years. The weight of the ballroom, the expectations, the constant eyes upon him—all of it seemed to fade in the presence of Elizabeth Bennet’s quick tongue and sharper mind.

As the music swelled to its conclusion, they came to a graceful stop. Darcy released her hand, though the warmth of her touch lingered longer than it should have.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice light but sincere. “That was almost enjoyable.”

“Almost?” he echoed, raising a brow.

“Well,” she said with a playful tilt of her head, “you did insist upon trying poetry.”

“At your insistence, madam.”

“And you were naive enough to take my words at their face value!” She clucked her tongue. “I thought you might have known better by now, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy allowed himself a chuckle as he bowed. “Then I shall endeavor to avoid such mistakes in future.”

Elizabeth curtsied in return, her eyes still dancing with humor. “A wise decision.”

As the other couples began to disperse, Darcy extended his arm. “Shall we take our place for supper?”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before accepting his offer. “I suppose I must, if I hope to observe more of your endurance.”

Darcy gave no outward sign of amusement, but inwardly, he braced himself. The supper set, he reminded himself, was merely another obligation to be met. And yet, as he led Elizabeth toward the refreshment room, he could not shake the feeling that this particular obligation might prove far more difficult—and far more dangerous—than he had anticipated.