Epilogue
Elizabeth adjusted her bonnet as the pony cart trundled along the snowy road toward Meryton, her gloved hands steady on the reins. Beside her, Darcy sat as stiffly as ever, his posture impeccable even in the relative discomfort of the cart. His expression was a study in composed indifference, though Elizabeth could detect the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“You are remarkably silent today, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone light. “Have I already exhausted your tolerance for my company?”
“Not at all,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though I confess I am curious as to why you were so insistent on this trip to town.”
Elizabeth hesitated, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “It is nothing of great importance,” she said casually.
Darcy’s brow arched. “Elizabeth, when you insist upon something ‘unimportant,’ I am inclined to believe the opposite.”
She laughed, unable to resist his dry tone. “Very well, if you must know, I have… a small wager to settle.”
Darcy turned to her fully, his expression equal parts incredulous and exasperated. “Another wager?”
“Indeed,” she said breezily. “With my aunt Philips. She is positively convinced that you are less than six feet tall, while I maintain that you two inches over.”
Darcy blinked, clearly unprepared for such nonsense. “You are dragging me to Meryton to measure me?”
Elizabeth grinned. “Not at all. I know how tall you are. I simply thought my aunt might like to see the proof with her own eyes.”
Darcy stared at her for a moment, his jaw tightening as he fought to suppress a smile. “You are impossible.”
“I have been told so before,” she replied cheerfully. “And before you protest, I should inform you that the stakes are quite high.”
“Pray, enlighten me,” he said, his voice dry but edged with curiosity.
“My aunt has wagered her finest tea set,” Elizabeth said with mock solemnity. “And as I am quite in need of a new one, I could hardly decline.”
Darcy groaned softly, leaning back in the seat as if the weight of the world had just been placed upon him. “Elizabeth, if a tea set is all you desire, I will gladly buy you one. There is no need for these… absurd wagers.”
Elizabeth sighed dramatically, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You are quite missing the point, Mr. Darcy. It is not about the tea set. It is about the principle of the matter.”
Darcy turned his head to regard her, his expression a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement. “And what principle might that be?”
“That I never win,” she said with mock solemnity. “Not a single wager in all my life—unless you count the time I bested Mr. Wickham over Sir William's long-windedness, but as he never paid up, I do not think that one counts. But this one, I was certain of. After all, I have stood beside you often enough to know.”
Darcy shook his head, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Elizabeth, I will not humor this foolishness.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Very well,” she said with a mock sigh. “If you are so determined to deny me the tea set, I shall have to content myself with my second wager of the day.”
“Second wager?” he repeated, his brow furrowing.
“Yes,” she said lightly, her tone almost careless. “With the bookseller. I wagered that a certain volume of essays my father ordered would arrive today.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose, though his shoulders shook faintly with suppressed laughter. “And did it?”
Elizabeth sighed again, this time more dramatically. “That is what I mean to find out, but according to my Aunt Philips, who called at Longbourn this morning, no parcels were delivered to the bookseller this morning by the post. So, it probably did not.”
Darcy chuckled, shaking his head. “You have a remarkable talent for losing wagers, Elizabeth.”
“It is a gift,” she said with a wry smile. “And one I appear destined to keep.”
As the pony cart came to a halt outside the Meryton shops, Darcy climbed down first, his boots crunching against the snow. He turned to offer her his hand, his gaze still alight with amusement. “Elizabeth,” he said, his tone half-teasing, “I refuse to be complicit in your wagering schemes.”
She took his hand, her lips curving into a playful smile. “Then wait here, Mr. Darcy. I shall face my defeats alone.”
Darcy crossed his arms, leaning against the cart with an air of feigned sternness. “Very well. But do not expect me to rescue you from the consequences of your folly.”
Elizabeth laughed as she turned toward the bookshop. Over her shoulder, she called, “Perhaps you should wager on how long it will take me to settle this one, Mr. Darcy. Then you might understand my plight.”
Darcy’s laughter followed her inside, a warm sound that lingered even as the door closed behind her. Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile as she approached the counter, her heart light despite the inevitability of her latest loss. For with Darcy, even losing seemed like winning.
Darcy stood outside the bookshop, the brisk December air carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and freshly cut pine. Around him, the town buzzed with activity—merchants calling their wares, children darting between stalls, and townsfolk exchanging holiday greetings. Darcy’s attention, however, was fixed on a singular figure: George Wickham.
The man’s usual charm had vanished, replaced by a thin veneer of composure that was fraying at the edges. Wickham stood opposite a stern-faced woman dressed in fine but practical attire. Her stance was commanding, her chin tilted high as she glared at Wickham. Darcy couldn’t help but feel a grim satisfaction at the sight.
“What is happening there?” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She stepped to his side, her hand slipping lightly into the crook of his arm.
“It appears,” Darcy said, “that Mr. Wickham’s penchant for wagers has finally caught up with him.”
Elizabeth arched a brow, her gaze shifting back to the scene. “What has he done now?”
Darcy’s lips curved into a faint smile. “If I heard correctly, he made a rather large wager with Mrs. Abernathy—the widow of a naval captain—on a game of cards last week at a tea gathering. Unfortunately for him, she is not only a skilled player but also a woman of considerable influence in town.”
As they watched, Mrs. Abernathy gestured sharply toward a document in her hand. Wickham’s face paled further as she spoke, her voice carrying just enough for Darcy and Elizabeth to catch fragments of the conversation.
“...out of my sight by sundown, or I’ll see to it that your reputation—or what little remains of it—is shredded entirely! I shall go to Colonel Forster myself!”
Elizabeth stifled a laugh behind her gloved hand. “I must say, I never expected Mr. Wickham to meet his match in a card game.”
“Nor in a woman unwilling to be charmed by his usual tactics,” Darcy added, his tone edged with satisfaction.
Wickham’s shoulders slumped, his attempts at placating Mrs. Abernathy clearly failing. Finally, he turned on his heel, his expression a mixture of anger and humiliation as he stalked away. The crowd, sensing the drama had concluded, dispersed with murmurs of interest and the occasional smirk.
Elizabeth tilted her head toward Darcy, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, Mr. Darcy, would you consider this the final triumph over Wickham?”
Darcy’s lips twitched. “It is certainly a satisfying one. Though I suspect he will resurface somewhere else, as he always does.”
“I would think, after all you have told me about his wrongs against you, you would not see him go so lightly.”
Darcy lifted his shoulders. “He has made his bed. I doubt it is a comfortable one, but mine… mine certainly will be,“ he finished with a suggestive grin.
She laughed. “You think that now, sir, but I mean to keep you guessing regularly.”
Darcy turned toward her, his expression softening. “And what of your wagers, Future Mrs. Darcy?”
“I thought we agreed not to speak of them.”
“On the contrary,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I distinctly remember you promising to corrupt my taste in literature.”
She grinned, her cheeks flushing faintly in the cold. “Ah, yes. That is a wager I fully intend to win.”
“Do you?” Darcy’s voice lowered, his gaze holding hers. “And what, pray, will be my forfeit?”
Elizabeth pretended to consider, her smile widening. “Your solemn vow to read Twelfth Night without complaining.”
Darcy chuckled, shaking his head. “A steep price, but one I am willing to pay.”
They began walking again, her hand linked under his arm. The sounds of the market faded into the background as Darcy looked down at Elizabeth, his heart full. The road to this moment had been anything but smooth—fraught with misunderstandings, wagers, and wounded pride—but standing here with her, he knew it had all been worth it.
“And you, Elizabeth,” he said, his tone light but his gaze warm, “have you any wagers left to settle?”
Elizabeth’s smile turned soft, her eyes shining as she looked up at him. “None that matter, Mr. Darcy. None at all.”
As they walked hand in hand through the snowy streets of Meryton, Darcy could not help but feel that, at last, all the wagers that had once seemed so important had led to the only victory that truly mattered: a future shared with a woman worth betting his life on.
Catch more swoony Darcy and Elizabeth romance in Raising the Stakes!