20. Twenty
Twenty
That was it. The wager was won.
Elizabeth shot Charlotte Lucas a triumphant look as she took Darcy’s arm, allowing him to lead her toward the supper room. Charlotte raised her brows meaningfully, then rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. The gesture said everything: Well done, now finish it .
Wait… she was… serious?
Elizabeth shook her head faintly, pantomiming that she did not understand, so Charlotte spelled it out for her by mouthing the words. “Turn him down.”
She blinked. Charlotte was really holding her to that part of the wager? The petty, spiteful part, the part Elizabeth had agreed to only out of wounded pride? She pursed her lips and sucked in a breath. Could she do it? Did she even need to?
Oh, surely she had satisfied the terms. Charlotte could not be so cruel… could she? But as Elizabeth slid her gaze toward Darcy, then back to her friend, Charlotte made one final gesture. A little brushing of her thumb against her fingertips, a little signal that said plain as day, “Prepare to pay up.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of something unfamiliar—guilt, perhaps, or reluctance—as she turned away from her friend.
Her attention snapped back to the gentleman at her side as his fingers closed around hers. It was a perfectly ordinary gesture, yet the weight of the eyes following them made it feel oddly significant. Elizabeth glanced up at him, finding his expression composed as ever, though there was a faint tension in his jaw, as if he were bearing the scrutiny with stoic resignation. The realization struck her: He knew they were watching too.
The room seemed to hum with the energy of so many unspoken thoughts, so much speculation. Elizabeth could almost feel the pressure of the whispers—who would have imagined Mr. Darcy, the aloof and inscrutable master of Pemberley, sharing the supper set with one of the Bennets? She had no doubt Caroline Bingley’s fury could have set the chandeliers alight, and Mary Bennet’s thinly veiled disapproval had not escaped her notice either.
But as they reached their table, Elizabeth forced herself to focus. She had secured the supper set—whatever remained was no longer Darcy’s choice, but fully within her own power. Her wager with Charlotte was as good as finished. The thought should have brought triumph, a sense of satisfaction at having proven her friend wrong. Yet as she settled into her chair and Darcy poured her a glass of punch, the feeling that stirred within her was something far more complicated.
“Is the punch to your liking, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, breaking the silence.
Elizabeth glanced down at her glass, then back at him. His tone was polite, even cordial, yet she detected the faintest hint of something more—hesitation, perhaps, or curiosity. “Perfectly, thank you,” she said lightly. “Though I confess I find the conversation thus far to be lacking.”
His lips quirked slightly, the ghost of a smile. “Then allow me to remedy that.”
“How very considerate of you,” Elizabeth replied, her smile widening.
She had not expected to feel this way—to enjoy herself so thoroughly, to see Darcy not as a wager to be won but as a man she genuinely admired. The thought of rejecting him, of fulfilling the final term of her agreement with Charlotte, now felt… wrong. It was no longer a jest, no longer a harmless game. It was real.
Elizabeth stole another glance at Charlotte, who was seated on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with Maria Lucas. Charlotte turned slightly, catching Elizabeth’s eye, and gave her a subtle but pointed look. Elizabeth quickly looked away, her pulse quickening.
Darcy’s voice drew her attention back. “You seem distracted, Miss Bennet.”
She blinked, startled. “Oh, not at all. I was merely… reflecting.”
“On what, if I may ask?”
Elizabeth hesitated, searching for an answer that would not betray her thoughts. “On how unexpected this evening has been.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly. “Unexpected in what way?”
“In many ways,” she said, her tone deliberately vague. “But mostly in how much I have… enjoyed it.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, the intensity of his gaze left her breathless. “I am glad to hear that,” he said quietly. “It is not often that I enjoy such evenings myself.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm, and she looked away, reaching for her glass to cover her flustered state. “Would you go so far as to declare yourself happy at the moment?”
“Happiness is a matter of perspective.”
“And what, pray, is your perspective?”
“That happiness is best pursued quietly,” Darcy replied, meeting her gaze.
“How utterly tragic,” Elizabeth declared, leaning forward slightly. “I suppose that means you avoid public displays of joy? No raucous laughter, no spirited exclamations?”
“I leave those to others,” he said evenly.
“Ah, so you merely endure happiness.”
Darcy paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “I do not endure happiness, Miss Bennet. I prefer it to be… private.”
“Private happiness,” Elizabeth repeated thoughtfully. “That sounds like the sort of thing one reads about in that rather… bad poetry of yours.”
Darcy’s hand froze, his expression briefly faltering. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, you cannot be under the impression that you are a talent!” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your lines are filled with solemn pronouncements on the virtue of quiet suffering and the agony of secret longing.”
“I know you are no lover of verse, but I was not aware you had such a low opinion of my efforts. I believe I am insulted.”
She leaned forward. “Mr. Darcy, though it pains me to grieve you, you are the worst poet I have ever heard.”
“I find that difficult to credit, coming from one who dislikes the form in general. What gives you the authority to judge?”
“Is it not subjective? I have my own preferences, and that is sufficient. Perhaps it would surprise you to know that I do not hate all poetry.”
Darcy set his glass down, his composure returning. “And what sort would you prefer?”
Elizabeth hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “The sort that… amuses, I suppose. Or surprises. Perhaps even delights.”
“That is a tall order,” Darcy said, his tone thoughtful. “Perhaps you should demonstrate.”
“Demonstrate?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“If you have such strong opinions on the matter, surely you can provide an example.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, prepared to refuse, but the glint of challenge in Darcy’s eyes gave her pause. She could not very well back down now, not after teasing him so thoroughly.
“Very well,” she said, straightening in her chair. “But I warn you, Mr. Darcy, I am no poet.”
“I am prepared to be amazed.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips, considering. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she recited:
“A gentleman grave, his manner austere, But what lies beneath? A heart full of cheer?”
Darcy’s lips twitched. “Is that meant to describe me?”
“It might,” Elizabeth said airily. “Though I suppose the cheer is debatable.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, as though accepting her challenge. “Allow me to retort.”
“A lady so clever, her wit sharp and fine, Yet often she leaves disaster behind.”
Elizabeth gasped, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “Disaster? That is most unjust.”
“Is it?” Darcy countered, his tone dry. “I heard something about a certain occasion involving Mr. Collins and a tray of tea, shortly after he came to Longbourn.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “You have spies, I see!”
He sipped his wine, rather smugly, and set his glass aside. “No. I have Bingley, who has spent an inordinate amount of time in conversation with your sister. He said something about an odd wrinkle in the rug that had not been there moments before. Apparently, it cost Mr. Collins his favorite cravat.”
“That was not my fault!” Elizabeth protested, laughing despite herself. “If anyone was to blame, it was the rug.”
“The rug was innocent. You , however, I am in doubt of.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her laughter drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. “You are entirely incorrigible, Mr. Darcy.”
“I prefer incorrigible to austere,” he said, raising his glass slightly.
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, her amusement softening into something warmer. She had not expected this—this playfulness, this ease. It was a side of him she had glimpsed before but never so fully, and it was… disarming.
“Well,” she said at last, lifting her glass in return. “To incorrigible gentlemen and clever ladies.”
“To private happiness,” Darcy added quietly.
Their glasses clinked softly, the sound nearly lost amid the buzz of the room. Yet for Elizabeth, it felt like a declaration—of what, she could not quite say. All she knew was that for the first time in their acquaintance, she felt entirely at ease in Darcy’s presence. And that, she realized with a pang, was more dangerous than any wager.
Darcy watched Elizabeth laugh, her eyes sparkling as she recovered from their poetic sparring. He had not expected the conversation to take this turn, and yet he found himself oddly grateful for it. She had a way of disarming him, of coaxing out parts of himself he thought long buried. The weight of the room—the glances, the whispers, the expectations—had faded into background noise, eclipsed entirely by her presence.
But just as he began to settle into the ease of their conversation, Elizabeth’s expression shifted. Her laughter quieted, and her gaze flickered briefly across the room. Darcy followed it instinctively, noting that her friend Miss Lucas seemed to be watching them with a pointed look. When Elizabeth’s eyes returned to his, they held a new coolness, her warmth momentarily dimmed. It was so subtle, so fleeting, that he might have imagined it—if not for the faintly guarded tone that crept into her voice when she spoke again.
“You are rather reflective all of a sudden, Mr. Darcy. Dare I ask what occupies your thoughts?”
Darcy hesitated, unsure how to answer. The truth—that his thoughts were entirely consumed by her—seemed far too dangerous to admit. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the flicker of the candlelight on the table.
“Many things,” he said at last, keeping his tone even. “But mostly, I find myself wondering how you manage to defy expectation at every turn.”
Elizabeth’s laughter returned, soft and musical, yet Darcy noted that it did not linger as long this time. “That, Mr. Darcy, is simply a matter of principle. I make it a point never to be predictable.”
“You succeed admirably,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smile.
For a moment, her smile softened into something less playful, more contemplative. But then her gaze flicked away again—this time toward her sisters. Lydia’s shrill laughter rang out from the far side of the room, and Elizabeth’s expression tensed almost imperceptibly. Darcy followed her gaze once more, wondering what thoughts swirled behind her eyes, what weight she carried that she would not share. When her attention returned to him, her smile was firmly in place, though it no longer reached her eyes.
Their conversation lulled as the servers cleared away their plates. Darcy caught himself studying Elizabeth as she turned her attention to the room again, her gaze sweeping over the other guests with quiet observation. There was a thoughtfulness to her, an intelligence that shone through in every glance, every word. She was not merely clever; she was perceptive, and he had no doubt that she saw more of the world—and of him—than most people ever did.
But tonight, there was something else in her expression, something Darcy could not quite name. A flicker of hesitation, of conflict, as though she were at war with herself. Each time she let her warmth show, it seemed quickly followed by a moment of retreat, as though she were reminding herself of some invisible boundary she dared not cross.
The inconsistency left him restless. What was holding her back? Why did her openness feel so fleeting, her joy so tempered? She had never been thus before. Was something troubling her this evening? It… it could not be Wickham, could it? An almost possessive ire shot through him at that idea. Darcy shot a glare across the dining room, but Wickham was not even within ready line of sight, and furthermore, Darcy had not seen him approach Elizabeth all evening.
He longed to ask, to understand, but he knew better than to press. Instead, he kept his silence, hoping that if he waited, she might offer him a glimpse of whatever thoughts weighed on her so heavily.
Darcy’s attention drifted to Elizabeth’s face as her gaze wandered across the room, settling on her sisters. Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine were giggling loudly with their partners, their behavior drawing amused—and disapproving—glances from the surrounding guests. Miss Mary, seated near Mr. Collins, was speaking with displeased urgency about something or other, her voice carrying across the room with unrestrained earnestness.
Elizabeth’s expression tightened slightly, though she did not sigh or frown. Instead, there was a faint set to her jaw, a frustration she was clearly attempting to conceal. Darcy noted the flicker of something deeper in her eyes—sadness, perhaps, or resignation. She did not meet his gaze at first, but when she finally turned and caught him watching her, her lips curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile.
“One cannot account for younger sisters,” she said quietly, her tone wry but tinged with something softer. “One is concerned for them, of course, but… well, they cannot entirely be managed.”
Darcy hesitated, considering her words. “You speak from experience.”
She gave a small shrug, her gaze drifting briefly back to the table where Lydia had now spilled something onto the floor. “Lydia is lively, and Kitty follows where she leads. They mean no harm, but sometimes… sometimes I wonder if they understand how their actions reflect on the rest of us.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his voice low as he replied, “You are not alone in such concerns.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression shifting subtly. There was curiosity in her eyes now, mixed with a hesitation he had not seen before. She seemed to weigh her next words carefully before speaking.
“And your own sister,” she began, her tone softer now, “has her situation improved? I recall you mentioned she was visiting a family she had not wished to travel with. I hope her spirits have… recovered.”
Darcy blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He had not expected her to remember such a detail, let alone ask about it with such genuine concern. For a moment, he said nothing, unsure how much to reveal.
“I have promised her that I will collect her next week and return to London with her, to spend the rest of the winter with our Matlock relations.”
“Ah.” She nodded, and there was in her expression some sort of mixture of approval and regret. “I imagine that pleased her.”
“I hope so. For now, she is managing. Though I fear her reluctance to go with that family was not entirely unfounded. Georgiana is… sensitive. Shy. She finds it difficult to adapt to unfamiliar company.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, her gaze steady on his. “That is understandable. I imagine it is difficult to feel at ease in such situations, especially for someone so young.”
Darcy hesitated again, the words catching in his throat. There was something about Elizabeth’s manner—her empathy, her quiet curiosity—that made him want to share more. He leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice as he continued. “She has had… experiences that make her wary of others. I wish I could shield her from such things, but I know it is not entirely within my power.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed slightly, her tone growing even softer. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy… what is she like?”
The question hung between them, and Darcy felt an odd tightness in his chest. He rarely spoke of Georgiana in such detail, even to Bingley. But the sincerity in Elizabeth’s expression—the absence of judgment, the quiet understanding—compelled him to answer.
“She is…” He paused, searching for the right words. “She is kind. Gentle. Perhaps too gentle for her own good. She has a talent for music and a love for reading, though she can be painfully shy in company.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, her eyes softening. “She sounds lovely.”
“She is,” Darcy said quietly. “But her kindness makes her vulnerable. She sees the good in everyone, even when it is not deserved. And I fear there are those who would take advantage of that.”
Elizabeth’s expression grew serious, her gaze steady. “She is fortunate, then, to have a brother who sees the world more clearly.”
Darcy met her eyes, struck by the quiet conviction in her voice. “I do what I can,” he said after a moment. “But there are times when I wonder if it is enough.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “I think, Mr. Darcy, that it is enough to care. To try. That is more than many would do.”
Darcy felt the weight of her words settle over him, their sincerity cutting through the noise of the room. She spoke with such ease, such clarity, and he found himself wondering—not for the first time—how it was that she seemed to understand so much of what he could never say.
“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice low. “For speaking so plainly.”
Elizabeth smiled then, a small, warm smile that sent an inexplicable warmth through him. “Well,” she said lightly, “I should warn you, Mr. Darcy, that plain speaking is something of a habit with me.”
“It is a habit I find myself appreciating,” he replied.
Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the sincerity of his tone. Then, with a soft smile, she said, “Well, I shall consider that a compliment.”
“It is meant as one,” he replied.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade entirely. Darcy could feel the pull of her presence, the undeniable gravity that seemed to draw him closer to her. It was a feeling he had fought against for weeks, a battle he had told himself he could win. But sitting here, looking at her, he realized with startling clarity that he had already lost.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice low, each word carefully chosen. “I find myself—”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind. Her eyes widened slightly, and she glanced away, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Please… do not.”
Darcy froze, the unspoken words caught in his throat. For a moment, he simply stared at her, the flicker of something—hesitation? fear?—in her expression catching him entirely off guard. She wasn’t angry. If anything, she looked almost regretful, as though stopping him had cost her something, too.
“I beg your pardon,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Elizabeth’s gaze darted back to him, and though her expression was carefully composed, there was a tremor of uncertainty in her voice when she replied. “You did not. It is only that… some things are better left unsaid.”
Darcy’s chest tightened, confusion and frustration warring within him. He had thought—no, he had felt—something between them tonight. A connection that transcended the games and wagers and social conventions that had brought them together. But now, as she sat before him, her eyes shadowed with some unspoken thought, he was no longer certain of anything.
“Of course,” he said after a moment, inclining his head slightly. “I would never presume to speak where my words are unwelcome.”
Elizabeth winced, a small but unmistakable reaction, and Darcy cursed himself for the unintended sharpness of his tone. She opened her mouth as if to respond, then seemed to think better of it, her lips pressing into a thin line.
They sat in silence for a moment, the charged energy between them replaced by an awkward stillness. Around them, the hum of the room returned, the clinking of glasses and low murmur of voices grounding them once more in the reality of the evening.
Elizabeth shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers brushing against the tablecloth. “I think I should… return to my friends,” she said, her voice softer now, almost tentative. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your company.”
Darcy rose immediately as she stood, his movements instinctive and precise. “The pleasure was mine, Miss Bennet.”
Her gaze lingered on his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though she wanted to say more. But whatever words she might have spoken remained unvoiced. Instead, she offered him a small, almost apologetic smile before turning and weaving her way back toward the crowded ballroom.
Darcy watched her go, his thoughts a whirlwind of contradictions. She had stopped him before he could say the thing he had scarcely allowed himself to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind. And yet, she had not rejected him outright. There had been no disdain in her manner, no triumph or amusement, only discomfort—and something else he could not quite name.
The hum of the ballroom enveloped Elizabeth as she moved back toward the dance floor, the remnants of her supper conversation with Darcy lingering in her mind. It had been unexpectedly enjoyable—no, more than enjoyable. It had been disarming, leaving her mind spinning into an abyss of… was that was desire was? It was certainly something.
The Darcy she had encountered tonight was not the aloof, judgmental man she had once dismissed with scorn. He was thoughtful, even kind, and for the first time, she began to see him as something more than the sum of his faults. He was human, imperfect, and—she dared admit—remarkably similar to herself. A fellow cynic, forced to weather the world with wary eyes, he had revealed a side of himself that felt unexpectedly familiar.
And tonight, he had done it… rather pleasantly. Darcy had been charming, surprisingly warm, and even vulnerable in his quiet way. The memory of his expression when he spoke of his sister sent a pang through her chest—an ache that felt dangerously close to admiration. She shook her head slightly, as if to dislodge the thought, but it clung stubbornly, a persistent echo of their conversation.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her hands tightening briefly at her sides. She had not rejected him outright. That was the most damning part of all. She had stopped him, yes, but only because she could not bear to hear what he might have said. The thought of his sincerity, of the possibility that he might feel as deeply as she now suspected, left her trembling.
And worse still, she had not finished the terms of the wager.
Her gaze flicked across the room to Charlotte, who stood near the far wall, her expression one of quiet expectation. Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She could not go on with it—not now, not after tonight. Whatever Charlotte might think of her, whatever teasing remarks or smug glances she might endure, Elizabeth could not bring herself to treat Darcy so callously.
No, it was time to surrender. To admit defeat. She would cross the room, find Charlotte, and tell her plainly: “You were right. I cannot do it.”
She had taken only a single step in Charlotte’s direction when a young militia officer approached, his red coat bright against the muted colors of the crowd. He bowed deeply, his expression earnest and eager. “Miss Bennet, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing toward Charlotte, whose eyes met hers briefly before darting away. A quiet sigh escaped her lips. She had been ready to end this charade—to lay down her arms and declare herself vanquished. But now, here was a polite interruption, one that demanded her attention and delayed the inevitable.
With a small, practiced smile, she inclined her head. “Of course, sir. I would be delighted.”
As he led her to the dance floor, Elizabeth tried to muster the lightness that usually came so easily. But her mind was elsewhere—on Darcy’s weighted gaze, on the warmth that had crept into his voice, and on the weight of everything she had nearly allowed him to say.
The music began, and they moved into the steps of The Duke of Kent’s Waltz. The officer was a competent dancer, if a bit stiff, and his conversation stayed firmly in the realm of polite trivialities. Elizabeth found herself responding automatically, her attention drifting elsewhere.
Across the room, she caught sight of Darcy, standing near one of the columns, his dark eyes fixed on her. She faltered for the briefest moment in her step, recovering quickly enough that her partner did not notice, though her heart gave a curious little flutter. Darcy’s gaze was steady, unreadable, and yet it seemed to hold an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
What was he thinking? The thought distracted her throughout the remainder of the dance, her replies to her partner growing increasingly absentminded. By the time the set ended, she was grateful for the opportunity to retreat to the side of the room for a moment of refreshment.
Elizabeth made her way to a small table near the far wall, where glasses of punch and plates of biscuits had been laid out. She took a glass and sipped, letting the cool, sweet liquid soothe her dry throat. She glanced around the room, scanning the lively crowd, and her gaze inevitably landed on Darcy once more. He had moved closer, though still at a respectable distance, and was now speaking with Mr. Bingley. Even as he nodded in response to whatever Bingley was saying, his attention flickered back to her.
Elizabeth felt a curious mix of irritation and warmth. Why was he watching her so intently? Did he not have more pressing matters to occupy his time?
“Miss Eliza!” came a familiar, saccharine voice. Elizabeth turned to find Caroline Bingley standing beside her, resplendent in a pale orange gown that shimmered in the light. Her smile was as sharp as the cut of her sleeves. “You seem quite occupied this evening. Might I intrude upon your thoughts for a moment?”
Elizabeth set her glass down and returned Caroline’s smile with one of her own, her tone cool but polite. “Of course, Miss Bingley. I am always delighted by your company.”
“How gracious of you,” Caroline said, her voice lilting with practiced charm. She moved closer, her eyes sweeping the room with calculated disinterest before settling back on Elizabeth. “I must say, you have had quite the evening. Mr. Darcy has been… attentive, has he not?”
Elizabeth tilted her head, feigning ignorance. “Attentive? Nothing out of the common way, I imagine.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Eliza,” Caroline said with a small, tinkling laugh. “Everyone has noticed. He danced with you, sat with you at supper—why, I daresay he has scarcely looked away from you all evening.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, though she kept her expression neutral. “I suppose Mr. Darcy is fulfilling his duty as a gentleman. Nothing more.”
“Is that what you think?” Caroline said, her voice dropping slightly. “How charmingly naive of you.”
Elizabeth stiffened slightly but kept her expression even. “I cannot imagine what you mean by that, Miss Bingley.”
Caroline’s gaze flicked briefly across the room, and Elizabeth followed it, her stomach sinking as she spotted Lydia and Kitty near the refreshment table. Lydia was laughing loudly at some joke made by a young officer, her voice carrying above the hum of conversation. Kitty, not to be outdone, swayed slightly as she giggled into her punch cup, clearly enjoying the attention of another officer who was leaning far too close.
Caroline sighed delicately. “Your sisters do seem to be enjoying themselves tonight. Though I wonder if perhaps their enthusiasm might be a touch… immoderate.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, but she kept her tone light. “They are young, Miss Bingley. Youth is often exuberant.”
“Indeed,” Caroline said, her tone laden with false sympathy. “It is such a pity, though, when exuberance leads to… unfortunate misunderstandings. I only say so because I care, of course.”
Elizabeth turned to face her fully, her smile frozen in place. “How very thoughtful of you.”
Caroline tilted her head, her expression one of feigned concern. “I only wish to be helpful, Miss Eliza. After all, I would hate for anyone to misconstrue Mr. Darcy’s behavior tonight. He is a man of duty, as you said, and his honor is above reproach. Surely you understand.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to race, though she kept her voice steady. “I cannot imagine anyone would think otherwise.”
“Oh, I should hope not,” Caroline said with a sigh of relief. “It would be such a shame for you to misinterpret his attentions. You see…” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret. “His behavior this evening is no doubt tied to the wager he made with my brother.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “A… a wager?”
“Oh, yes, though I’m sure it was all in good fun. Darcy, Heaven bless him, has been trying for years to persuade my brother to sell that dreadful warehouse in London, but Charles has been so stubbornly attached to it. Darcy knew, of course, that he would not let it go without a little extra incentive. Of course, as part of the arrangement, Mr. Darcy promised to show… a certain civility to my brother’s guests and neighbors.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and turned them fully on Miss Bingley. “Civility?”
“Oh! You know Darcy. He can hardly swat the ladies away fast enough when he is in company, so naturally, he has taken the defense of disliking everyone at first brush. Charles is terribly naive about the thing, though, and he took it into his head that Darcy must make himself amenable to… everyone. Although, I understand that later, the terms of the wager were restricted to merely indulging your family.”
Elizabeth gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. “How kind of him.”
“Oh, indeed,” Caroline said brightly. “Mr. Darcy is nothing if not honorable. But I thought you ought to know. It would be dreadful if you were to imagine his attentions were… personal.”
Elizabeth forced a tight smile, her heart pounding in her chest. “Your concern is noted, Miss Bingley. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
Caroline’s expression turned positively saccharine. “Of course. It is always a pleasure to be of service.”
With that, she swept away, leaving Elizabeth standing alone, her thoughts churning. A wager. That was why Darcy had been so attentive, so polite. It was not because he wished to be, but because he was bound by some ridiculous agreement with Bingley.
Her cheeks burned as she glanced across the room, her eyes landing on Darcy once more. He was speaking to Mr. Hurst now, but his gaze flicked toward her as though he could sense her attention. His expression was calm, unreadable, but to Elizabeth, it now seemed calculated. Every gesture, every word from him tonight—it had all been a performance.
Straightening her shoulders, she set her glass aside and lifted her chin. Whatever games Mr. Darcy and his friends wished to play, she would not be their unwitting pawn. Not tonight. Not ever.
Darcy stood at the edge of the ballroom, his gaze drawn involuntarily to Elizabeth Bennet as she danced with a young militia officer. The officer was grinning like a schoolboy, clearly enamored with his partner, while Elizabeth moved with her usual energy, nearly sparkling in the candlelight. Darcy’s chest tightened unexpectedly, a flicker of jealousy sparking in a way he could neither understand nor control.
He forced himself to look away, his eyes scanning the room. It was then that he noticed Wickham, standing near the far wall and watching the same dance with a peculiar intensity. Darcy’s jaw clenched. Wickham had spent the evening carefully avoiding him, slinking into the shadows whenever their gazes met. And yet, he had lingered near Elizabeth more than once, his interest in her as unwelcome as it was unseemly.
Darcy’s fingers curled into his palm as he resisted the urge to intervene.
His attention flickered back to the dance floor, where Elizabeth was laughing lightly at something her partner had said. There was no artifice in her manner, no coyness—only her usual vivacity, which seemed to draw people toward her effortlessly. Darcy’s throat constricted with something he refused to name, and he turned sharply to survey the room once more, needing to distract himself.
That was when he saw it.
Wickham had moved across the room and was now speaking with Miss Mary Bennet. Darcy’s brow furrowed, unease prickling at the back of his neck. Mary Bennet was the last person Darcy would have expected Wickham to approach. Her solemn, pious demeanor was a far cry from the lively, flirtatious women Wickham typically sought out. And yet, there he was, leaning in slightly as he spoke, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
Mary stood stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she listened with rapt attention. The oddity of the interaction struck Darcy immediately. Wickham was many things—charming, duplicitous, manipulative—but he rarely wasted time on endeavors without purpose. What could he possibly want with Mary Bennet? And why did she seem so… enthralled?
Darcy’s gaze darted back to the dance floor, where Elizabeth was now executing a turn with her partner. For a moment, she glanced in his direction, their eyes meeting across the room. The warmth in her expression, the unspoken connection that seemed to spark between them, made Darcy’s pulse quicken. But just as swiftly as it came, the moment was broken when she turned back to her partner, laughing at some remark he made.
Darcy’s focus shifted back to Wickham and Mary. Wickham’s posture had grown more animated, his hands gesturing subtly as he leaned closer to her. Mary, for her part, seemed utterly rapt, her lips parting slightly as though about to respond. Darcy’s unease deepened, a knot forming in his stomach. Whatever Wickham was saying to Mary, it could not be for any good purpose.
His eyes flicked once more to Elizabeth, as if to reassure himself. She had retired from the dance floor and now stood near the refreshment table, her smile bright as she exchanged a few words with a passing acquaintance. She appeared utterly untroubled, oblivious to the peculiar drama unfolding nearby. He thought about going to her—perhaps even asking for a second set—but Caroline Bingley was now joining her, and that… well, that was not something he wished to meddle in just now.
Darcy exhaled slowly, his frustration mounting. Why could nothing about this evening remain simple?
Before he could consider the matter further, a voice broke through his thoughts.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy!” came the unmistakable, obsequious tone of Mr. Collins. Darcy turned reluctantly to find the clergyman bustling toward him, his face a mix of self-importance and barely contained agitation. “I hope I am not intruding upon your reflections, sir, but I felt it my duty to address a matter of great concern.”
Darcy raised a brow, his irritation barely masked. “What matter, Mr. Collins?”
Collins puffed up his chest, clearly relishing the moment. “It has come to my attention—through means I shall not disclose—that there is a certain… wager involving your good self and my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s expression darkened, his body stiffening. Good heavens, had Bingley opened his fool mouth? That… that could ruin everything! The hackles on his neck rose as his voice dropped to a growl. “A wager?”
“Yes, indeed! A most improper one, I might add. It seems Miss Elizabeth engaged in a bet with her friend, Miss Lucas, regarding your esteemed self. The goal, I am told, was to gain your favor—not out of genuine admiration, but as a means to reject you publicly.”
Darcy’s breath caught, the words striking like a blow. She could not possibly… Not Elizabeth. Not the most genuine, artless woman he had ever… “And what proof do you have of this claim, Mr. Collins?”
Collins faltered for a moment, though his pompous demeanor quickly returned. “Proof, sir? Why, I should think the word of a clergyman sufficient in such matters! My source is… unimpeachable.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the room and immediately found Mary Bennet, standing near the refreshment table with her hands clasped tightly together, her gaze fixed firmly on them. Her pale complexion and anxious expression betrayed her involvement. Darcy’s mind reeled. Mary Bennet was Wickham’s unlikely choice of confidante earlier—had she been manipulated into this?
“Your source,” Darcy said coldly, “appears to be Miss Mary Bennet.”
Collins stammered, his discomfort momentary before he rallied. “Miss Mary is a deeply principled young lady, who I am sure would wish to prevent… Well! while I shall not confirm or deny her involvement, I can assure you that my concern lies solely in preventing harm to the Bennet family’s reputation. Lady Catherine would be most displeased were I to allow such impropriety to continue unchecked.”
Darcy’s fury simmered beneath his calm exterior. “And what precisely have you done to address this… impropriety?”
Collins puffed himself up even further, clearly pleased with his own actions. “I would take it upon myself, sir, to speak to Miss Elizabeth most firmly on the matter, as soon as I may. Though, I must say, when I have taken measures to reprove her on other matters she has been—alas—less receptive than I might have hoped. I believe she shall require further guidance in understanding the consequences of her actions, but rest assured, I intend to make my position clear. I thought it would be wisest to first approach you—”
Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you believe Lady Catherine would approve of such meddling?”
Collins beamed. “I am confident she would, Mr. Darcy. It is my duty as a clergyman to address matters of morality, particularly where my family is concerned.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his anger sharp and focused. He glanced once more toward Mary, whose guilt-ridden expression left little doubt as to her role in this debacle. But beneath his anger lay something far more painful: doubt.
Could it be true? Could Elizabeth have wagered on his favor as some sort of game? The thought was almost unbearable.
“Mr. Collins,” he said, his voice cold and clipped, “I will thank you not to involve yourself in matters beyond your comprehension. Your interference in this situation has caused more harm than good.”
Collins blinked, his expression faltering. “But I only sought to—”
“That will be all,” Darcy said firmly, cutting him off. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions.