21. Twenty-One
Twenty-One
The hum of the ballroom felt stifling as Elizabeth stepped onto the dance floor’s edge, her movements brisk and sharp. Her thoughts churned with Caroline Bingley’s revelation, each repetition of the word wager igniting fresh waves of fury. Her chest tightened with every glance toward Darcy, the man who had dared to make her the subject of such a ridiculous game.
Civility. Politeness. Duty.
She clenched her jaw as those words rattled in her head, taunting her. How dare he? How dare Mr. Darcy, with all his self-important airs and guarded mannerisms, reduce their interactions to some shallow obligation born of a wager? Every moment she had shared with him tonight—every lingering look, every hint of warmth—felt tainted now, as if she had been foolish to ever believe it genuine.
Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room until she found him. Darcy stood near the far wall, his posture stiff, his expression carved from stone as he listened to Mr. Collins. The clergyman was gesturing wildly, his voice carrying faintly over the din of the room. Though Elizabeth could not make out the words, she saw the flicker of irritation in Darcy’s eyes, the subtle tightening of his jaw.
Good , she thought, her anger bubbling higher. Let him be irritated. Let him feel even a fraction of what I feel now.
She took a step toward him, her resolve hardening. But before she could close the distance, another figure intercepted her path.
“Miss Elizabeth,” said an older acquaintance, a matronly woman with an overbearing fondness for gossip. “What a lovely evening this has turned out to be, has it not? I hear Mr. Darcy was quite attentive to you at supper. Surely, there must be some truth to the rumors?”
Elizabeth barely heard the words. Her gaze remained fixed on Darcy, her pulse pounding in her ears. She muttered a curt, “If you will excuse me,” and brushed past the woman without a second thought. The other guests in her path fared no better; Elizabeth moved through them with singular determination, her every thought consumed by the need to confront him.
Her anger flared brighter as she neared, noticing that Darcy barely acknowledged Mr. Collins’s endless prattle. The clergyman, oblivious to any lack of interest, continued speaking with exaggerated animation, puffing out his chest as though he were sharing some great wisdom.
Elizabeth stopped a few paces away, her hands trembling at her sides. She should not do this. Not here, not now. Confronting Darcy in the middle of the ballroom, under the eyes of half the county, would only add fuel to the gossip that already swirled around her. But the words burned in her throat, desperate for release.
Darcy glanced up then, as if sensing her presence. Their eyes met, and the tension between them crackled like a lightning strike. Elizabeth’s breath caught, her anger momentarily faltering under the weight of his gaze. There was something there—something raw and unguarded that left her stomach twisting in ways she did not want to name.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice low but unmistakable, cutting through Mr. Collins’s endless chatter like a blade.
Collins turned, startled by the interruption. “Ah, Cousin Elizabeth! How fortunate that you are here. I was just—”
But Elizabeth barely heard him. Her focus was entirely on Darcy, the simmering anger surging back to the surface as she squared her shoulders.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “I wonder if I might have a word.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched like a rock, but he nodded. “I have nothing to say.”
Oh, so he was going to take that tactic, was he? She lifted her chin. “Well, I am afraid I do.”
Collins looked between them, his mouth opening to protest, but Darcy silenced him with a glance that could have frozen the Thames. “Excuse us, Mr. Collins.”
The clergyman sputtered indignantly but stepped back, leaving them standing together in the shadow of the great chandelier. The hum of the ballroom seemed louder now, the distant sounds of laughter and music a sharp contrast to the charged silence between them.
Elizabeth spoke first, her voice low but trembling with barely contained emotion. “I have just been made aware, Mr. Darcy, of a certain… wager you made with Mr. Bingley.”
Darcy stiffened, his expression hardening. “Miss Bennet, I—”
“No,” Elizabeth cut him off, her eyes blazing. “You will allow me to finish. I would like to know, sir, whether your decision to dance with me tonight, to sit with me at supper, was made out of genuine regard or merely to satisfy the terms of some trivial bet.”
Her words struck him like a physical blow. Darcy’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face visibly working as he fought to keep his composure. “Miss Bennet,” he said carefully, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury, “you presume much.”
“I presume?” Elizabeth’s tone was sharp, cutting through the din of the ballroom. She stepped closer, her voice lowering but losing none of its edge. “What else am I to think, Mr. Darcy? To discover that every kindness, every gesture, was simply your way of fulfilling a wager? A game?”
Darcy’s face darkened, his frustration spilling over. “And what of your own wager, Miss Bennet?” he shot back, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Should I assume that your attentions this evening were born of genuine regard? Or were you merely playing a role, seeking my favor as part of your own farce?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, her fury briefly faltering. “Playing a role?” she repeated, her voice trembling with disbelief as her face flushed with unwelcome conviction. “What are you talking about?”
“Do not insult my intelligence,” Darcy said coldly. “I was informed quite thoroughly—by your ‘esteemed’ cousin, no less—of the terms you agreed upon with Miss Lucas. The goal, as I understand it, was to win my favor, only to reject it with some grand display of triumph. Tell me, Miss Bennet, was that your intent all along?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, her shame mingling with fresh waves of anger. “And you believed him?” she demanded, her voice rising. “You believed Mr. Collins, of all people?”
“I had no reason not to,” Darcy snapped. “He seemed quite eager to play the moral arbiter of the evening.”
“Because, of course, you would take the word of a pompous fool over considering, for one moment, that there might be more to the story!” Elizabeth’s fists clenched at her sides, her entire body trembling with emotion. “You, who pride yourself on your discernment, would rather cling to your wounded pride than allow for the possibility that you might be wrong!”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, his gaze burning into hers. “And what of your discernment, Miss Bennet? What of the assumptions you have made about me? You stand here, casting aspersions, accusing me of falseness, when you yourself—”
“Stop,” Elizabeth said sharply, cutting him off. “You do not get to turn this on me.”
“Do I not?” Darcy’s voice was lower now, but no less cutting. “I have spent the past weeks believing—foolishly, it seems—that we had begun to understand one another. That your teasing, your wit, was a mark of friendship, not derision. And tonight—tonight, I allowed myself to hope for more. But now I see the truth. All of it was a pretense. You never intended to see me at all.”
Elizabeth’s chest heaved, her anger so fierce it felt like it might consume her entirely. “And what about you?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “You speak of being misunderstood, but you have the audacity to make a wager—about me, about my family—and pretend that you are above reproach?”
Darcy’s silence was deafening, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze. The weight of their words, their accusations, hung heavy between them, drawing the attention of more than a few nearby guests. Elizabeth could feel the stares, the whispers, but she no longer cared. Let them look. Let them see the wreckage of whatever connection she had thought might exist between herself and this man.
“I see,” Darcy said finally, his voice cold and clipped. “There is nothing more to say.”
“On that, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said bitterly, “we are in perfect agreement.”
Darcy inclined his head, his expression an unreadable mask. “Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
With that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, his departure swift and decisive. Elizabeth watched him go, her breath coming in uneven bursts as the reality of what had just transpired settled over her. The room felt unbearably loud now, the hum of whispers and the weight of judgment pressing down on her from every corner.
He did not know where he was going—only that he needed to escape the suffocating press of people, the prying eyes that seemed to follow his every move. His chest was tight, his breath shallow, and every step felt like a fight to maintain his composure.
Elizabeth.
The name seared through him, as though even thinking it might burn away whatever fragile control he had left. For weeks—months—he had allowed himself to be drawn into her orbit. Against his better judgment, he had softened, let down the walls he had built so carefully, and dared to believe that she might see him as more than the cold, unfeeling man she had first met.
And tonight—tonight had felt like everything he had ever wanted. Her laughter, her wit, the way she had looked at him during their supper set—it had all felt real. Genuine. He had let himself believe that her warmth, her charm, had been meant for him. That she had seen him, truly seen him, as he was.
And it had all been a lie.
Darcy’s hands curled into fists at his sides as he pushed open a side door, stepping into an empty corridor. The quiet was a welcome reprieve from the noise of the ballroom, but it did nothing to quell the storm raging within him. He leaned heavily against the wall, his head falling back as he let out a slow, measured breath. His heart pounded in his chest, the betrayal cutting deeper than he cared to admit.
How could I have been so blind?
He had seen her as genuine, unlike so many others who sought his favor for their own ends. But now, knowing the truth of her wager with Miss Lucas, every moment he had shared with her felt like a mockery. The teasing glances, the playful banter—it had all been a game, designed to draw him in, to trap him, so she could revel in rejecting him.
And yet, even as anger churned in his gut, another emotion gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Hurt. He had been falling in love with her, helplessly and irrevocably, and the realization that she had never been sincere left him reeling. He had been a fool—a lovesick fool, blind to the manipulation behind her every smile.
No. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching harder. This was not manipulation, not in the way of the scheming debutantes who sought his wealth or status. It was something else—something more complex and, in its way, more cutting. She had played her role so well, so convincingly, that he had seen in her everything he had ever wanted: honesty, intelligence, kindness.
He shoved away from the wall, pacing the length of the corridor as his thoughts spiraled. “She never intended to hurt me,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter on his tongue. “She only wanted… what? To prove a point? To win some ridiculous bet at my expense?”
The thought made his stomach churn. He stopped mid-stride, pressing his hands to his temples. He could not bear the idea of her laughter—light, musical—being shared with Miss Lucas over the success of her scheme. Did she mock him in private? Had she shared with Charlotte every detail of how easily he had fallen for her charm?
A door creaked open further down the corridor, and Darcy tensed, expecting a servant or perhaps another guest. Instead, Mr. Bingley appeared, his expression confused and concerned.
“Darcy?” Bingley approached cautiously, his affable nature tempered by unease. “You vanished from the ballroom. I was worried.”
Darcy straightened, forcing his features into something resembling calm. “I needed air.”
Bingley frowned, his brow furrowing. “Is something wrong?”
Darcy hesitated. He wanted to tell Bingley everything—to vent his anger, his heartbreak—but the words caught in his throat. He had already suffered enough humiliation tonight. To admit the depths of his feelings for Elizabeth, only to reveal how thoroughly he had been deceived, was a vulnerability he could not bear to share. Not now.
“Nothing that cannot be mended,” he said tersely, his voice flat. “Have my valet sent for. I mean to pack for Lincolnshire.”
“Now?” Bingley looked genuinely surprised. “Darcy, it’s the middle of the ball! What could possibly—?”
“I said I needed air,” Darcy snapped, harsher than he intended. “And I find I need more of it than this place can offer.”
Bingley’s expression darkened, but he stepped back, his tone careful. “If you must. But Darcy—”
“Good night, Bingley.” Darcy brushed past him, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument.
As he made his way toward the exit, the noise of the ballroom grew fainter with each step. The night air hit him like a shock, cold and biting against his heated skin. He paused just outside, staring up at the sky, the stars scattered across the darkness like fragments of something broken.
He clenched his jaw, shoving his hands into his pockets. He had let himself fall for her, and now he would pay the price. But he would not let her see the extent of his pain. She would never know how deeply she had cut him.
Tomorrow, he would leave for Lincolnshire. And after that, London. Distance was the only cure for this madness, and he would take it without hesitation.
Elizabeth Bennet may haunt me now , he thought bitterly, but I will not allow her to destroy me.
Elizabeth had barely slept. The events of the previous evening played on a torturous loop in her mind, each memory a fresh wound. Darcy’s furious expression, his biting accusations—she could still feel the weight of his words, the sharp edge of his disappointment. And now, with morning light streaming through her window, she was no closer to finding peace.
As she descended the stairs, voices from the sitting room carried through the house, sharp and agitated. Elizabeth froze midway, recognizing Mr. Collins’s tones rising above the others.
“…an absolute scandal, Mrs. Bennet! I was merely doing my duty as a clergyman and a relative, and now I find myself accused of impropriety! Impropriety, madam!”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted as she reached the doorway. Mr. Collins stood near the fireplace, his face flushed, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Her mother sat on the settee, clutching her handkerchief as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Mary hovered near the corner, her expression taut with guilt.
“What is going on here?” Elizabeth asked sharply, stepping into the room.
Mr. Collins turned toward her, his chest puffing out indignantly. “Ah, Cousin Elizabeth, how kind of you to join us. Perhaps you might explain to your family how my innocent attempt to preserve the Bennet name has resulted in such unwarranted hostility.”
Elizabeth stiffened, her hands curling into fists. “Preserve the Bennet name? By spreading gossip about me and Mr. Darcy in the middle of a ball?”
“Spreading gossip?” Mr. Collins gasped, his hand flying to his chest. “I did no such thing! I merely acted upon the information given to me by a trusted source—”
“Mary,” Elizabeth said flatly, her gaze snapping to her sister. Mary flinched, looking down at her hands, which were folded tightly in her lap.
“I… I only told Mr. Collins what I thought he ought to know,” Mary stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “It seemed improper… your wager with Charlotte… and Mr. Darcy… He’s not a good man, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth’s anger surged, her composure slipping. “What evidence have you?”
“Well…” Mary’s hands twisted her handkerchief. “Mr. Wickham, he said…”
“Mr. Wickham is the man you hold up as trustworthy! On what grounds?”
“He…” Mary cleared her throat. “Apparently, Mr. Darcy deceived Mr. Wickham in his inheritance. Some long-standing arrangement in his father’s will…”
“Now, Cousin,” Collins interrupted. “Pray, let us not denigrate an upright man so! The nephew of Lady Catherine and my good friend Mr. Darcy would never stoop so low as to undermine his father’s wishes. Why, I could write to Lady Catherine this minute for a character—she means for him to marry her daughter, of all people!”
Elizabeth gesticulated toward the man. “See? Even this fool can see through that lie. Mary, do you have any idea what you’ve done? What damage you caused by sharing something so personal—something so foolish—with him?”
“Now, see here!” Collins exclaimed, his face reddening further. “It was my moral obligation to intervene! Lady Catherine herself would applaud my efforts to protect a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s standing from such… from such manipulation!”
Elizabeth laughed bitterly. “Manipulation? Mr. Collins, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You humiliated me—and Mr. Darcy—publicly, and for what? Your own self-importance?”
“That is quite enough!” Mrs. Bennet interjected, waving her handkerchief dramatically. “Elizabeth, how could you bring this shame upon our family? To think, wagering on a man’s affections! And Mr. Darcy, no less!”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, the accusation cutting deeper than she expected. Before she could defend herself, another voice interrupted.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth turned to see Charlotte standing in the doorway. A wave of relief and dread washed over her simultaneously.
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, her voice faltering.
“May we speak privately?” Charlotte asked, her tone calm but firm.
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at the others. Collins looked ready to object, but Charlotte silenced him with a look that left no room for argument. Without waiting for an answer, Elizabeth nodded and followed her friend into the hallway.
The hallway was quieter, the muffled sounds of the sitting room fading behind them. Charlotte faced Elizabeth, her arms crossed and her expression carefully neutral.
“So.. It seems the wager has taken a turn we did not anticipate.”
Elizabeth winced. “Charlotte, I never meant for any of this to happen. I—”
“Didn’t you?” Charlotte interrupted, her gaze sharp. “You set out to prove a point, Lizzy. To show me that you could make a man like Mr. Darcy fall for you. And you succeeded, didn’t you?”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. “I did not mean to hurt him.”
“Of course you did” Charlotte said, her tone softening slightly. “But you didn’t think about what might happen if you changed your mind. Or if you got hurt, too.”
“This was all your stupid idea! I never should have let you talk me into this.”
“Oh, come, Lizzy, it was all harmless fun at first.”
Elizabeth looked away, shame creeping into her voice. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I never imagined… I did not think I would… care.”
“And now?” Charlotte asked, tilting her head.
Elizabeth hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “And now I’ve ruined everything.”
Charlotte sighed, her posture relaxing. “You haven’t ruined everything, Lizzy. But you have to decide what you want. If you care about Mr. Darcy—truly care—then you need to stop hiding behind your pride.”
Elizabeth laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “It’s too late for that, Charlotte. He hates me now.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte said with a faint, knowing smile. “Or maybe he’s just as angry with himself as he is with you.”
Elizabeth frowned, her thoughts a chaotic storm. She wanted to believe Charlotte was right, that Darcy’s anger wasn’t entirely aimed at her. But the memory of his face—cold, distant, betrayed—loomed like a specter, and the hope Charlotte offered felt impossibly far away.
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth said at last, her voice trembling, “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”
Charlotte’s expression softened, but her tone remained steady. “You have to decide whether it’s worth trying.”
Elizabeth shook her head, turning away slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. He—” Her voice faltered. “He thinks I’ve been playing him this whole time. And after what Collins said—” She broke off, her fists clenching at her sides. “I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me.”
Charlotte studied her closely, her arms crossed. “And do you?”
Elizabeth blinked, confused. “Do I what?”
“Hate him.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. Hate? The word seemed absurd now, even after everything. Whatever frustrations she had once felt toward Darcy, whatever pride or prejudice had clouded her view, those emotions had long since given way to something far more complex—and far more painful.
“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but certain. “I do not hate him.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you so determined to let this end badly? If you care about him, Lizzy—”
Elizabeth whirled around, her frustration boiling over. “Because I’ve already ruined it! Don’t you see that? There’s no coming back from this. He thinks I’ve been mocking him, playing with his feelings, when all I’ve done is—” She stopped herself, biting her lip as tears threatened to spill.
“All you’ve done is what?” Charlotte pressed gently.
Elizabeth looked away, her throat tightening. “Made a fool of myself,” she whispered. “And now I’ve lost him. The wager doesn’t even matter anymore.”
Charlotte’s gaze turned sharp at the mention of the wager. “Doesn’t it?”
Elizabeth let out a bitter laugh. “You want to talk about the wager now? Very well. I did not win, Charlotte. I didn’t even come close.”
“You danced with him. You shared the supper set, and then… well, you sort of ‘rejected’ him, did you not?” Charlotte countered. “I’d say that was enough to fulfill the terms.”
Elizabeth turned back to her, her eyes blazing. “He left the ball early, furious with me! Not because I was able to turn the tables but because he turned them on me! Does that sound like a victory to you?”
Charlotte hesitated, her composure flickering. “Perhaps not. But Lizzy, you—”
“No.” Elizabeth’s voice cracked as she cut her off. “I did not win, Charlotte. Not the way we first agreed. And even if I had… what would it mean? What would it be worth, knowing that I’ve hurt him?”
Charlotte sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “So you’re conceding, then?”
Elizabeth nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. You were right. This was a mistake—a foolish, thoughtless mistake. I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”
Charlotte frowned, her brow furrowing. “Lizzy, this isn’t about me collecting on a wager.”
“It’s about what’s fair,” Elizabeth said bitterly. “And fair or not, I’ve lost. You win, Charlotte. Take your prize.”
Her friend’s face softened again, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she placed a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Lizzy,” she said quietly, “if you really care about him, then this isn’t over. It doesn’t have to be.”
Elizabeth laughed hollowly, shaking her head. “It is over, Charlotte. You didn’t see the way he looked at me. He hates me now.”
“And if he does?” Charlotte’s voice was calm but firm. “If this really is the end, what then? Are you going to spend the rest of your life convincing yourself it doesn’t matter? That you never cared?”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her composure cracking further. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how to fix this, and I don’t know if I can.”
Charlotte stepped back, her expression thoughtful. “You may not know now. But you’ll figure it out. And if I’m wrong about all of this—if it truly is over—then I’ll concede as well. The wager can remain unfinished.”
Elizabeth blinked, startled by her friend’s sudden offer. “You’d do that?”
“I’d do that,” Charlotte said with a faint smile. “But only if you’re sure. Because if you find a way to mend this, Lizzy—if you and Mr. Darcy reconcile—then I think we’ll both know who really won.”
Elizabeth didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her mind was too full, her heart too heavy. All she could do was nod weakly, watching as Charlotte gave her arm a final squeeze and turned to leave.