Chapter 9
9
T hefire burned low, crackling softly in the dim light of Rosings’ drawing room. Charlotte satnear the window, embroidering with mild interest, while Mr. Collins occupied himself byreading aloud from one of Lady Catherine’s favorite sermons—to no one in particular.
Colonel Fitzwilliam lounged nearby,observing the scene with a familiar air of amusement.
And in the farthest corner, Anne de Bourgh lay reclined, pale as ever, herweak hands barely able to hold her teacup upright.
At the center of it all—Elizabeth and Darcy. Seated across from one another. A chessboard between them. An invisible battle ofwits, glances, and unsaid words hanging about them.
Darcy’s fingersrested on a knight.
Elizabeth’s on a bishop.
Neither moved.
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. "You seem hesitant, Mr. Darcy. Surely, you do not fear making the wrong move?"
Darcy’s lipstwitched. "I would not wish to be too bold," he cleared “his throat. “Some risks, Miss Bennet, are best considered carefully before committing."
Elizabeth’s eyessparkled. "And yet," she mused, moving a pawn forward, "one cannot win without taking a risk now and then."
Darcy studied the board, then her. "Winning," he said quietly, "is not always the goal."
Fitzwilliamsnorted. "A dangerous mindset for a game of strategy, cousin," he remarked.
Darcy did notlook away from Elizabeth. "Perhaps," he said.
Elizabeth slid her queendiagonally across the board, taking one of his pawns.
Darcyarched a brow. "Ah," he murmured. "An aggressive move. You are not afraid of taking what you want, then?"
Elizabethsmiled, slow and knowing. "Not if it is well within my reach," she said smoothly.
Fitzwilliamchoked on his wine.
Charlottelooked up from her embroidery.
Anne let out a faint sigh—unclear if she had even been listening.
Darcy leaned forward,his fingers brushing over the rook. "You play with remarkable confidence, Miss Bennet."
She shrugged, eyes glinting. "It is easy to play with confidence," she said, "when one knows their opponent’s weaknesses."
Darcy let out alow hum of amusement. "And what, pray, do you believe to be mine?"
Elizabeth moved her knight,deliberate and slow. "Perhaps," she said,her voice lilting with mischief, "you grow too cautious when the stakes are high.”
Darcy tilted his head. "Or perhaps," he countered, "I am merely waiting for the right moment to strike."
Elizabeth knew they had long ago stopped speaking about chess. But what game was she playing, egging him on? Did she wish for such a thing? She was afraid of the answer and too caught to desist.
The game continued, the pieces moving with careful precision.
But it was not the board they were watching. Darcystudied her.
Hergraceful fingers hovering over the pieces, the amused quirk of her lips, the way her eyes glowed whenever she found an advantage.
She was clever.
She was sharp.
And—Heaven help him—he wanted her to win.
Elizabeth, for her part,felt the tension shift.
Darcy wasnot the reserved, stiff man she had once thought him to be.
He wasengaged, playful, even flirtatious in a way that was entirely unexpected.
She wasbeginning to understand him.
And worse—she liked him.
Elizabeth tapped a finger against her chin. "Tell me, Mr. Darcy—do you often let your opponents believe they are winning?"
Darcy exhaled asoft laugh. "Only when I am enjoying the game too much to end it."
Elizabeth’s heartstumbled. She moved her queen.
Darcy countered with his rook. She reached for her knight—Andpaused. She could win. Right now. With a single move, she couldcheckmate him and end the game.
But—She didn’t want to.
Not yet.
Instead, she slid her bishop into anunnecessary position, one that delayed her victory by several turns.
Darcynoticed immediately. His gaze flickered up,startled—then amused. "You had me," he murmured.
Elizabeth tilted her head, smilingjust slightly. "I suppose I did."
A pause.
"And yet…?"
She leaned forward. "Perhaps I am enjoying the game too much to end it."
Darcy’s breath audibly hitched.
“Then we are aligned in this at least.”
He dipped his head in her direction. “I believe we are.”
And the game—Did not end for many minutes hence. She moved her pawn forward, then on another move, forward again. He placed his rook in the oddest of places, only to move it again the next turn. Each time they laughed. But neither had any desire to hurry things along.
But they ran out of pieces.
And the other guests ran out of patience and so when both had only a King left, they called it a stalemate and set the board up again, piece by piece.
At length, Elizabeth placed the final chess piece back in its place.
Darcy pushed back his chair and stood, stretching slightly.
"You are improved," she observed lightly. "Not long ago, you would have struggled to rise so easily."
Darcy’s lips quirked. "Your concern for my well-being is touching, Miss Bennet."
She scoffed. "You mistake me, sir. I was merely making an impartial observation."
His brows lifted. "Ah," he mused, "so you are not at all relieved that I am no longer at risk of perishing in Lady Catherine’s guest room?"
Elizabeth gave him a mock-considering look. "I suppose it is fortunate that your condition has improved," she admitted, stepping away from the table. "For now, you are well enough to take a turn about the room with me."
His smile grew. "Then I shall not waste the opportunity." With easy grace, he offered his arm.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before taking it.
The drawing room at Rosings was vast, the candlelight flickering in the grand mirrors lining the walls.
Their steps were unhurried, their conversation light—at first.
"Have you had news from home?" Darcy asked.
Elizabeth sighed.
"Not yet. My father was to write, but he is… inconsistent with his letters."
Darcy hummed in understanding. "Do you expect any urgent news?"
"None urgent," she admitted. "But I do begin to miss them."
Darcy nodded thoughtfully. "And your plans? Do you return soon?"
She exhaled, glancing toward the tall windows. "In a month’s time," she said.
Darcy’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly.
"Charlotte and I will journey together part of the way, and afterward, I am to take a trip with my aunt and uncle—to the Lake District."
"That gives me precious little time," he murmured.
She glanced up at him. "For what, sir?"
His gaze flickered to hers—warm, intent, and entirely unreadable.
He did not smirk. He did not tease. He merely looked at her, and said, with all the weight of a promise unspoken—"To sway your heart."
"You speak boldly, Mr. Darcy."
He inclined his head, his voice quiet, steady. "I have learned that when time is short, there is little use in pretense."
Elizabeth swallowed. “You presume my heart is capable of being swayed."
"Is it not? You are too good to toy with me.”
She should deny it. She should laugh and dismiss his words as arrogance. She should say something clever and evasive, something to deflect and guard herself.
But she did not.
Instead, she turned her face away, fixing her eyes on the fire across the room. "I do not know," she admitted. The words left her lips before she could stop them.
Darcy stilled. "Do you welcome my attempts?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. It was too much. Too direct. Too true. She should not answer. She should retreat.
And yet— "Yes," she whispered.
His breath hitched.
Elizabeth did not look at him.
She could not.
His fingers tensed over hers where they rested against his arm, as if fighting the urge to hold her more securely.
"Then I shall not waste my time," he murmured.
Her heart thundered in response. This was real. This was happening.
And though she did not know where it would lead—She no longer wished to stop it.