Chapter 3
Darcy wished the flask in his saddlebag was filled with coffee rather than brandy. His throat was dry even as moisture from the swirling mist covered every surface. Running the tip of his tongue over his lips, he studied the board. Though he deserved it, he would not be humiliated again.
Before he could move his first piece, Miss Bennet suggested, “Perhaps you should pretend you are playing your father, sir.”
“My father died almost six years ago,” he blandly stated, clearly discomposing her.
Recovering herself, she whispered, “I beg your pardon.”
His pain reflected in her pupils. Her unexpected empathy unsettled him. Clearing his throat, he moved his first piece.
The atmosphere shifted—still tense but different. No longer hostile. More complex.
The cold gradually warmed as the sun rose. Their breath was not quite as visible.
He settled into his chair. Watching her.
She opened with Ruy Lopez, the King’s Pawn, mirroring him.
His hand was steadier, his concentration sharp. She had to notice the change in him because it appeared that she missed nothing about him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his cousin shift his weight, settling in for a longer battle. As did Mr. Bennet.
Completely alert, his earlier distraction gone, he made his next move. They went back and forth, the dance of two skilled players. As he slid his next piece across the board, she smiled, her brow raised.
“How traditional. The Spanish Game, Mr. Darcy? Tell me, do you always walk in well-worn paths with everything you do? Or is it only in assembly rooms that you dare to break free?”
Darcy refused to look at her. “Tradition exists because it is most effective, Miss Bennet.”
“Is that so, sir?” He could feel the force of her gaze on his face. “You would describe yourself as a creature of habit then?”
Before Darcy could reply, Richard spoke. “He is very much a creature of habit, Miss Bennet. Painfully, annoyingly so.”
Her chuckle floated across the board, warming him. Soothing him.
After a particularly good move, she said, “You are a student of the game, I see.”
“My father believed that chess reveals character.”
“How so?” She slid her pawn into place.
“Does your opponent think ahead, adapt to challenges, or crumble under pressure?” He glanced up at her. “I failed in our first game. I shall not do so again.”
After almost thirty minutes of uninterrupted play, Darcy again surveyed the board.
Miss Bennet had a maddening habit of dangling her piece between two squares, humming as she swung the piece back and forth before placing it squarely where she wanted it.
Was she toying with him? Was she not taking this seriously?
When he bent over the board, the tops of their heads almost touched. He smelled roses. Lord!
The game had become a genuine battle of minds. Darcy was holding his own. But…blast! Miss Elizabeth Bennet made a move that revealed she was not merely skilled; she was a master.
Around the fifteenth move, Elizabeth had to say, “You play better than I anticipated, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps you found your brain between games.”
A ghost of humor appeared. “High praise indeed, coming from you, Miss Bennet.”
By their twentieth move, the board was a tangle of tactical possibilities. Both lost minor pieces; the play equal.
A horse shook its head, jangling its bridle, breaking the silence.
Her father approached the colonel. His voice drifted easily to where she sat. “They are evenly matched in skill. However, Lizzy has an advantage that he does not.”
The colonel asked, “And what is that, sir?”
“He plays not to lose. She plays for the throat, to win.”
The colonel shook his head. “I have never beaten Darcy. Few do.”
Her father’s grin spread from ear to ear. “A new experience for the gentleman, then.”
With the next two moves, Elizabeth noted how completely absorbed he became. His exhaustion appeared forgotten, replaced by fierce concentration. When he made a particularly clever move, a flicker of…what? Annoyance that he made this difficult? Or satisfaction that he proved worthy of her effort?
“You are relentless, Miss Bennet.”
“Did you expect otherwise?” She moved her knight. “I do not do things by half measures, sir.”
“As I am learning.” His attention remained on the board. “I find it…admirable.”
“I am all astonished.” Rolling her eyes, she returned to the game.
By move twenty-four, Elizabeth was building an attack that Mr. Darcy defended well, but not well enough.
Feeling the first flicker of respect, she said, “You are not a novice, are you?”
Darcy met her eyes across the board. “Being thoroughly humiliated by a superior mind is a powerful motivation.”
A look of recognition, not warmth, passed between them before they again paid attention to the game.
Two moves later, she sacrificed the exchange, rook for bishop, a brilliant tactical blow he did not see coming.
Studying the position, Darcy saw the consequences of her daring move unfold over the next several moves. “Extraordinarily bold.”
“You disapprove of the sacrifice?”
“On the contrary. I admire it,” he said, still mentally calculating the results. “Though I suspect I shall regret that admiration in approximately six moves.”
Her expression lightened. “You see it, then?”
“I do now. I am too late to prevent it, but I see it.” He paused. “Brilliant, Miss Bennet.”
His cousin leaned forward. “What did she do?”
Mr. Bennet replied, “See what happens next.”
Pressing his lips together, Darcy shifted in his chair. Despite his improved play, her move left him in a losing position. Refusing to give in, he fought on, finding the best defensive moves available, making her work for every inch.
By move thirty-five, she offered, “There is no shame in recognizing inevitability. You could resign.”
“Could I?” He laughed, mocking himself. “I would hate to miss how you finish the game.”
She paused her assault, apparently surprised by his admission. “You are…gracious in defeat.”
“I am learning to be, thanks to an excellent teacher.”
The contempt in her eyes changed, though to what Darcy could not name. Respect, perhaps. Or the beginning of curiosity.
One move later, his king had nowhere to run. Sitting back, her hands fell to her side. Despite the chill, her brow and upper lip were moist, evidence of the tension.
“Checkmate,” she said quietly as some of her fury had burned away.
Mr. Darcy held his king in his palm before laying the piece horizontally on the board in front of her queen. “Well proved, Miss Bennet.”
Tipping her head to him to acknowledge him, she was surprised when he rose from the chair, moving away from the table.
“In these two games, you have shown me what sort of man I am. You have every right to your anger against an arrogant man who was blind to his own failures.” He took a breath, the words difficult but genuine.
“I deeply regret my words, my attitude, and any pain I caused you. I was catastrophically wrong in my flippant judgment of you. But not merely you, about what gives a person worth, what deserves respect.”
He met her eyes directly. “Your mind, your courage, your skill set you apart. I have never met your equal. I dismissed you as beneath my notice when the truth is…the truth is that you surpass me in every way that truly matters. I spoke carelessly, cruelly, and you were within your rights to exact punishment. I only hope that someday, somehow, you might…”
He trailed off, unable to finish.
Elizabeth’s voice was unsteady. “Might what, Mr. Darcy?”
“Might think of me without complete contempt.”
Silence surrounded them. She searched his face for deception, for false flattery. His eyes held only contrition and regret.
Her temper long subsided during the match, allowing uncertainty to creep in. Yet, she needed to make her point.
Quietly but firmly, she said, “Your apology is noted, sir. And your words are pretty. You have taught me today as well.”
“What is that?”
“I accept your apology, Mr. Darcy. You have recognized your error and expressed your regret, which speaks better of you than your initial assessment of me did.” Her chin lifted. “However, I have no wish to continue our acquaintance. I look forward to never seeing you again, sir.”
Darcy’s breath left him as if she had struck him across the face.
After three steps toward their carriage, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes moved from Darcy to Richard, then back to Darcy. “Speak of this to no one,” she said. Not a request. A command.
Then she walked away, her spine erect, refusing to look back again.
Darcy stood frozen as she retreated. Even in rejection, she was magnificent.
Running his hand through his hair, Darcy swore under his breath.
Mr. Bennet swiped the chess pieces into a box, gathered the board, and turned to him before following his daughter to their carriage. “You played well, sir. In both games.”
Darcy knew what the man wanted to add. But not well enough.
Their driver and a footman quickly carted the table and chairs to the Bennet conveyance. Within moments, they were gone, leaving no evidence of the bloody battle that had occurred. No evidence of his defeat.
Even so, she could have simply ignored him, dismissed him as beneath her notice. Instead, she gave him a chance to prove himself.
Not once in his adult life had a female taken him to task.
In fact, not once since his parents died had he received such pointed discipline.
An ancient prophet concluded that discipline heeded bore peaceable fruit.
He had to learn from his defeat. He promised himself that he would not shrug this off as an anomaly.
He would not claim fatigue or indifference.
No, the lessons would become part of his character, or his failure would be complete.
Richard slapped him on the shoulder. “Well, that went rather badly.”
Waiting until they were out of sight, Darcy said, “I am going to marry her, Richard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Turning to his cousin, his expression intense, he confirmed, “I am going to marry her. I do not know how. But I only want Miss Elizabeth Bennet as my wife.”
Richard burst into incredulous laughter. “Darcy, she told you she looks forward to never seeing you again.”
A small, determined smile appeared. “I know. Which means I have a great deal of work to do.”
Clasping his shoulder, Richard chortled. “A great deal of work, indeed.”