Chapter ONE #2
Before Jane could respond, Darcy’s voice carried across the room. He said something dry, lightly self-deprecating, and just surprising enough to disarm the tension. Laughter followed—first scattered, then swelling—and with it, the mood shifted. The frost melted. The whole room clapped.
Moments later, the MC returned to the microphone to announce that dancing would commence shortly. As Elizabeth tried to recalibrate to the new, less hostile atmosphere, Charles Bingley appeared beside them, all dimples and good intentions.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you in person, Elizabeth,” he said brightly. “You certainly made an impression. I don’t think anyone’s ever interrupted one of Darcy’s keynotes before.”
“Doesn’t seem like anyone ever questions him at all,” Elizabeth replied.
Bingley laughed. “He might seem a bit sharp, but honestly, he’s harmless. Don’t let the brooding act fool you.”
“I wasn’t fooled. Just responding to what he said about your innovation.”
“Oh, that’s all Darcy’s,” Bingley said with an easy shrug. “I am just one of his investors.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, but before she could follow up, Bingley had already turned to Jane.
“Would you join me for the first dance?”
Jane smiled, accepting his hand, but not before casting Elizabeth a look that read clearly: behave yourself—or else.
As soon as they were out of sight, Elizabeth made a beeline for the minibar. An invisible speaker somewhere above burst into Adele’s “Send My Love (To Your New Lover),” loud enough to feel vaguely personal.
Concluding that she hadn’t come to dance, Elizabeth glared preemptively at a man who looked as if he were mustering the courage to ask her to. He retreated. She carried on to the bar, where she spent the remainder of her evening in peace.
Until Fitzwilliam Darcy managed to ruin that, too.
***
What if I hadn’t come up with a joke to defuse the situation?
Darcy stared at his glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid as though it might provide answers.
From his post near the edge of the ballroom, he watched the dance floor in motion—silk and tuxedos spinning under chandeliers, smiles that looked rehearsed, affection that felt just convincing enough to pass.
He had danced once that night, with Caroline Bingley, out of obligation rather than desire.
She had simpered, clung, and insisted on calling him Will, a name he loathed.
Now he stood a few feet from the bar, still as a mannequin, silent except for the twitch in his jaw.
The keynote should have been the crown jewel of the evening. Precise, polished, unprovocative. Instead, it had ended with a stranger’s voice echoing in his head: Have you ever been in love, sir?
Darcy took a measured sip of scotch and watched the dancers spin in and out of frame like pixels glitching across a screen. With his precision tonight, he should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt cornered by something he couldn’t quite name.
“I hate seeing you standing here like this,” came Bingley’s voice, warm and winded from the dance floor. He appeared at Darcy’s side, radiant and rumpled, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re at a gala, not a quarterly review. Try acting like it.”
Darcy offered him a dry glance.
“Come on,” Bingley urged. “You gave your big speech. Everyone clapped in the right places. Now it’s time to be human. Dance a little. Or at least look like you’re not calculating ROI.”
Darcy arched an eyebrow. “Is this one of those mandatory joy exercises?”
“Exactly.” Bingley turned toward the bar. “She’s not dancing, you know. Elizabeth.”
Darcy followed the direction of his friend’s gaze. And there she was—the woman with the inconvenient voice and the inconvenient question. So her name was Elizabeth. He didn’t ask how Bingley knew that. He didn’t want to know.
She stood at the bar with her fingers circling the rim of her glass, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed.
“You remember her. From the Q&A.”
Darcy didn’t respond.
“She’s Jane’s sister,” Bingley added, as if it were obvious. “Honestly, I think you two would get on. She’s sharp. You like sharp.”
So, she was Jane’s sister. Darcy sighed inwardly.
There hadn’t been a day in recent memory when Bingley hadn’t found some excuse to bring up Jane.
If he had attended that ridiculous “catch them young” school programme himself, perhaps he could have spared Bingley the lovestruck dilemma he now found himself entangled in, he thought
Now Bingley wasn’t just gloating about his new romance—he was attempting to play matchmaker.
How much worse could the night possibly get?
Darcy steadied his glass, kept his eyes ahead, and said, “She’s not handsome enough to tempt me.”
“No one said anything about temptation,” Bingley replied, unfazed. “Just a polite dance.”
“I’ve had enough of fun,” Darcy replied coolly.
The words were sharp and surgical.
“You’re just scared you’ve met someone who challenged you,” Bingley said.
Darcy didn’t rise to it. He knew this game. Reverse psychology was one of Bingley’s favourite tricks. But tonight, it wasn’t going to work.
“I’m not dancing with a sharp-tongued stranger to prove a point,” he said. “Go dance with your partner. I’ve got better things to do.”
Bingley rolled his eyes and gave up, melting back into the crowd with a shake of his head.
Unbeknownst to Darcy, Elizabeth had turned just in time to catch the worst of it.
Her hand froze on her glass. She didn’t blink or flinch, but the bartender, observant and merciful, slid another drink her way.
She accepted it with a tight smile and a nod that could have meant anything. Of course, he’d said it loud enough for her to hear, she decided. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a message.
Punishment, maybe. For the question. For not being impressed. For not being another adoring face in the audience.
She lifted her glass in a slow, silent toast.
Message received.
Challenge accepted.