Chapter EIGHT
THE LONG table was cluttered with polished silverware, three different kinds of salad, roasted duck, soft rolls wrapped in linen, and an array of dishes that suggested the cooks had been working all afternoon. And still, Caroline Bingley hovered like a dissatisfied judge at a culinary competition.
“That glass is for champagne,” she hissed at a server. “Do you want the wine to breathe through confusion?”
The poor staff member flushed, swapped the glass, and moved on.
Darcy sat at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of red he hadn’t tasted. He watched Caroline wave over a dish, frown at the garnish, and then declare the napkins “too aggressively folded.”
Since Bingley had rented the townhouse, Caroline had made herself the unofficial house manager. Darcy had opinions about that—specifically that she had no business managing anything, let alone other people’s property—but he kept those thoughts where they belonged: silent.
Eventually, the meal began. Mr. Hurst said little, as usual, except to grumble when a bottle passed him too slowly. Mrs. Hurst offered a few lukewarm compliments about the duck. And then, halfway through the first course, Caroline struck.
“So, Mr. Darcy,” she said smoothly, setting down her fork, “how is your little experiment going?”
Darcy took a sip of wine before responding. He hoped Bingley wouldn’t open his mouth.
Of course, Bingley opened his mouth. “Oh, you’ll love this. In a twist no one saw coming, Darcy matched with Elizabeth Bennet.”
It was as if the temperature at the table dropped several degrees at once. Caroline froze mid-bite, fork suspended in the air, while Mrs. Hurst turned slowly, alert and intent, like a cat that had just heard glass break.
“Which Elizabeth?” Caroline asked sharply.
“Bennet. Jane’s sister,” Bingley replied, too lightly. “You remember her—from the gala.”
Darcy didn’t bother hiding the look he shot his friend. It said, Was that necessary?
Bingley immediately caught the reprimand and coughed into his napkin, mumbling something about salad.
Darcy exhaled through his nose. He regretted telling him. But really, what were the odds it would stay secret? If he hadn’t said anything, Elizabeth probably would’ve told Jane, and Jane would’ve definitely told Bingley. The chain reaction was inevitable.
Still, now that it had surfaced, there was no way to politely dodge the questions.
“So,” Caroline said slowly, “she doesn’t like your app… but she is on it anyway?”
There it was. The room leaned in without meaning to.
Darcy lifted his glass, took a measured sip, and said nothing yet.
Mrs. Hurst was quicker. “That does seem rather contradictory. If she thinks the whole concept is ridiculous, what was she doing there in the first place?”
“Exactly,” Caroline said, seizing the opening. “You don’t download a dating app you despise unless you’re either bored, desperate, or very calculated.”
Bingley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Or curious,” he offered weakly.
Caroline ignored him. “I mean, let’s be honest. She made quite a performance out of disliking it. Mocked the premise. Questioned its ethics. And then—surprise—she signs up.” She tilted her head, eyes sharp. “One might wonder what she was really looking for.”
Mrs. Hurst nodded along. “Status, perhaps. Visibility. A wealthy match.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass.
Caroline smiled thinly. “Or maybe she just hoped to meet someone with means. I’ve heard that sort of thing is quite common on these platforms.”
“That’s enough,” Darcy said, his voice calm but edged.
Caroline blinked, almost delighted. “Oh? Am I wrong?”
“She joined the app for her own reasons,” Darcy said evenly.
Caroline arched an eyebrow. “But you knew it was her when you went on the date.”
“No,” Darcy said. “I didn’t.”
The table paused.
Mrs. Hurst frowned. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
Caroline leaned forward. “So she catfished you?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “No. She didn’t know it was me either.”
Caroline blinked. “Then how—”
“It’s a rather long story. Let’s just say we both used aliases and didn’t disclose our identities—for the fun of it—during the chatting phase,” Darcy explained briefly. “We scheduled a date. That was all.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Caroline asked, her brows arching. “I know America is safe, but kidnapping is still a thing, right? Two strangers meeting in some random place… anyone could exploit that.”
“Well, some people take chances,” Darcy said simply.
“Besides, the app performs a thorough identity check. If you commit a crime on our app, you can be traced. We also advise users to be careful with how they interact. People can fake identities anywhere, even on apps that insists on displaying real names and photos. And in this age of AI, everything can be faked.”
The table nodded at the short speech, seeming to accept it. The line of questioning faded, though Darcy reminded himself that Bazile hadn’t felt like a stranger until he discovered it was Elizabeth Bennet.
As if reading his thoughts, Mrs. Hurst asked, “And when did you realise it was Miss Elizabeth?”
“At the café where we agreed to meet,” Darcy said. “The same moment she realised I was her match.”
Caroline let out a short, amused laugh. “You’re telling me neither of you knew who the other was?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Caroline sat back, clearly intrigued. “And she still stayed?”
“She did,” Darcy replied. “Until she didn’t.”
Mrs. Hurst looked over, her interest piqued. “Meaning?”
“She walked out,” Darcy said. “Abruptly.”
Caroline’s lips curled. “Oh, I’d love to hear that story.”
Darcy didn’t indulge her. “It was unexpected for both of us. But she came back for the second date.”
Caroline’s eyes widened, voice rising slightly. “You went back for a second date?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing it was her?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hurst shook her head, half-laughing. “You’re far more patient than I would’ve been.”
Caroline leaned in again, her eyes glinting. “Let me get this straight. A woman who publicly criticises your work, questions your ethics, and then secretly joins the very app she claims to despise—that’s who you decided to spend your time with?”
Darcy met her gaze steadily. “I didn’t decide anything beyond honouring the system as designed.”
“That’s awfully noble of you,” Caroline said, not bothering to hide her scepticism.
“The app requires three dates,” Darcy continued. “We’ve met twice. That’s the extent of it.”
Mrs. Hurst scoffed lightly. “Still. It’s rather embarrassing for the algorithm, isn’t it? To match you with someone like her.”
“The algorithm isn’t embarrassed,” Darcy replied, flat and unbothered. “And it isn’t wrong.”
Caroline’s smile thinned. “Oh?”
“We have things in common,” he said simply. No list. No elaboration.
Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Such as?”
Darcy paused. “Things.”
Mrs. Hurst looked unconvinced. “That sounds... generous.”
“It’s accurate.”
Caroline gave a brittle laugh. “You’re defending her again.”
“I’m correcting assumptions.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said sweetly, too sweetly, “you sound positively taken.”
Darcy didn’t blink. “I’m not taken with Elizabeth Bennet. I’m not pursuing a relationship, nor am I interested in anyone at present.”
He held Caroline’s gaze just a second longer than necessary as he said it—calm, clipped, and unmistakably clear.
“Then why bother at all?” Mrs. Hurst asked.
Darcy turned to her calmly. “Because I built something that asks people to commit to process over impulse. I won’t exempt myself from it just because the match surprised me, you or anyone.”
Caroline’s expression hardened. “And after the third date?”
“Then the experiment ends.”
“And she?” Caroline pressed.
Darcy considered it for a second. “Then she goes on with her life. As do I.”
Caroline studied him now, something bitter slipping beneath her smile.
“Well,” she said finally, lifting her glass, “let’s hope she doesn’t get any ideas.”
Darcy didn’t respond.
Dinner resumed, but the tone of the evening had shifted. Even Mr. Hurst looked vaguely alert, sensing the undercurrent.
Darcy ate quietly, calm on the surface.
But underneath, a single thought pressed its way to the front:
Elizabeth Bennet hadn’t behaved like someone chasing wealth—or chasing anything at all.
And that, more than all the mockery and snide remarks at the table, was what unsettled him most.
***
After a sad meal of microwaved turkey and half a limp salad she didn't remember buying, Elizabeth sank into the couch, wrapped a blanket around her legs, and queued up the new episode of Night Ward, the only medical drama absurd enough to keep her distracted.
It was her only plan for the night—forty-five minutes of hospital chaos and dramatic music, plus a glass of wine that had already lost most of its charm.
Just as she began to watch, her phone chimed.
Jane? Mr F—Fitzwilliam Darcy. Mother. Kitty or Lydia?
She reached for it, half expecting nothing interesting.
Her eyes flew open the moment she saw the name, her breath catching mid-sip.
Wickham.
Her stomach gave a little drop. She sat up straighter, clutching the phone as though it might vanish.
His message was simple:
“Hey. Got your message—sorry it took a while. Training’s been brutal.”
She stared at the text for a second longer than necessary. There was a relaxed confidence in the tone. It was just… smooth. Like someone who knew how to talk to people without trying too hard.
She answered, fingers tapping more cautiously than she’d admit.
“Wasn’t sure I’d hear from you.”
Three dots pulsed on the screen. Then the response came:
“You and me both. I actually reached out when your gala moment went viral—kind of hard to miss. Gotta say, I admired it. That kind of honesty is rare. Especially in rooms like that... and with men like him.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected that kind of direct praise.
“Thanks. It wasn’t exactly planned. But I stand by what I said.”