Elizabeth’s face tightened imperceptibly. “It is nothing worth discussing.”
“Because you believe you cannot lose? Or because you are afraid you might?”
Elizabeth stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts. “What it would cost me is a bit of pride, nothing more. I have no intention of losing.”
Charlotte rose as well. “Be careful, Lizzy. Winning may cost you more than you think.”
Elizabeth whirled on her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Charlotte only laughed. “ It is easy to play at a game, but far harder to stop when it begins to play withyou.”
Elizabeth’s mouth opened for a retort, but Charlotte had already reached the door. “Good day, Lizzy. I leave you to your view.”
The door closed behind Charlotte, and Elizabeth returned to the window, her teacup cradled between her hands. The landscape blurred as her thoughts turned inward. Winning the wager was supposed to have been a matter of pride—a way to restore what Mr. Darcy’s insult had taken from her.
And yet...
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as her reflection stared back at her in the glass. It was supposed to be simple. Why did it feel like anything but?
Darcy re-folded the letterwith careful precision and reached for a fresh sheet to pen a reply. This was Georgiana’ssecond request now. Her reluctance practically trembled through the page, each word chosen with the same delicate care she used to play her pianoforte. He ran a finger along the edge of the paper, his jaw tightening.
She had sounded hesitant in her last letter, of course. That much was natural. The thought of going anywhere unfamiliar after what had happened in Ramsgate last summer would unsettle anyone, let alone a girl as sensitive and trusting as Georgiana. When she had written to him then, he had replied, urging her to set aside her fears—to think not of the shadows of the past but of the opportunities the visit could offer.
He had meant every word. He had believed it was for the best. But now...
Darcy re-opened her letter before him as though it were a ledger of debts he could not balance. Georgiana’s reply had come today, more unhappy than before, more direct in her quiet plea. Her words were circumspect, of course—she never spoke plainly when she feared disappointing him—but the message was clear. She did not want to go with Mrs. Pomeroy’s family.
He dipped his quill into the ink, but the paper remained blank. What was there to say? He had already reassured her once. He had reminded her that Mrs. Pomeroy’s family was well-respected, that she would be among girls her own age. That she would, he had said carefully, be ‘looked after.’ There would be no... incidents.
And yet Georgiana had written again.
Darcy set the quill down and rubbed a hand over his face. He could not fault her for her fears. They were, after all, too fresh. He remembered all too well the tears in her eyes when she had confessed what nearly happened. How she had trusted the wrong man. How she had nearly...
He drew a sharp breath and sat straighter. Georgiana was strong in ways she did not yet understand, but how was she togrow if he allowed her to avoid every challenge? This visit was a chance for her to see a different world, to spend time with companions of her own age, to leave the memories of Ramsgate behind her. Would it not be wrong—selfish, even—to shelter her so completely?
The door opened behind him, and he glanced up to see Bingley stepping in. “Ah, there you are! I had begun to wonder if you had locked yourself away for good.”
“Not for good,” Darcy replied, setting his quill aside. A reply would have to wait.
“Then only for now.” Bingley laughed, moving to lean against the mantel. “What has you so grim this morning? Your valet did not cut you shaving, I trust? Nothing the matter with your breakfast?”
Darcy shot him a look but said nothing, folding Georgiana’s letter and slipping it into his pocket.
Bingley’s gaze flickered to the papers on the desk. “Ah. Correspondence. That explains it. You always look as though the fate of the empire rests on your pen.”
“I do not tend to waste time on trivial matters.”
“And is this matter trivial?”
“No,” Darcy said after a beat. “But it is private.”
Bingley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more. I shall leave you to it. Though I do hope you plan to take some air at least. Brooding is bad for the constitution. I am going for a ride, if you care to join me.”
With a final grin, Bingley departed, closing the door behind him. Darcy exhaled slowly and returned his attention to the blank page.
He dipped the quill again and began to write.
My dearest Georgiana,
