“It is far from all,” Darcy shot back, rising abruptly to pace the room. “Do you not see what she is doing?”
“Who?” Bingley blinked, his grin widening. “Miss Bennet?”
“MissElizabethBennet,“ Darcy corrected. “She has made me her target. Every glance, every word—it is as though she has resolved to unravel me entirely.”
Bingley snorted. “Darcy, you do love to dramatize.”
Darcy spun to face him, his brows drawn tight. “This is precisely the sort of behavior I warned you about. A young ladysetting her sights on a gentleman who shows her too much regard—drawing him into a trap until there is no honorable way out. Ruined reputations, entanglements, expectations—have you forgotten the sort of danger such situations invite?”
Bingley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Forgive me, but I hardly see Miss Elizabeth as the scheming sort. She seems more inclined to mock than to entrap.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Mockery is but a step away from manipulation.”
“You give her far too much credit,” Bingley said lightly. “And yourself far too little.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, turning back toward the window. The faint light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the fields in pale golds and blues. He clasped his hands behind his back. “This wager... it was foolish. I will not continue it.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Bingley said. “Because I intend to.”
Darcy turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
Bingley grinned and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. “I received this letter yesterday. It’s from my man at the mill. He’s been discussing some fascinating opportunities for expansion.”
Darcy’s stomach sank. “The mill?”
“Yes,” Bingley said, unfolding the letter and scanning it with obvious satisfaction. “The numbers look promising. With a bit of investment, we might double the output within the year. And the war is sure to end sooner or later, making the cotton from the Continent that much easier to obtain.”
“Bingley, no.” Darcy strode across the room, snatching the letter from his friend’s hand. “You cannot be serious. The mill is a drain on your resources, not a boon. I told you months ago—two years ago! It ought to be sold.”
Bingley chuckled. “And I told you, Darcy, I’m rather fond of the thing. It was my father’s pride and joy.”
“And now it is your liability,” Darcy countered, glaring at the letter. “You are throwing good money after bad. You have no head for business, and no need to depend on it. Sell it. Invest the proceeds wisely.”
Bingley leaned back, his grin undiminished. “You know, I might take that advice... if I thought you were holding up your end of our little wager.”
Darcy froze, the letter crumpling slightly in his grip. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I agreed to consider selling the mill, provided you saw this bet through. You’ve been doing splendidly thus far, Darcy. Miss Elizabeth hasn’t fled in terror, and you haven’t stormed off in one of your infamous silences. It’s practically a triumph.”
Darcy’s glare could have melted glass. “This is extortion.”
“No,” Bingley corrected, wagging a finger. “This is motivation. You hold up your end, Darcy, and I’ll consider holding up mine.”
“You would risk your fortune over a wager?” Darcy demanded.
“You would abandon your efforts to ‘improve my prospects’ because you fear a witty young lady?” Bingley countered, his grin turning sly.
Darcy’s jaw tightened, his hand crushing the letter further before he thrust it back at Bingley. “You are insufferable.”
“And you are predictable,” Bingley said, rising to his feet and clapping Darcy on the shoulder. “Now, stop pacing and think of it this way—if you can survive the clever remarks of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, surely you can survive anything. Oh! You recall that we are to dine with Colonel Forster this evening, I hope. I believe I shall retire to dress.”
Darcy said nothing, his gaze fixed on the glowing horizon beyond the window. He did not reply when Bingley left the room, whistling a jaunty tune as though he had just won a great victory.
The truth settled heavily on Darcy’s chest, suffocating in its simplicity: he was trapped. And worse, the trap was one he had walked into willingly.
“Five shillings says Mrs.Long will be late for the next Assembly,” Mrs. Philips announced, her fan snapping shut with finality.
Lydia, perched on the arm of a settee, jingled her coin purse. “I’ll take that bet, Aunt! I know for a fact that her niece has a scheme because she wants to see the officers first.”
