“Mr. Darcy, what are you reading with such profound concentration? I wonder what holds such sway over your attention.”
For a moment, he said nothing, and Elizabeth wondered if he might ignore her entirely. Then, closing the book with an infuriating slowness, he answered, “It is a volume of poetry, Miss Bennet.”
“Poetry! Surely not the melancholy sort? I would have imagined you a reader of history or philosophy.”
“I find poetry… instructive,” he replied. “It conveys truths about human nature that are often obscured in other forms of writing.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her smile sharpening. “Then you must share a passage that you find particularly revealing. I confess, I am eager to hear which truths you hold in such high esteem.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, as if weighing whether to humor her or retreat into his solitude. Finally, he opened the book again, his voice almost impossibly deep and harmonic as he recited a short stanza. It was a reflection on constancy and the quiet strength of enduring devotion—an apt choice, though Elizabeth suspected his selection was carefully deliberate.
She pretended to ponder his words. “It is beautifully written, I grant you, but does it not run the risk of being overly earnest? There is such danger in laying bare the heart—especially in verse.”
His brow lifted slightly, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his face. “A true sentiment is not less true for being plainly spoken.”
“Perhaps. But a plain truth rendered in rhyme often becomes an unintentional comedy. I confess, bad poetry is one of my great terrors. I find it the surest way to extinguish any affection.”
There it was again—the faintest flicker of something almost cunning in his expression, gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. His tone remained perfectly composed as he said, “Then I shall be sure to choose my stanzas carefully in your company, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth raised a brow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Do you mean to say you write poetry, Mr. Darcy?”
“I mean only that one must always consider one’s audience.”
Her pulse quickened at the subtle edge in his words. For a moment, she thought she had caught a glimpse of somethingbeneath his polished exterior—a hint of passion, of conviction—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“You speak as one who holds his principles dear,” she said lightly, masking her thoughts behind her usual wit. “I fear you may find me lacking in that regard, Mr. Darcy. I am far too easily swayed by whim.”
“And yet,” he said quietly, “I do not find you lacking.”
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard, but before she could reply, Darcy returned his attention to the book, his expression unreadable. The conversation was over—or so he seemed determined to make it.
She searched his face for any trace of mockery but found none. How maddening that he could unsettle her with so few words when she had spent the morning attempting the same with no success.
“Well, sir,” she said, regaining her composure, “I thank you for your good opinion, though I shall not let it go to my head.”
“Indeed,” he said, his mouth curving slightly, though whether it was a true smile or merely the shadow of one, she could not say. “You seem far too grounded for such vanity.”
Before she could muster a response, Caroline Bingley swept into the room, somewhat out of breath. “Mr. Darcy! Oh… and Miss Bennet. There you are. Mr. Hurst is organizing a game of cards in the dining room. Shall we join them?”
Darcy was holding his breath, she was sure of it. He had clenched his hand above the page of his book, and the muscles of his jaw appeared to be twitching in the light from the window. But an instant later, he forced a polite expression and set his book aside. “By all means, Miss Bingley.”
“There, just as I hoped! I told my brother I was certain you would wish to join us. I am afraid, though,” she added, frisking Elizabeth with another glance, “that we’ve onlyoneempty chair at the table.”
Elizabeth rose. “No matter, Miss Bingley. I shall entertain myself by the fire.” She followed Miss Bingley into the drawing room, her thoughts darting between her lingering frustration and the mounting determination to adjust her strategy. He was not a man to be lightly touched—that much was obvious. A passing good nod from him would never suffice if she meant to make his mind her plaything. So, how could she…breakhim, for lack of a better word?
As they entered the drawing room, she glanced behind her to see Mr. Darcy hesitating just briefly before he complied with Miss Bingley’s urging to join them. His expression remained neutral, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his reluctance.
Taking her seat, Elizabeth kept one eye on him as he moved to his place at the card table. His every motion was deliberate, his demeanor composed, but there was no mistaking the faint flicker of irritation that crossed his face when Miss Bingley leaned toward him, smiling in that overly practiced way she seemed to reserve for his attention alone.
Elizabeth studied the exchange with interest. Miss Bingley’s comment, whatever it had been, drew only a brief, monosyllabic reply from Mr. Darcy. He did not turn toward her fully, nor did his expression soften in the least. He treated her with the barest veneer of politeness, offering no more than was necessary to maintain decorum. His disengagement was so apparent that Elizabeth marveled at Miss Bingley’s obliviousness to it.
It struck her then that Miss Bingley’s attempts to charm Mr. Darcy lacked any subtlety. She flattered him excessively, fawned over his every word, and deferred to him on every point, no matter how trivial. And yet, for all her efforts, Mr. Darcy barely spared her a glance unless compelled by circumstance. He seemed, Elizabeth thought, quietly weary of her attentions.
The realization deepened as Elizabeth considered the broader picture. A man of Darcy’s wealth and status would undoubtedly be accustomed to such behavior—not only from Miss Bingley, but from countless other women who saw him as a prize to be won. To him, such fawning must be tiresome, if not outright irritating. Miss Bingley, for all her elegant manners and fine gowns, was likely just one more in a long line of ambitious women vying for his favor.
Her gaze flicked back to Darcy, now engaged in conversation with Mr. Bingley. His tone, though restrained, carried a touch more warmth. And then there was the way he had spoken toherearlier. It was different—not warm, precisely, but sharper, more engaged. He debated with her, answered her challenges, and even, on occasion, offered something resembling a compliment. It was hardly the behavior of a man who dismissed her outright. But then again, it was hardly encouragement, either.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her embroidery hoop as she mulled over the distinction. She could not,would not,become another Miss Bingley, hovering like a moth around a flame, desperate for even the faintest flicker of approval. She did not even like the man! She certainly had no intention of demeaning herself to turn his head, even if such measures had any chance of success.
