No, if she was to gain his regard, it would have to be on her own terms. She would need to provoke his interest—not with empty flattery, but with something more substantial.
But how?
Jealousy? Oh, hardly! How couldshemake such a man jealous? She would have to dangle something before him that he wanted above all other things, and she had nothing of the kind within her power to offer.
But hedidlike to be right. And he liked it best when he had a chance toprovehe was right, rather than every word of his being accepted with all the eclat of a proverb.
Her thoughts churned as she watched Darcy rise briefly to retrieve the cards, his movements precise, his expression intentionally composed. His manner bespoke a man who kept others at arm’s length, who had little patience for superficiality or pretense.
If that was the case, then perhaps the answer was simpler than she thought. She would not seek to please him, nor would she attempt to curry his favor. Instead, she would do what she did best: be herself. But more herself, even, than she had been. Bold, observant, and unapologetically forthright.
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as her resolve hardened. She would win this wager yet—not by simpering or flattering, but by reminding Mr. Darcy that she was unlike any other woman he had encountered. If that meant ruffling his feathers a little more, so much the better.
After all, she had never been one to shy away from a challenge.
Nine
“You play with suchconviction, Miss Elizabeth. One might think you mean to make a point rather than entertain.”
Elizabeth’s hands did not falter on the keys, though her smile widened slightly, a glint of mischief flashing in her eyes. “Why, Miss Bingley, I was not aware music required one to sacrifice purpose for entertainment. I rather thought the two might coexist.”
Her response was as swift and pointed as the notes she struck, and Darcy found himself both irritated and intrigued. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her as she played with a confidence that seemed designed to command attention—not to charm, as others might, but to provoke thought.
She was succeeding.
The room’s focus was entirely on her, but Elizabeth seemed oblivious to it. Her performance was not a bid for admiration or applause; it was a conversation—one she controlled with every sharp trill and measured pause. The piece she selected was one he recognized immediately—Haydn, spirited and complex, with a rhythm that seemed intent on defying confinement.
Though her skill was not a match for Georgiana, or even Miss Bingley, her hands moved swiftly, confidently, across the keys, producing a sound so rich and unrestrained that it seemed at odds with the very idea of predictability. It was deliberate, he realized. Perhaps even a challenge to his defense of poetry as a means of expression. She had taken his words and turned them into music, as though daring him to critique what was undeniably skillful.
His gaze settled on her again, this time with renewed focus. Her expression was not one of polite concentration, as was often seen in performers eager to please. No, Elizabeth Bennet played as though she were addressing each note to someone specific—someone whose reaction mattered. Her eyes did not seek out Mr. Bingley, or Miss Bingley, who sat stiffly nearby, but they flicked toward him, if only for a fleeting moment, before returning to her task.
It was maddening.
When the final notes faded, a polite smattering of applause broke out, led by Mr. Bingley, who leaned forward in genuine admiration. “Brilliant! That was absolutely brilliant, Miss Bennet. You must play another.”
Elizabeth shook her head with a polite smile. “You are too kind, Mr. Bingley, but I would not wish to weary my audience.”
“Nonsense,” Bingley protested. “No one here could tire of such talent.”
“Oh, I am certain they could, sir. But I am not so impervious to praise that I cannot be worked upon.”
There it was again—that sharpness, so finely tuned that it might have been missed by anyone who did not know to listen for it. Darcy was certain she meant to unsettle him, and worse, she was succeeding. He had dealt with countless women who sought his approval, but Elizabeth Bennet was unlike any ofthem. She did not flatter. She did not simper. She challenged, and he found it… irksome.
“Then, you will play again,” Bingley asked, almost petulantly.
She laughed. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley, but I should not wish to monopolize the evening. Perhaps another guest might favor us with a performance?”
Miss Bingley immediately rose, her mouth drawn into a tight smile. “What a charming sentiment, Miss Bennet. Indeed, we cannot expect our audience to be satisfied with only one piece. Mr. Darcy, do you not agree? We must have more to admire.”
Her sudden appeal drew his attention, though he barely resisted the urge to sigh. “Miss Bennet’s performance was admirable enough,” he said simply.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled as she rose from the pianoforte, her expression too serene to be sincere. “High praise indeed, Mr. Darcy. I shall treasure it.”
The words were delivered with perfect composure, yet Darcy detected the subtle edge beneath them, a glimmer of satisfaction at having unsettled him. He could feel the faintest heat rising at the back of his neck.
As she moved to retake her seat, she glanced at him again, her smile faint but unmistakable. Darcy returned the look with studied indifference, though his thoughts churned. There was something new in her manner—something irreverent and perfectly unrepentant—that set his nerves on fire tonight.
Miss Bingley’s hands were now poised over the keys, but Darcy found he could not summon the energy to feign interest in her playing. Instead, his mind lingered on Elizabeth, on the way she had so effortlessly turned the performance into an exchange, a contest, a challenge.
