And, much as he loathed to admit it, she had won.
Elizabeth stepped onto theupper balcony, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Laughter and chatter from earlier in the evening had long since faded into whispers, and the household had gone quiet as it settled for the night. Though reassured by Jane’s steady breathing when she had looked in on her moments before, she fancied the idea of a bit of fresh air for herself.
Stars scattered across the clear sky as her gaze drifted to the shadowed gardens below. The solitude was a welcome balm after the strain of polite conversation, yet it did little to ease the vice twisting her mind. The wager she had made now seemed frivolous, a childish game entangled in a man far too complex to decipher.
Three days she had been in this house. Though she had not come with the intention of working upon Mr. Darcy, the opportunity was not one she could readily pass up. But three days now of twisting her mind to wring out some answer, some easy victory, had exhausted her energies. Darcy was not easily won over—nor easily understood—and with every passing moment, her own motives felt increasingly muddled.
Behind her, the quiet click of a door opening broke her reverie. She turned sharply, freezing as Mr. Darcy stepped onto the terrace. His attention was fixed on the horizon, his expression unguarded in a way she had never seen before. He appeared distracted, even haunted, his hand resting against the railing as though to steady himself, entirely unaware of her presence.
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between retreating unnoticed and announcing her presence. Before she could decide, Darcy’s eyeswandering the sky caused him to glance her way. He started slightly, his composure returning so quickly that she might have imagined the flicker of surprise. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, almost tentative. “Forgive me—I did not realize you were here.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Elizabeth replied. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You disturb nothing,” he said quickly, his eyes meeting hers briefly before skimming back to the horizon. For a moment, silence settled between them, laden with unspoken thoughts. Then, more softly, he added, “I was… seeking air.”
“As was I.” She studied him as he looked away. There was something uncharacteristically unsettled in his posture—the way his shoulders tensed, the faint line between his brows. “You seem preoccupied, Mr. Darcy. Is everything quite well?”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly before he exhaled. “It is nothing of consequence.”
“Then it must be a very loud ‘nothing.’ You look as though the weight of the world rests upon your shoulders.”
His lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained distant. “A heavy imagination, perhaps.”
“Or a heavy letter,” Elizabeth said gently, glancing at the folded paper in his hand. “Though I would not presume to pry.”
Darcy glanced at the letter absently, as though only now remembering he held it. “It is nothing that should concern you.”
“Concern? No, not likely. And yet, I find myself curious. A rare thing, Mr. Darcy, for I do not often find myself curious about those who avoid conversation.”
His brow lifted slightly, and this time, he met her gaze with more intent. “You find me deficient in conversation?”
“Deficient? No. Selective, perhaps.”
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, as though against his better inclination, he said, “Do you ever find yourself mistaken in your judgment, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth blinked. Mr.Darcy?Questioning his own judgment? How very curious. “Frequently. Though I confess I am often reluctant to admit it.”
Darcy’s lips pressed, almost forming a smile. “A reluctant admission is better than none at all,” he murmured. He straightened, his hand tightening slightly on the railing. “I received a letter this evening—two, rather—that troubled me.”
“Oh?”
“It pertains to my sister,” he continued after a pause. “Georgiana.”
“I have heard of her, yes.”
He nodded briefly, as if satisfied that she recognized the name. “She is but fifteen. I do not suppose you were aware of that fact.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed, I was not. Why, Miss Bingley spoke of her as young, but I supposed almost any unmarried lady might fall under that category for her.”
Darcy coughed—or perhaps he was choking on a laugh. She could not be sure. “Indeed. My sister is… very young. Impressionable,” he said carefully. “Too trusting, perhaps.”
Elizabeth caught the hesitation in his voice. She stepped closer, folding her hands. “And this letter has made you worry for her?”
His jaw tightened again. “I have always worried for her.”
The admission hung in the air, quiet but profound. Elizabeth felt her breath hitch slightly, the rawness in his tone unexpected. “She is fortunate to have such a devoted brother,” she said softly.
Darcy turned to her then, his gaze sharp, as though searching for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he relaxed—minutely. “Devotion is one thing,” he said. “Wisdom is another. I fear I have sometimes failed her in the latter.”
