She had been seated opposite him at dinner, and it had taken every ounce of discipline not to stare. Every sharp turn of her wit, every arch of her brow as she replied to Miss Bingley’s thinly veiled remarks, had unraveled his composure bit by bit. By the time she excused herself to escort her sister back down to the drawing room, his toes were curled inside his shoes, the roots of his hair felt like they were on fire, and he was halfway through his second glass of wine.
Now, she reentered the room with Miss Bennet on her arm, the latter still pale but looking hale enough to at least maintain her feet. Darcy’s heart hammered as Elizabeth’s smile softened while she guided her sister to a seat near the fire. It was a smile full of care and sweetness, utterly disarming in its sincerity. And for a fleeting instant, last evening came rushing back to him—her genuine concern and patience in the face of his doubts. Lucky would be the man Elizabeth Bennet chose to lavish her affections on…
That was when he started coughing.
Elizabeth glanced his way, one eyebrow edging upward. Darcy cleared his throat and claimed a seat, fixing his gaze on the fire.The rug. The steaming coffee service that had just been brought in. Anything but Elizabeth Bennet.
“My sister is feeling much better,” Elizabeth said brightly, answering a question nobody had yet asked. “The warmth of the fire will do her good.”
Bingley all but leaped from his seat to arrange a cushion for Jane Bennet. “You must tell me at once if you feel chilled, Miss Bennet. Or fatigued. Or—well, anything at all.”
Miss Bennet murmured her thanks, but Darcy’s attention was elsewhere. Elizabeth sat beside her sister, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze flicking briefly toward him before focusing on the conversation between her sister and Bingley.
Miss Bingley, seated nearby with her embroidery untouched, gave a hollow laugh. “It is such a relief to see you feeling better, Miss Bennet. We were all so dreadfully worried. Were we not, Louisa?”
Mrs. Hurst, who was perched beside her sister with a glass of sherry, nodded. “Oh, quite. We have been simply beside ourselves.”
Elizabeth’s expression remained polite, but there was a faint, familiar edge to her smile. “You have both been such kind hostesses. I am certain the strain of your worry must have cost you many hours of sleep.”
Darcy bit back the urge to smirk. She was so good at that—cutting just deep enough without ever drawing blood. Miss Bingley seemed not to notice.
In the corner, Hurst grumbled something incoherent about cards—no doubt, he was petulant that no one else wished to join him—and poured himself another drink. Darcy ignored him, his focus narrowing again to Elizabeth. She sat straighter now, leaning slightly toward her sister as though shielding her from the insincerity radiating from the Bingley sisters.
The paper in Darcy’s pocket crinkled faintly as he shifted. The poem. The utterly idiotic poem.
Earlier, the idea had felt inspired. He had convinced himself that it was a clever way to put her off, to gain the upper hand and make her feel all the same unease that had begun to torment him.
But now… now it felt like a reckless gamble. Surely, she would see through it. Surely, she would know he was baiting her. And yet, the alternative was to let her continue infiltrating his thoughts unchecked.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “You are very quiet this evening. Is something on your mind?”
Darcy stiffened, his gaze snapping to hers. She sat poised, her head tilted ever so slightly, the flicker of a challenge gleaming in her eyes. Her tone was polite, everything ladylike and respectable—but the teasing undercurrent was unmistakable. It was like a gauntlet thrown at his feet.
“Quiet, Miss Bennet? Perhaps I am simply observing.”
“Observing what, I wonder?” Elizabeth said, leaning slightly forward, the firelight catching the sparkle in her eyes. “Surely not the weather—it has hardly changed all day.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Must one always speak to be occupied?”
“Not always. But silence often speaks louder than words. I cannot help but wonder what yours might be saying.”
He hesitated, feeling the faint stir of heat creeping up his collar. “Perhaps it says nothing of interest.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she replied with a smile—sharper now, like the edge of a blade concealed behind silk. “I have always suspected you of being a man of hidden depths, Mr. Darcy. But perhaps I am mistaken and you truly are as dull as any other man.”
He swallowed. Was that a trickle of sweat itching beneath his cravat?Impossible!“Dull? That would not be for me to judge,Miss Elizabeth, but I would not have taken you for one to make such mistakes lightly.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, the sound as infuriating as it was captivating. “Even I cannot claim infallibility. But I do pride myself on my intuition. And just now, my intuition suggests that your thoughts are far from dull.”
“Your intuition flatters me,” Darcy said, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. “But I am afraid you overestimate the complexity of my thoughts.”
Elizabeth’s brow lifted, a knowing glint flashing in her eyes. “Then perhaps you might share them, so I might judge for myself.”
“Share them?” He hesitated, the papers in his pocket crinkling against his fingers. The idea had seemed daring, even clever, earlier in the safety of solitude. Now, under her keen gaze, it felt reckless—yet maddeningly tempting.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its edge. “I confess, I am curious. Surely even a man as composed as yourself cannot be entirely immune to intrigue or interest?”
His jaw tightened. “You think me composed, Miss Bennet?”
