“Oh, excessively so,” she said with mock seriousness. “I cannot imagine you ever giving way to whimsy—or indulgence. Do you even allow yourself the luxury of frivolous thought?”
Darcy stiffened, his hand twitching against his side. A sharp reply hovered on his tongue—something cutting, deflecting, anything to push her back. But then Bingley turned, looking at him expectantly, his brows slightly raised as if bracing for Darcy’s usual brusque retort.
PolitenessBingley had demanded… he could not dare respond in his accustomed way. He had to go above and beyond in civility—civility so pungent, so cloying and loathsome that she wouldnearly trip over herself to back away from him. And yet, Bingley would have nothing of which to accuse him on the matter.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. He could feel the edges of the papers in his pocket like a taunt.The poem. He had written it for precisely this reason: to steer her away, to show her how ridiculous this game was. All he needed was the nerve to follow through.
He took a breath, steeling himself. “Perhaps I will concede, Miss Elizabeth. There may besomevalue in frivolity. I was thinking—” he said slowly…
Did he dare do it?He had to decide before the next words left his— “that this evening might benefit from a touch of... diversion.”
There. He had said it.
Bingley straightened. “A diversion?”
Darcy nodded, sliding his hand into his pocket. The paper felt heavier than it should have. “I have been experimenting with... with verse.”
Bingley’s mouth dropped open. “You? Writing poetry?”
“Yes,” Darcy said firmly, though his throat felt dry and his stomach felt like a twisting brood of vipers. “I thought I might recite something.”
Miss Bingley sat up taller, her eyes lighting with transparent delight. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! How marvelous! I had no idea you possessed such a talent.”
Elizabeth, meanwhile, tilted her head, her expression suddenly dark with curiosity. “A poem, Mr. Darcy? That is… quite the revelation.”
Her tone was neutral, but the glimmer in her eye betrayed her skepticism. He swallowed hard. His hand trembled faintly as he withdrew the paper, but he forced himself to ignore it. “I hope you will be kind enough to forgive its imperfections.”
Bingley blinked rapidly, as though trying to reconcile this Darcy with the one he had known for years. Miss Bingleypractically glowed, clearly assuming the effort was for her benefit.
And Elizabeth... she leaned back slightly, her arms crossing loosely over her lap, her expression full of a thousand questions and her gaze unwavering. “Oh, I am certain there could be no imperfections at all, if you are the author, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy straightened his shoulders, determined not to falter now. “If you will indulge me,” he said, the words catching in his throat but refusing to be retracted.
Elizabeth shifted slightly inher chair, watching Mr. Darcy retrieve a crumpled paper from his pocket with an air of grave determination. She was not sure what she had expected when he had proposed to share his thoughts, but this... this did not feel promising.
“Did you…” Miss Bingley’s voice faltered slightly as she leaned forward, her face lighting with hopeful curiosity. “Write this recently, Mr. Darcy?”
“I did,” Darcy replied, his tone stiff. He unfolded the paper carefully, his eyes scanning the words with what could only be described as grim resolve. “I composed it today.”
Elizabeth blinked, her brows lifting as Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. He was truly going to read this?Mr. Darcy?The idea was absurd, incongruous—utterly baffling. And yet, there he stood, as though ready to recite something epic and eternal.
He cleared his throat, his voice deepening as he began:
“O fairest star that graces night,
Thy glow doth set my heart alight.
Thy laughter rings, a silver chime,
A melody that halts all time.”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned. She cast a furtive glance at Jane, who had turned an alarming shade of pink and was now staring fixedly at her lap. Mr. Bingley had shifted forward, one hand pressed firmly to his mouth, his shoulders faintly trembling.
Darcy’s eyes flicked up, then back to the page as his voice grew stronger, almost fervent:
“Thy gentle eyes, like pools of dew,
Reflect a world both kind and true.
