I find no wit in your travail.”
Elizabeth gasped theatrically. “Now that is quite unkind, sir! My steps have been nothing short of perfection.”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “I concede the point. My muse must be defective.”
Elizabeth laughed again, shaking her head. “Then perhaps we should leave the poetry to others. I should hate to see you ruin your reputation with such efforts.”
Darcy inclined his head, his tone gentler now. “And what of yours, Miss Bennet? Surely such provocations risk damaging your own standing.”
“Oh, my reputation is quite ruined already,” she said airily, her grin as bright as the chandeliers overhead. “But I find I enjoy myself far more this way.”
As they turned for the final figure of the dance, Darcy realized that he, too, was enjoying himself more than he had in years. The weight of the ballroom, the expectations, the constant eyes upon him—all of it seemed to fade in the presence of Elizabeth Bennet’s quick tongue and sharper mind.
As the music swelled to its conclusion, they came to a graceful stop. Darcy released her hand, though the warmth of her touch lingered longer than it should have.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice light but sincere. “That was almost enjoyable.”
“Almost?” he echoed, raising a brow.
“Well,” she said with a playful tilt of her head, “you did insist upon trying poetry.”
“At your insistence, madam.”
“And you were naive enough to take my words at their face value!” She clucked her tongue. “I thought you might have known better by now, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy allowed himself a chuckle as he bowed. “Then I shall endeavor to avoid such mistakes in future.”
Elizabeth curtsied in return, her eyes still dancing with humor. “A wise decision.”
As the other couples began to disperse, Darcy extended his arm. “Shall we take our place for supper?”
Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before accepting his offer. “I suppose I must, if I hope to observe more of your endurance.”
Darcy gave no outward sign of amusement, but inwardly, he braced himself. The supper set, he reminded himself, was merely another obligation to be met. And yet, as he led Elizabeth toward the refreshment room, he could not shake the feeling that this particular obligation might prove far more difficult—and far more dangerous—than he had anticipated.
Twenty
That was it. Thewager was won.
Elizabeth shot Charlotte Lucas a triumphant look as she took Darcy’s arm, allowing him to lead her toward the supper room. Charlotte raised her brows meaningfully, then rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. The gesture said everything:Well done, now finish it.
Wait… she was… serious?
Elizabeth shook her head faintly, pantomiming that she did not understand, so Charlotte spelled it out for her by mouthing the words.“Turn him down.”
She blinked. Charlotte was really holding her tothatpart of the wager? The petty, spiteful part, the part Elizabeth had agreed to only out of wounded pride? She pursed her lips and sucked in a breath. Could she do it? Did she even need to?
Oh, surely she had satisfied the terms. Charlotte could not be so cruel… could she? But as Elizabeth slid her gaze toward Darcy, then back to her friend, Charlotte made one final gesture. A little brushing of her thumb against her fingertips, a little signal that said plain as day, “Prepare to pay up.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of something unfamiliar—guilt, perhaps, or reluctance—as she turned away from her friend.
Her attention snapped back to the gentleman at her side as his fingers closed around hers. It was a perfectly ordinary gesture, yet the weight of the eyes following them made it feel oddly significant. Elizabeth glanced up at him, finding his expression composed as ever, though there was a faint tension in his jaw, as if he were bearing the scrutiny with stoic resignation. The realization struck her: He knew they were watching too.
The room seemed to hum with the energy of so many unspoken thoughts, so much speculation. Elizabeth could almost feel the pressure of the whispers—who would have imagined Mr. Darcy, the aloof and inscrutable master of Pemberley, sharing the supper set with one of the Bennets? She had no doubt Caroline Bingley’s fury could have set the chandeliers alight, and Mary Bennet’s thinly veiled disapproval had not escaped her notice either.
But as they reached their table, Elizabeth forced herself to focus. She had secured the supper set—whatever remained was no longer Darcy’s choice, but fully within her own power. Her wager with Charlotte was as good as finished. The thought should have brought triumph, a sense of satisfaction at having proven her friend wrong. Yet as she settled into her chair and Darcy poured her a glass of punch, the feeling that stirred within her was something far more complicated.
“Is the punch to your liking, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, breaking the silence.
