Elizabeth glanced down at her glass, then back at him. His tone was polite, even cordial, yet she detected the faintest hint of something more—hesitation, perhaps, or curiosity. “Perfectly, thank you,” she said lightly. “Though I confess I find the conversation thus far to be lacking.”
His lips quirked slightly, the ghost of a smile. “Then allow me to remedy that.”
“How very considerate of you,” Elizabeth replied, her smile widening.
She had not expected to feel this way—to enjoy herself so thoroughly, to see Darcy not as a wager to be won but as a man she genuinely admired. The thought of rejecting him, of fulfilling the final term of her agreement with Charlotte, now felt… wrong. It was no longer a jest, no longer a harmless game. It was real.
Elizabeth stole another glance at Charlotte, who was seated on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with Maria Lucas. Charlotte turned slightly, catching Elizabeth’s eye, and gave her a subtle but pointed look. Elizabeth quickly looked away, her pulse quickening.
Darcy’s voice drew her attention back. “You seem distracted, Miss Bennet.”
She blinked, startled. “Oh, not at all. I was merely… reflecting.”
“On what, if I may ask?”
Elizabeth hesitated, searching for an answer that would not betray her thoughts. “On how unexpected this evening has been.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly. “Unexpected in what way?”
“In many ways,” she said, her tone deliberately vague. “But mostly in how much I have… enjoyed it.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, the intensity of his gaze left her breathless. “I am glad to hear that,” he said quietly. “It is not often that I enjoy such evenings myself.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm, and she looked away, reaching for her glass to cover her flustered state. “Would you go so far as to declare yourself happy at the moment?”
“Happiness is a matter of perspective.”
“And what, pray, is your perspective?”
“That happiness is best pursued quietly,” Darcy replied, meeting her gaze.
“How utterly tragic,” Elizabeth declared, leaning forward slightly. “I suppose that means you avoid public displays of joy? No raucous laughter, no spirited exclamations?”
“I leave those to others,” he said evenly.
“Ah, so you merely endure happiness.”
Darcy paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “I do not endure happiness, Miss Bennet. I prefer it to be… private.”
“Private happiness,” Elizabeth repeated thoughtfully. “That sounds like the sort of thing one reads about in that rather…badpoetry of yours.”
Darcy’s hand froze, his expression briefly faltering. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, you cannot be under the impression that you are a talent!” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your lines are filled with solemn pronouncements on the virtue of quiet suffering and the agony of secret longing.”
“I know you are no lover of verse, but I was not aware you had such a low opinion of my efforts. I believe I am insulted.”
She leaned forward. “Mr. Darcy, though it pains me to grieve you, you are theworstpoet I have ever heard.”
“I find that difficult to credit, coming from one who dislikes the form in general. What gives you the authority to judge?”
“Is it not subjective? I have my own preferences, and that is sufficient. Perhaps it would surprise you to know that I do not hateallpoetry.”
Darcy set his glass down, his composure returning. “And what sort would you prefer?”
Elizabeth hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “The sort that… amuses, I suppose. Or surprises. Perhaps even delights.”
“That is a tall order,” Darcy said, his tone thoughtful. “Perhaps you should demonstrate.”
