“Demonstrate?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“If you have such strong opinions on the matter, surely you can provide an example.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, prepared to refuse, but the glint of challenge in Darcy’s eyes gave her pause. She could not very well back down now, not after teasing him so thoroughly.
“Very well,” she said, straightening in her chair. “But I warn you, Mr. Darcy, I am no poet.”
“I am prepared to be amazed.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips, considering. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she recited:
“A gentleman grave, his manner austere,
But what lies beneath? A heart full of cheer?”
Darcy’s lips twitched. “Is that meant to describe me?”
“It might,” Elizabeth said airily. “Though I suppose the cheer is debatable.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, as though accepting her challenge. “Allow me to retort.”
“A lady so clever, her wit sharp and fine,
Yet often she leaves disaster behind.”
Elizabeth gasped, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “Disaster? That is most unjust.”
“Is it?” Darcy countered, his tone dry. “I heard something about a certain occasion involving Mr. Collins and a tray of tea, shortly after he came to Longbourn.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “You have spies, I see!”
He sipped his wine, rather smugly, and set his glass aside. “No. I have Bingley, who has spent an inordinate amount of time in conversation with your sister. He said something about an odd wrinkle in the rug that had not been there moments before. Apparently, it cost Mr. Collins his favorite cravat.”
“That was not my fault!” Elizabeth protested, laughing despite herself. “If anyone was to blame, it was the rug.”
“The rug was innocent.You, however, I am in doubt of.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her laughter drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. “You are entirely incorrigible, Mr. Darcy.”
“I prefer incorrigible to austere,” he said, raising his glass slightly.
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, her amusement softening into something warmer. She had not expected this—this playfulness, this ease. It was a side of him she had glimpsed before but never so fully, and it was… disarming.
“Well,” she said at last, lifting her glass in return. “To incorrigible gentlemen and clever ladies.”
“To private happiness,” Darcy added quietly.
Their glasses clinked softly, the sound nearly lost amid the buzz of the room. Yet for Elizabeth, it felt like a declaration—of what, she could not quite say. All she knew was that for the first time in their acquaintance, she felt entirely at ease in Darcy’s presence. And that, she realized with a pang, was more dangerous than any wager.
Darcy watched Elizabeth laugh,her eyes sparkling as she recovered from their poetic sparring. He had not expected the conversation to take this turn, and yet he found himself oddly grateful for it. She had a way of disarming him, of coaxing out parts of himself he thought long buried. The weight of the room—the glances, the whispers, the expectations—had faded into background noise, eclipsed entirely by her presence.
But just as he began to settle into the ease of their conversation, Elizabeth’s expression shifted. Her laughter quieted, and her gaze flickered briefly across the room. Darcy followed it instinctively, noting that her friend Miss Lucas seemed to be watching them with a pointed look. When Elizabeth’s eyes returned to his, they held a new coolness, her warmth momentarily dimmed. It was so subtle, so fleeting, that he might have imagined it—if not for the faintly guarded tone that crept into her voice when she spoke again.
“You are rather reflective all of a sudden, Mr. Darcy. Dare I ask what occupies your thoughts?”
Darcy hesitated, unsure how to answer. The truth—that his thoughts were entirely consumed by her—seemed far too dangerous to admit. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the flicker of the candlelight on the table.
“Many things,” he said at last, keeping his tone even. “But mostly, I find myself wondering how you manage to defy expectation at every turn.”
