“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice low. “For speaking so plainly.”
Elizabeth smiled then, a small, warm smile that sent an inexplicable warmth through him. “Well,” she said lightly, “Ishould warn you, Mr. Darcy, that plain speaking is something of a habit with me.”
“It is a habit I find myself appreciating,” he replied.
Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the sincerity of his tone. Then, with a soft smile, she said, “Well, I shall consider that a compliment.”
“It is meant as one,” he replied.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade entirely. Darcy could feel the pull of her presence, the undeniable gravity that seemed to draw him closer to her. It was a feeling he had fought against for weeks, a battle he had told himself he could win. But sitting here, looking at her, he realized with startling clarity that he had already lost.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice low, each word carefully chosen. “I find myself—”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind. Her eyes widened slightly, and she glanced away, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Please… do not.”
Darcy froze, the unspoken words caught in his throat. For a moment, he simply stared at her, the flicker of something—hesitation? fear?—in her expression catching him entirely off guard. She wasn’t angry. If anything, she looked almost regretful, as though stopping him had cost her something, too.
“I beg your pardon,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Elizabeth’s gaze darted back to him, and though her expression was carefully composed, there was a tremor of uncertainty in her voice when she replied. “You did not. It is only that… some things are better left unsaid.”
Darcy’s chest tightened, confusion and frustration warring within him. He had thought—no, he had felt—something between them tonight. A connection that transcended the gamesand wagers and social conventions that had brought them together. But now, as she sat before him, her eyes shadowed with some unspoken thought, he was no longer certain of anything.
“Of course,” he said after a moment, inclining his head slightly. “I would never presume to speak where my words are unwelcome.”
Elizabeth winced, a small but unmistakable reaction, and Darcy cursed himself for the unintended sharpness of his tone. She opened her mouth as if to respond, then seemed to think better of it, her lips pressing into a thin line.
They sat in silence for a moment, the charged energy between them replaced by an awkward stillness. Around them, the hum of the room returned, the clinking of glasses and low murmur of voices grounding them once more in the reality of the evening.
Elizabeth shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers brushing against the tablecloth. “I think I should… return to my friends,” she said, her voice softer now, almost tentative. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your company.”
Darcy rose immediately as she stood, his movements instinctive and precise. “The pleasure was mine, Miss Bennet.”
Her gaze lingered on his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though she wanted to say more. But whatever words she might have spoken remained unvoiced. Instead, she offered him a small, almost apologetic smile before turning and weaving her way back toward the crowded ballroom.
Darcy watched her go, his thoughts a whirlwind of contradictions. She had stopped him before he could say the thing he had scarcely allowed himself to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind. And yet, she had not rejected him outright. There had been no disdain in her manner, no triumph or amusement, only discomfort—and something else he could not quite name.
The hum of theballroom enveloped Elizabeth as she moved back toward the dance floor, the remnants of her supper conversation with Darcy lingering in her mind. It had been unexpectedly enjoyable—no, more than enjoyable. It had been disarming, leaving her mind spinning into an abyss of… wasthatwas desire was? It was certainly something.
The Darcy she had encountered tonight was not the aloof, judgmental man she had once dismissed with scorn. He was thoughtful, even kind, and for the first time, she began to see him as something more than the sum of his faults. He was human, imperfect, and—she dared admit—remarkably similar to herself. A fellow cynic, forced to weather the world with wary eyes, he had revealed a side of himself that felt unexpectedly familiar.
And tonight, he had done it… rather pleasantly. Darcy had been charming, surprisingly warm, and even vulnerable in his quiet way. The memory of his expression when he spoke of his sister sent a pang through her chest—an ache that felt dangerously close to admiration. She shook her head slightly, as if to dislodge the thought, but it clung stubbornly, a persistent echo of their conversation.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her hands tightening briefly at her sides. She had not rejected him outright. That was the most damning part of all. She had stopped him, yes, but only because she could not bear to hear what he might have said. The thought of his sincerity, of the possibility that he might feel as deeply as she now suspected, left her trembling.
And worse still, she had not finished the terms of the wager.
Her gaze flicked across the room to Charlotte, who stood near the far wall, her expression one of quiet expectation. Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She could not go on with it—not now, not after tonight. Whatever Charlotte might think of her, whatever teasing remarks or smug glances she might endure, Elizabeth could not bring herself to treat Darcy so callously.
No, it was time to surrender. To admit defeat. She would cross the room, find Charlotte, and tell her plainly: “You were right. I cannot do it.”
She had taken only a single step in Charlotte’s direction when a young militia officer approached, his red coat bright against the muted colors of the crowd. He bowed deeply, his expression earnest and eager. “Miss Bennet, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing toward Charlotte, whose eyes met hers briefly before darting away. A quiet sigh escaped her lips. She had been ready to end this charade—to lay down her arms and declare herself vanquished. But now, here was a polite interruption, one that demanded her attention and delayed the inevitable.
With a small, practiced smile, she inclined her head. “Of course, sir. I would be delighted.”
As he led her to the dance floor, Elizabeth tried to muster the lightness that usually came so easily. But her mind was elsewhere—on Darcy’s weighted gaze, on the warmth that had crept into his voice, and on the weight of everything she had nearly allowed him to say.
