Her cheeks burned as she glanced across the room, her eyes landing on Darcy once more. He was speaking to Mr. Hurst now, but his gaze flicked toward her as though he could sense her attention. His expression was calm, unreadable, but to Elizabeth, it now seemed calculated. Every gesture, every word from him tonight—it had all been a performance.
Straightening her shoulders, she set her glass aside and lifted her chin. Whatever games Mr. Darcy and his friends wished to play, she would not be their unwitting pawn. Not tonight. Not ever.
Darcy stood at theedge of the ballroom, his gaze drawn involuntarily to Elizabeth Bennet as she danced with a young militia officer. The officer was grinning like a schoolboy, clearly enamored with his partner, while Elizabeth moved with her usual energy, nearly sparkling in the candlelight. Darcy’s chesttightened unexpectedly, a flicker of jealousy sparking in a way he could neither understand nor control.
He forced himself to look away, his eyes scanning the room. It was then that he noticed Wickham, standing near the far wall and watching the same dance with a peculiar intensity. Darcy’s jaw clenched. Wickham had spent the evening carefully avoiding him, slinking into the shadows whenever their gazes met. And yet, he had lingered near Elizabeth more than once, his interest in her as unwelcome as it was unseemly.
Darcy’s fingers curled into his palm as he resisted the urge to intervene.
His attention flickered back to the dance floor, where Elizabeth was laughing lightly at something her partner had said. There was no artifice in her manner, no coyness—only her usual vivacity, which seemed to draw people toward her effortlessly. Darcy’s throat constricted with something he refused to name, and he turned sharply to survey the room once more, needing to distract himself.
That was when he saw it.
Wickham had moved across the room and was now speaking with Miss Mary Bennet. Darcy’s brow furrowed, unease prickling at the back of his neck. Mary Bennet was the last person Darcy would have expected Wickham to approach. Her solemn, pious demeanor was a far cry from the lively, flirtatious women Wickham typically sought out. And yet, there he was, leaning in slightly as he spoke, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
Mary stood stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she listened with rapt attention. The oddity of the interaction struck Darcy immediately. Wickham was many things—charming, duplicitous, manipulative—but he rarely wasted time on endeavors without purpose. What could he possibly want with Mary Bennet? And why did she seem so… enthralled?
Darcy’s gaze darted back to the dance floor, where Elizabeth was now executing a turn with her partner. For a moment, she glanced in his direction, their eyes meeting across the room. The warmth in her expression, the unspoken connection that seemed to spark between them, made Darcy’s pulse quicken. But just as swiftly as it came, the moment was broken when she turned back to her partner, laughing at some remark he made.
Darcy’s focus shifted back to Wickham and Mary. Wickham’s posture had grown more animated, his hands gesturing subtly as he leaned closer to her. Mary, for her part, seemed utterly rapt, her lips parting slightly as though about to respond. Darcy’s unease deepened, a knot forming in his stomach. Whatever Wickham was saying to Mary, it could not be for any good purpose.
His eyes flicked once more to Elizabeth, as if to reassure himself. She had retired from the dance floor and now stood near the refreshment table, her smile bright as she exchanged a few words with a passing acquaintance. She appeared utterly untroubled, oblivious to the peculiar drama unfolding nearby. He thought about going to her—perhaps even asking for a second set—but Caroline Bingley was now joining her, and that… well, that was not something he wished to meddle in just now.
Darcy exhaled slowly, his frustration mounting. Why could nothing about this evening remain simple?
Before he could consider the matter further, a voice broke through his thoughts.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy!” came the unmistakable, obsequious tone of Mr. Collins. Darcy turned reluctantly to find the clergyman bustling toward him, his face a mix of self-importance and barely contained agitation. “I hope I am not intruding upon your reflections, sir, but I felt it my duty to address a matter of great concern.”
Darcy raised a brow, his irritation barely masked. “What matter, Mr. Collins?”
Collins puffed up his chest, clearly relishing the moment. “It has come to my attention—through means I shall not disclose—that there is a certain… wager involving your good self and my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s expression darkened, his body stiffening. Good heavens, had Bingley opened his fool mouth? That… that could ruin everything! The hackles on his neck rose as his voice dropped to a growl. “A wager?”
“Yes, indeed! A most improper one, I might add. It seems Miss Elizabeth engaged in a bet with her friend, Miss Lucas, regarding your esteemed self. The goal, I am told, was to gain your favor—not out of genuine admiration, but as a means to reject you publicly.”
Darcy’s breath caught, the words striking like a blow. She could not possibly… Not Elizabeth. Not the most genuine, artless woman he had ever… “And what proof do you have of this claim, Mr. Collins?”
Collins faltered for a moment, though his pompous demeanor quickly returned. “Proof, sir? Why, I should think the word of a clergyman sufficient in such matters! My source is… unimpeachable.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the room and immediately found Mary Bennet, standing near the refreshment table with her hands clasped tightly together, her gaze fixed firmly on them. Her pale complexion and anxious expression betrayed her involvement. Darcy’s mind reeled. Mary Bennet was Wickham’s unlikely choice of confidante earlier—had she been manipulated into this?
“Your source,” Darcy said coldly, “appears to be Miss Mary Bennet.”
Collins stammered, his discomfort momentary before he rallied. “Miss Mary is a deeply principled young lady, who I am sure would wish to prevent… Well! while I shall not confirm or deny her involvement, I can assure you that my concern lies solely in preventing harm to the Bennet family’s reputation. Lady Catherine would be most displeased were I to allow such impropriety to continue unchecked.”
Darcy’s fury simmered beneath his calm exterior. “And what precisely have you done to address this… impropriety?”
Collins puffed himself up even further, clearly pleased with his own actions. “I would take it upon myself, sir, to speak to Miss Elizabeth most firmly on the matter, as soon as I may. Though, I must say, when I have taken measures to reprove her on other matters she has been—alas—less receptive than I might have hoped. I believe she shall require further guidance in understanding the consequences of her actions, but rest assured, I intend to make my position clear. I thought it would be wisest to first approach you—”
Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you believe Lady Catherine would approve of such meddling?”
Collins beamed. “I am confident she would, Mr. Darcy. It is my duty as a clergyman to address matters of morality, particularly where my family is concerned.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his anger sharp and focused. He glanced once more toward Mary, whose guilt-ridden expression left little doubt as to her role in this debacle. But beneath his anger lay something far more painful: doubt.
Could it be true? Could Elizabeth have wagered on his favor as some sort of game? The thought was almost unbearable.
