“Do not insult my intelligence,” Darcy said coldly. “I was informed quite thoroughly—by your ‘esteemed’ cousin, no less—of the terms you agreed upon with Miss Lucas. The goal, as I understand it, was to win my favor, only to reject it with some grand display of triumph. Tell me, Miss Bennet, was that your intent all along?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, her shame mingling with fresh waves of anger. “And you believed him?” she demanded, her voice rising. “You believed Mr. Collins, of all people?”
“I had no reason not to,” Darcy snapped. “He seemed quite eager to play the moral arbiter of the evening.”
“Because, of course, you would take the word of a pompous fool over considering, for one moment, that there might be more to the story!” Elizabeth’s fists clenched at her sides, her entire body trembling with emotion. “You, who pride yourself on your discernment, would rather cling to your wounded pride than allow for the possibility that you might be wrong!”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, his gaze burning into hers. “And what of your discernment, Miss Bennet? What of the assumptions you have made about me? You stand here, casting aspersions, accusing me of falseness, when you yourself—”
“Stop,” Elizabeth said sharply, cutting him off. “You do not get to turn this on me.”
“Do I not?” Darcy’s voice was lower now, but no less cutting. “I have spent the past weeks believing—foolishly, it seems—that we had begun to understand one another. That your teasing, your wit, was a mark of friendship, not derision. And tonight—tonight, I allowed myself to hope for more. But now I see the truth. All of it was a pretense. You never intended to see me at all.”
Elizabeth’s chest heaved, her anger so fierce it felt like it might consume her entirely. “And what about you?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “You speak of being misunderstood, but you have the audacity to make a wager—about me, about my family—and pretend that you are above reproach?”
Darcy’s silence was deafening, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze. The weight of their words, their accusations, hung heavy between them, drawing the attention of more than a few nearby guests. Elizabeth could feel the stares, the whispers, but she no longer cared. Let them look. Let them see the wreckage of whatever connection she had thought might exist between herself and this man.
“I see,” Darcy said finally, his voice cold and clipped. “There is nothing more to say.”
“On that, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said bitterly, “we are in perfect agreement.”
Darcy inclined his head, his expression an unreadable mask. “Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
With that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, his departure swift and decisive. Elizabeth watched himgo, her breath coming in uneven bursts as the reality of what had just transpired settled over her. The room felt unbearably loud now, the hum of whispers and the weight of judgment pressing down on her from every corner.
He did not knowwhere he was going—only that he needed to escape the suffocating press of people, the prying eyes that seemed to follow his every move. His chest was tight, his breath shallow, and every step felt like a fight to maintain his composure.
Elizabeth.
The name seared through him, as though even thinking it might burn away whatever fragile control he had left. For weeks—months—he had allowed himself to be drawn into her orbit. Against his better judgment, he had softened, let down the walls he had built so carefully, and dared to believe that she might see him as more than the cold, unfeeling man she had first met.
And tonight—tonight had felt like everything he had ever wanted. Her laughter, her wit, the way she had looked at him during their supper set—it had all felt real. Genuine. He had let himself believe that her warmth, her charm, had been meant for him. That she had seen him, truly seen him, as he was.
And it had all been a lie.
Darcy’s hands curled into fists at his sides as he pushed open a side door, stepping into an empty corridor. The quiet was a welcome reprieve from the noise of the ballroom, but it did nothing to quell the storm raging within him. He leaned heavily against the wall, his head falling back as he let out a slow,measured breath. His heart pounded in his chest, the betrayal cutting deeper than he cared to admit.
How could I have been so blind?
He had seen her as genuine, unlike so many others who sought his favor for their own ends. But now, knowing the truth of her wager with Miss Lucas, every moment he had shared with her felt like a mockery. The teasing glances, the playful banter—it had all been a game, designed to draw him in, to trap him, so she could revel in rejecting him.
And yet, even as anger churned in his gut, another emotion gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Hurt. He had been falling in love with her, helplessly and irrevocably, and the realization that she had never been sincere left him reeling. He had been a fool—a lovesick fool, blind to the manipulation behind her every smile.
No. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching harder. This was not manipulation, not in the way of the scheming debutantes who sought his wealth or status. It was something else—something more complex and, in its way, more cutting. She had played her role so well, so convincingly, that he had seen in her everything he had ever wanted: honesty, intelligence, kindness.
He shoved away from the wall, pacing the length of the corridor as his thoughts spiraled. “She never intended to hurt me,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter on his tongue. “She only wanted… what? To prove a point? To win some ridiculous bet at my expense?”
The thought made his stomach churn. He stopped mid-stride, pressing his hands to his temples. He could not bear the idea of her laughter—light, musical—being shared with Miss Lucas over the success of her scheme. Did she mock him in private? Had she shared with Charlotte every detail of how easily he had fallen for her charm?
A door creaked open further down the corridor, and Darcy tensed, expecting a servant or perhaps another guest. Instead, Mr. Bingley appeared, his expression confused and concerned.
“Darcy?” Bingley approached cautiously, his affable nature tempered by unease. “You vanished from the ballroom. I was worried.”
Darcy straightened, forcing his features into something resembling calm. “I needed air.”
Bingley frowned, his brow furrowing. “Is something wrong?”
Darcy hesitated. He wanted to tell Bingley everything—to vent his anger, his heartbreak—but the words caught in his throat. He had already suffered enough humiliation tonight. To admit the depths of his feelings for Elizabeth, only to reveal how thoroughly he had been deceived, was a vulnerability he could not bear to share. Not now.
