Richard’s grin widened. “So, let me get this straight. You, Mr. High-and-Mighty Darcy, accepted a wager to be polite, and nowyou’re furious that Miss Bennet might have had her own wager? That’s… rich.”
Darcy scowled, his jaw tightening. “It’s not the same.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Richard leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You gambled with her reputation, Darcy. Whether you meant to or not, you made her the subject of some ridiculous game. And now you’re angry that she did the same to you?”
Darcy flinched at the words, his guilt twisting deeper. “I did not mean for it to go this far.”
“No one ever does,” Richard said dryly. “But here’s the thing—you’re both idiots.”
Darcy’s head snapped up, his expression darkening. “Excuse me?”
“You’re both idiots,” Richard repeated, unabashed. “You’re angry with her for making a wager, but you made one, too. And the way you talk about her, Darcy—if half of what you’ve said is true, then she’s probably just as miserable as you are right now.”
Darcy’s lips parted, but no words came. He turned back to the window, his chest tightening as Richard’s words struck uncomfortably close to the truth. Could Elizabeth be as conflicted as he was? Could there be more to her actions than the cold calculation he had imagined?
Richard rose, crossing the room to clap a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying you should forgive and forget instantly. But maybe—just maybe—you should stop wallowing long enough to find out the truth.”
Darcy shook his head slightly. “And what if the truth only confirms what I already fear?”
“Then you’ll know,” Richard said simply. “And you’ll stop driving yourself mad with questions. But if you let this go—if you let her go—then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if you made the worst mistake of all.”
Darcy swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the weight of his emotions. He wanted to dismiss Richard’s words, to retreat into the safety of his own anger and pride. But deep down, he knew his cousin was right.
Richard stepped back, his tone softening slightly. “You’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. Don’t start now—not when it’s something that clearly matters this much.”
Darcy nodded faintly, though he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and feelings, each one pulling him in a different direction.
Richard sighed, his voice tinged with amusement as he moved toward the door. “And for the record, I’d wager on Miss Bennet over you any day.”
“You do not even know her.”
“I do not need to. The fact that she has you this wrung-out speaks enough.”
Darcy shot him a withering look, but Richard only grinned as he slipped out of the room, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts.
He sank back into his chair, his gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire. The memory of Elizabeth’s voice, her laughter, her fiery spirit, filled his mind once more, refusing to be silenced.
Perhaps Richard was right. Perhaps he owed it to himself—and to her—to find out the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
The winter sunlight filteredweakly through the windows of Longbourn, casting pale beams across the sitting room. Elizabeth sat in her usual chair, her hands idle in her lap,her thoughts as barren as the spot on the bookshelf where her Shakespeare volumes had once proudly stood. The emptiness there seemed to mock her, a silent reminder of everything she had lost—not just her beloved books, but the hope that had flickered briefly in her heart.
From the next room, the low hum of conversation drifted through the walls. Mr. Bingley’s familiar voice carried warmth and good humor, and Jane’s soft replies were no doubt full of her usual gentleness. Elizabeth knew her mother hovered nearby, likely wringing her hands and urging Jane to secure her future before the moment slipped away.
Elizabeth should have felt happy for Jane. And she did—truly. But it was a hollow sort of happiness, dulled by the ache in her chest that refused to fade. Two weeks had passed since the Netherfield ball, two weeks since her disastrous confrontation with Darcy, and still, her heart felt as though it had been trampled underfoot.
Collins had left Longbourn the day after the ball, his pride bruised and his offers of marriage rejected by every eligible lady in Meryton. Even Mrs. Bennet, who had once championed him so fiercely, now declared him “an insufferable oaf” and spoke of him only to complain. Elizabeth wished she could feel relief at his departure, but even that small victory was overshadowed by the weight of everything else.
Mary sat quietly in the far corner of the room, a book open in her lap, though her eyes barely skimmed the pages. Elizabeth glanced at her sister, her expression softening. Mary had barely spoken to her since the ball, her guilt and discomfort evident in every awkward silence. Elizabeth had assured her more than once that she was forgiven, but Mary’s shame seemed impossible to shake.
As if sensing her gaze, Mary looked up hesitantly. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, trying to put her sister at ease. “Yes, Mary?”
Mary hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the book. “I—I wanted to say again how sorry I am. I never meant to… I didn’t think—”
“I know, Mary,” Elizabeth said gently, cutting her off before she could spiral further. “I forgave you weeks ago.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked down at her lap, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you lost so much because of me.”
