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An unexpected encouragement to Darcy’s hopes arrived three evenings later, not in a secluded grove or beneath a starlit sky, but within the brightly lit confines of the drawing-room.

He stood by the unlit marble hearth, holding a glass of port, observing the domestic harmony currently in his home. The past week of courtship had provided a continuous stream of joyful revelations. Miss Elizabeth had not merely accepted his attentions; she had conquered Pemberley itself.

He watched as his intended leaned closer to Georgiana on the sofa, the two young women whispering secrets over an embroidery hoop. His sister’s usual shyness was absent. The household servants displayed similar devotion. Mrs Reynolds hummed while preparing the menus, and even Bates had ceased his sideways scuttling, standing noticeably taller whenever Miss Elizabeth offered him a kind word regarding his impeccable tea service.

Tonight, however, she was about to face the ultimate obstacle in her path: playing piquet against Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

The matriarch, having suffered a contentious defeat to Mrs Gardiner earlier in the afternoon, demanded a new, untested opponent to restore her spirits. Miss Elizabeth accepted the challenge without hesitation. She left the embroidery with Georgiana, rose from the sofa, and took the chair opposite Lady Catherine.

Darcy set his glass on the mantelpiece, moving closer to the card table, harbouring a measure of apprehension. His aunt did not play pasteboard games for amusement; she played them for dominance, employing the rules as weapons, and she expected her opponents to yield points out of deference to her title.

Miss Elizabeth arranged her cards, her demeanour calm.

“I must warn you, young lady,” Lady Catherine announced, pointing a finger to the centre of the green baize. “I do not tolerate sloppy discarding. Mrs Gardiner has a deplorable habit of hoarding queens for sentimental reasons. I expect you to play with mathematical precision.”

“I shall endeavour to avoid sentimentality, your ladyship.” Miss Elizabeth offered a polite nod.

The game commenced.

Darcy watched carefully. He anticipated Miss Elizabeth might offer a strategic retreat, perhaps allowing his aunt to secure a few easy tricks to preserve the peace of the household. He was mistaken.

Miss Elizabeth did not cower and did not yield a single point. When Lady Catherine attempted to intimidate her by declaring a sequence of high cards, Miss Elizabeth merely smiled and countered the claim with a superior sequence of her own. When the play began, she gathered her tricks into a neat pile before her. She played head-on, matching the matriarch’s aggressive style with logic.

“You have a ruthless streak, Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Catherine observed sharply, throwing a card on the table with a crisp snap. “You have kept that king back with considerable cunning. It is highly unladylike.”

“I prefer to protect my assets, your ladyship.” Miss Elizabeth placed her king on the table, taking the trick. “I find losing to be a far more unladylike sensation.”

Mr Gardiner, seated nearby with a newspaper, snorted. Lady Catherine glared at the merchant, but she did not reprimand him. She returned her focus to the game, her concentration absolute.

The battle raged for thirty minutes. The rest of the drawing-room was silent, the occupants captivated by the audacity of a young lady from Hertfordshire matching the ruler of Rosings Park point for point. Miss Elizabeth was unfazed by Lady Catherine, parrying every demand for obedience with a flawless display of strategy.

Ultimately, Lady Catherine claimed the final trick, securing the victory by an incredibly narrow margin.

She gathered the cards, arranging them into a precise stack. She studied Miss Elizabeth for a long while. Darcy held his breath, anticipating a lecture regarding the impropriety of challenging one’s betters.

However, it never came.

“You play exceedingly well, young lady,” Lady Catherine declared, her tone devoid of condescension. She offered a curt nod of approval. “You have a firm mind. You do not panic under pressure, and you do not surrender your points out of foolish deference. I abhor a weak-minded female.”

“I thank you, madam.” Miss Elizabeth inclined her head, accepting the praise with the exact measure of polite humility required.

Lady Catherine rose and approached Darcy, pausing on her way to inspect a porcelain vase on the table beside him.

“She is stubborn,” she muttered to the vase, ensuring only Darcy heard her. “She refuses to be intimidated. She lacks proper deference, and she argues with a shocking degree of confidence.”

Darcy stiffened, ready to launch a full defence of Miss Elizabeth’s character. He opened his mouth to dismantle every accusation his aunt had.

Before he could utter a single syllable, Lady Catherine lifted her head, an amused smirk on her lips.

“She will do nicely, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.

She offered no further explanation. She turned to leave, and, on her way out, she demanded Mrs Jenkinson fetch Anne’s evening tonic immediately.

Darcy remained rooted by the table with the large vase, staring at Miss Elizabeth. She was laughing at a jest offered by Mr Gardiner, her face radiant, her presence filling his home with light.

He required no further encouragement; he would ask Miss Elizabeth to marry him.

After they all said their goodnights, Darcy retired to his bedchamber. The household was settling into slumber. He entered his dressing room, pulling the cravat loose from his neck.