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Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all agreed that his presence added greatly to the pleasure of their engagements at Rosings.

With a gallant air and agreeable conversation, he quickly won the favour of Mrs. Collins and Maria Lucas, while Elizabeth maintained a cautious civility, her wit tempered by suspicion.

He seemed determined to charm, yet Elizabeth could not forget the unease she had felt at his questions during their previous conversation.

One afternoon, as they were at tea at the Parsonage Colonel Fitzwilliam lingered near Elizabeth as they crossed the threshold, conversing with Mrs. Collins about the virtues of Lady Catherine's conservatory.

"The orange trees are quite magnificent," he said, smiling. "I do not believe I have ever seen a more orderly hothouse in all my travels."

"Lady Catherine spares no expense," said Mrs. Collins proudly. "She has a most discerning eye for propriety in both plants and people."

Elizabeth arched a brow but said nothing. Maria, ever eager to be included, added, "And the roses were so pretty, even though they are not yet in bloom."

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth. "Miss Bennet, I daresay you must be fond of roses. Or perhaps another flower holds your preference?"

Elizabeth smiled lightly. "I do not think I am partial enough to any one bloom to make a declaration. But I am fond of variety, I believe. A garden, like a library, should offer a breadth of delights."

"Ah," he said, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eye. "Then you must have quite the fondness for Haydn as well as Mozart—perhaps even the boldness to admire Clementi? "

Elizabeth's breath caught for a moment, but she covered it with a sip of her tea. She laughed, but the sound was a note too bright. "Such a bold accusation! For a man of your intelligence, surely you do not infer my entire character from the contents of my music folio?"

"Only that you strike me as someone whose tastes are refined yet unconventional. I wonder where such knowledge is formed," he said with casual ease, but Elizabeth, watching keenly, noted the slight arch of his brow at her pointed compliment—subtle, but unmistakably perceptive.

Mrs. Collins, unaware of the exchange, laughed lightly. "Our Eliza has always had a discerning ear."

Maria said, "Beethoven is Lady Catherine's favourite, is he not?"

"Indeed," said the Colonel, though his gaze had not left Elizabeth. "Though I find such strict adherence to the fashionable taste to be a kind of tyranny, do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth smiled again, more faintly. "I confess I am not always obedient to the tastes of those in authority."

The conversation turned then to the peculiarities of Mr. Collins's latest sermon, and Elizabeth let herself be drawn into the noise of the room.

Still, she felt the weight of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regard, the subtlety of his probing questions, and the manner in which he sought to place her—to uncover some truth he suspected.

She had hoped, vainly perhaps, that Fitzwilliam Darcy might call during the week, but he did not.

She knew, of course, how Lady Catherine would monopolize his time, particularly as he had come with a view to reviewing Rosings' accounts.

And yet, she could not help but feel the sting of disappointment.

Was it not a little cruel that even now, knowing all that passed between them, she must wait upon his sense of duty?

Yet she was not so foolish as before. She would not measure his feelings by attentions given or withheld at another's direction. In another life, she might have interpreted his absence as indifference, but in this one, she knew better. He was thinking. Weighing. Watching.

So she waited, and in the waiting, sharpened her own resolve. She would not stumble, she would not provoke. But she would be herself, and let the truth unfold as it must.

The Sunday following was mild and bright, and though the sermon was long, Elizabeth scarcely minded; she had seen him.

Darcy stood solemn and still throughout the service, his eyes rarely moving from the pages of his prayer book, yet once, as they rose from kneeling, their gazes met across the narrow divide of the pews.

It was only for a moment, but the impression lingered, and she carried it with her through the afternoon.

The much-anticipated dinner at Rosings followed that very evening.

Elizabeth, dressed with care and modest elegance, could not help the flutter in her chest as they crossed the park.

She was not so much nervous as she was taut—ready.

She had imagined this scene often enough.

Yet, as always, reality had its own script to follow.

Lady Catherine was in rare form, her voice filling the room long before the guests had even taken their places at table.

Mr. Collins hung on every syllable with breathless admiration, murmuring assent and praise like a man hypnotised.

Charlotte, steady and calm, applied herself to the business of the meal with her usual composed detachment, though Elizabeth did not miss the slightly tighter set to her mouth.

Elizabeth took her seat opposite Mr. Darcy, her eyes flicking to him only briefly.

He had not spoken to her directly at church, nor had he sought her gaze—but she felt his presence as keenly as she felt the tension in her own spine.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated beside her, took a much more active role in the evening, engaging both Maria and Elizabeth with the ease of a man well-practised in social intercourse.

"Miss Bennet," he said, as the first course was served, "you must allow me to declare how thoroughly the parsonage agrees with your countenance. You are quite in health."

"You are very kind, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I assure you, the air here is bracing and the conversation lively."

"And you have seen our Lady Catherine in her full splendour. That alone must invigorate the spirits."

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. "Indeed, I am most fortunate. Not every visitor can claim such condescension."

He laughed. "Spoken with such tact, Miss Bennet. You must be careful or she will take you for a flatterer."

"Heaven forbid. I should never wish to rival Mr. Collins."

Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned, but Darcy—seated just down the table—glanced toward her at that, his expression unreadable.

The dinner wore on, and Lady Catherine directed the conversation with sovereign command. She inquired into Charlotte’s housekeeping, Maria’s needlework, and Elizabeth’s family in a tone that invited no privacy and accepted no deflection.

"Miss Bennet, I hope you have not neglected your music entirely. I understand from Mr. Darcy that you play. "

Elizabeth felt her stomach tighten. "A little, ma’am. I make no boast of my accomplishments."

"Then you are wise. Young ladies these days are too often praised for trifles. Georgiana plays extremely well—far better than many who make loud claims. Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy inclined his head. "Georgiana practises diligently. She has always had a natural taste."

Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been observing the exchange with a flicker of amusement in his eye, leaned a little closer to Elizabeth. "I do hope you’ll forgive my cousin. He’s rather protective where his sister is concerned."

Elizabeth gave him a composed smile. "A brother’s affection is a commendable thing."

He nodded, but with a narrowing gaze. "It is. Especially when it's... nearly taken advantage of."

Elizabeth paused, her fork poised. She recovered quickly. "I suppose it happens in every family."

The Colonel inclined his head and resumed eating, but his eyes lingered on her a moment longer. It was not lost on her. That had not been casual conversation. It had been... measured.

Darcy was silent, his gaze firmly on his plate, but she felt his attention shift. They were watching her—both of them. Not just with idle interest, but with calculation.

She returned her attention to the food, speaking lightly to Maria on the subject of Rosings’ rose gardens. Yet in her mind, the words rang: What have you told him, Fitzwilliam? Or what has he guessed?

Later, after the table was cleared and the ladies withdrawn to the drawing room, Lady Catherine began her customary interrogation of her guests. She questioned Maria on her father’s presentation at court, Charlotte on her sitting-room curtains, and finally turned to Elizabeth.

"And pray, Miss Bennet, are you acquainted with any of the noble families in your part of the country?"

Elizabeth folded her hands demurely. "We are acquainted with many worthy families, though none of noble rank, ma’am. Hertfordshire is not so grand."

Lady Catherine sniffed. "No, I should not suppose it is. Still, you would do well to make yourself useful among your neighbours. I am sure you visit the sick? "

"As often as I can, your Ladyship."

"Very proper. And you keep to your needlework? You are not one of those idle young women who fancy they can live by accomplishments alone?"

"I cannot say I live by them, ma’am, but I hope they may occasionally entertain."

Lady Catherine harumphed, as though that were dangerously close to flippancy, and turned her attention to a particularly dull account of a recent dinner at the rectory.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, observing Elizabeth's calm composure, leaned toward her with a genial smile. "Miss Bennet, I recall you promised us some music—are you still inclined to favour us?"

Elizabeth dipped her head with a gracious nod, suppressing her nerves. "If Lady Catherine permits, I shall try."

"Indeed," said the colonel with a playful lilt, his eyes gleaming. "Perhaps something from your... preferred composer? My cousin has excellent taste in that regard."

Elizabeth's brow arched ever so slightly at the pointed suggestion. "I am sure he does," she said evenly. Then, instead of indulging him with Mr. Darcy's known favourite, she turned to the piano and began a stirring sonata by Beethoven.

Her fingers moved with purpose, each note clear, deliberate — not the performance of a young lady seeking admiration, but of one entirely unbothered by it. As she played, Mr. Darcy stepped nearer, drawn not only by the music but by the enigma at its source.

He stood a little behind her, to one side, his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice low enough to be heard only by her, he murmured, “Am I to understand you have chosen this piece to challenge me?”

Elizabeth’s mouth curved slightly, though she did not turn her head. “I had not realised I was in a duel, Mr. Darcy.”

“You rarely appear unarmed,” he replied.

Still playing, she said with quiet amusement, “And you rarely appear uncertain.”

A pause. The music swelled.

“I find I am so more often than you might think.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then I wonder why you come to stand at my shoulder. Surely not to be reminded of it. ”

He hesitated. Then, softly: “Perhaps because you do not seem inclined to make sport of it.”

This time, Elizabeth looked up at him — briefly, sidelong — and returned her gaze to the keys.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had drawn closer under the pretence of admiring the instrument, gave a light laugh. “You’re brave, Cousin. Most men would not attempt to hold conversation with a lady while she is armed with Beethoven.”

Elizabeth replied without missing a note. “Then it is fortunate Mr. Darcy enjoys a challenge.”

“You speak as though you know him well,” the colonel said with a smile, though his eyes lingered too long. “Better, perhaps, than you ought.”

Elizabeth gave no answer. Only her playing spoke now — strong, steady, and strangely resolute.

Lady Catherine, who had not missed a word of the exchange, sniffed in disapproval. "I dare say, Miss Bennet, you would play quite well—if only you practised more. Such pieces require dedication to be truly mastered."

Colonel Fitzwilliam, though smiling, tilted his head with an unreadable expression. He had to admit, silently and with some surprise, that his cousin had not exaggerated. Her fingers moved with a confidence and expressiveness that rivalled even Georgiana's.

And yet... there was something curious about her.

As he watched Elizabeth across the gleam of the piano lid, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself echoing part of his cousin’s unease.

It was not alliance with Wickham that he suspected—no, her demeanour bore none of that false cheer.

But still, she knew things. Too many things. And he could not yet puzzle out how.

Mr. Darcy stood a little apart, his gaze fixed upon Elizabeth with a frown that was not displeasure, but something far more difficult to name.

Her playing—so precise, so unfaltering—should not have surprised him, and yet it did.

She played not as one interpreting music newly learned, but as one remembering something intimately known.

And worse—she knew him . Her every glance, every turn of phrase, suggested an understanding far deeper than their brief acquaintance could justify.

There was something beneath the surface of her composure—something unnerving, compelling.

It drew him in against his better judgment, and he found, to his quiet frustration, that he did not wish to look away .

Elizabeth, for her part, played as though she had nothing to hide, and yet every note was deliberate—every flourish calculated. She met Darcy’s gaze once over the movement of her hands, and for the briefest moment, something unspoken passed between them.

When the music ended, polite applause sounded around the drawing room, but Elizabeth felt her heart beat faster—not from exertion, but from the game now plainly afoot.