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D arcy had never enjoyed dancing.

It was a tedious exercise, an obligation thrust upon him by social requirement rather than honest enjoyment. There was no pleasure in mincing precisely, speaking politely, enduring the scrutiny of those eager to witness a misstep. And the expectations it created? Ludicrous.

And yet, here he was, standing before Miss Elizabeth Bennet, his sudden betrothed, with all of London watching them. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but it was certainly most of the ton.

Miss Bennet placed her delicate hand atop his arm with as little enthusiasm as possible while wearing a smile that did not reach her eyes. He wondered how long it would be before he would be allowed to witness one that did.

He led her into the first steps of the dance.

“Tell me, Mr. Darcy,” she said in a tone of cloying sweetness as they came together, “why did you not bother to tell me that a proposal was a part of your plan?”

He bowed to the woman next to her and moved through the figures. When he was again partnered with Miss Bennet, she said, very quietly, “I assume you are aware that such communications are to be made first in private?”

Darcy resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

He had expected anger, of course, but he had not anticipated quite so much flippancy.

He had hoped, though not expected, to be able to avoid offering for her hand.

But it was clear the moment they stepped back into the ballroom that to ignore what had happened would be impossible.

Surely, she could not have been surprised.

“I had considered writing a letter,” he said, voice deliberately dry, “but the opportunity did not present itself.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“How tragic,” she mused, as they joined hands. “I imagine it would have been the most romantic proposal in all of England.”

His brows lifted by the barest fraction. “You mock me, Miss Bennet.”

She tilted her head, the curve of her smile entirely too pleased with itself. “Only a little,” she admitted, voice as light as air. “I must amuse myself somehow.”

She was needling him deliberately, seeking a reaction. He would not oblige her. Instead, he turned her neatly through the next step and said, “Now that we are engaged, you feel you ought to know more about me.” It was not a question.

Her eyes lit up. “You must admit that it is a reasonable expectation.”

He felt the danger of having walked directly into a trap.

“What virtues do you most admire in a wife?” she asked, all polite curiosity, but he recognised the glint of mischief in her gaze.

Darcy was not a fool. He chose his answer with care. “A steady disposition. A mind unclouded by foolish whimsy.”

She hummed as though considering this. “That is unfortunate,” she said at last. “My disposition is highly unsteady, and I have been known to engage in the most foolish whims imaginable.”

His fingers flexed imperceptibly. “Yes,” he murmured. “I had noticed.”

“I am afraid that I shall never change.” She laughed, a low, warm sound that set him aflame in ways his scrupulously constructed principles were ill-equipped to extinguish.

She was gazing at him with such a challenging expression that he wondered if she was doing this on purpose.

But there was no flirtation here, only that rebelliousness he had marked earlier.

And she was smug, entirely too pleased with herself.

Infuriating woman. He was attempting to rescue her. Why could she not simply let him?

The music swelled, guiding them into a more intricate step, requiring them to draw closer, then apart, then closer again.

As they separated, Darcy caught the movement of whispering guests, fans fluttering to conceal wide eyes and knowing smiles.

He had never been on this side of tittle-tattle before.

They had become the evening’s primary entertainment, a scandal unfolding before an audience, tamped down only by his proposal.

Miss Bennet had noticed too.

She glanced towards the gossiping crowd, then back at him, and a particular look crossed her face, one that made his spine instinctively stiffen. It was a look of mischief.

If she was about to deliberately embarrass him, she would find him more than capable of withstanding the assault and returning fire.

“Would you like to hear of my vices, Mr. Darcy?” she asked airily. “I would not wish to disappoint you as your wife after you have made such a gallant claim upon my future.”

“By all means, Miss Bennet,” he said smoothly. “I should be prepared for the tribulations ahead.”

She smiled, and something sharp glinted behind it. “I am very fond of novels, even the most ridiculous ones.”

Darcy’s steps did not falter.

“I despise embroidery,” she continued, “and I am dreadfully untalented at it, which my mother considers almost a moral failing.”

He almost smirked. Miss Bennet’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he could not help it. The smirk became a smile.

She had evidently expected shock. She had received amusement. Her next move was more deliberate. She turned her head slightly, lifting her chin. “You should know that I have an unladylike fondness for fencing.”

Now that was interesting. His brows rose slightly. “Do you?”

She arched one eyebrow. “I do.”

Darcy nearly laughed aloud at this. She was prevaricating. He could see it in the way her lashes flickered, the way her chin jutted out just a little too much.

He tilted his head slightly, giving the impression that he might believe her. “And where, precisely, do you fence?”

She waved a careless hand. “Oh, here and there. Whenever the opportunity arises.”

He exhaled through his nose, as though considering it. Then he met her gaze before looking her up and down. “Unusual,” he murmured, “but not entirely improbable.”

Her brows twitched together, just slightly. She had not expected him to humour her, either. Interesting.

The dance was nearing its end when she turned her assessing gaze back upon him. “Would you like to know my favourite pastime, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy was already certain he would regret asking, but he simply could not refrain. “Pray do enlighten me, my dear .”

Her nostrils flared, and she leaned in just slightly, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Strategy, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy stepped wrong—just barely, but enough that she noticed.

She smiled.

He quickly recovered, guiding them into the final steps of the set. “A peculiar pursuit for a lady,” he murmured, keeping his voice equally low. “Pray, how does one hone such a skill?”

Elizabeth’s fingers pressed ever so lightly against his sleeve, a feather-light reminder that she was not intimidated by him. “Observation, mostly. A careful study of my opponents, an understanding of their motivations, and”—her eyes gleamed “—a keen ability to anticipate their next move.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “You must be excellent at chess.”

“Oh, I am,” she said with a solemn nod.

He was no stranger to social manoeuvring, but Miss Bennet was not simply parrying his words for sport. She was assessing him, attempting to determine his weaknesses, plotting her next offensive. Her desire to be free of him was warring against his determination to save her reputation—and his own.

He ought to be disgusted. Any man with sense would take her obvious reluctance as a gift, an escape from a match neither of them had sought.

Miss Bennet had made no secret of her intent to rid herself of him, had barely concealed her glee at each imagined fault she ascribed to her character.

But he found himself wishing to know her better.

She did not flatter, she did not simper, and she certainly did not behave like the host of eager young women who had tried to attach themselves to his fortune in the past. She was the very opposite of a fortune-hunter.

He found this, and her . . . fascinating.

Darcy had no desire for a reluctant wife, nor any delusions that this sudden engagement would be the sort of match he had long been expected to make. But neither could he leave her to ruin. She might claim not to care, but she had flinched at his mention of sisters.

And then there was, of course, the matter of his own reputation, which he had guarded too well for too long to see torn apart by scandal.

He had a sister of his own to protect. No, this engagement would hold, at least for now.

If she wished to escape him, she would have to be far cleverer than she had been thus far.

Because whether she liked it or not, he was not going anywhere.

In part because, against his better judgement, he wanted to see what she would do next.

The orchestra swelled into its final flourish, and they parted, bowing and curtsying with precision.

Darcy studied her, the way she held herself with perfect poise, the faintest flush on her cheeks from the exertion.

There was not a trace of embarrassment in her expression as she studied him with her fine eyes.

No, she was not cowed by him, not in the slightest.

As she rose from her curtsy, her lips curved into the slightest smirk. “You are watching me very closely, sir,” she murmured.

“I find you intriguing,” he admitted, voice quiet. “As an opponent, that is.”

She frowned, as though surprised by his candour. But then she tilted her head, that glint of mischief returning. “Opponent?” she pretended surprise. “How very odd. I had thought we were meant to be partners.”

Darcy was saved from replying by the approach of Miss Abernathy and her mother, who had clearly been waiting to perform their part of this charade.

“Elizabeth, my dear!” Mrs. Abernathy beamed, clearly overjoyed at the sight of them together. “Such a lovely dance. And Mr. Darcy, so very gallant. What an excellent match.”

Darcy merely inclined his head.

Miss Bennet, however, had a response at the ready. “Indeed,” she said, voice sweet and nearly genuine, “Mr. Darcy is most noble .”

The word was spoken with a heavy dose of irony. But he would not waver. “Shall I escort you to the refreshments, Miss Bennet?”

She had not expected this invitation, though he knew she would rather face Lord Ellington again than admit it. “I should be delighted,” she replied.

And somehow, despite knowing full well she was plotting his downfall, Darcy offered her his arm. She took it without hesitation.

Miss Bennet was playing a game, and she wanted him to know it. But it did not bother him in the slightest.

Because now he was playing too.