All Bets are Off

Happy 2025!

I’m kicking off the new year with a plot I’ve actually been playing with for almost a year and a half. What if Elizabeth took a bet that she could win Darcy, just so she could have the pleasure of rejecting him as soon as she had won him? The shoe would be on the other foot, wouldn’t it? She would have to pay attention to him, learn what he likes and doesn’t like, who he is as a person, and… oops! She might accidentally come to admire him when she was supposed to be breaking his heart.

Well, that’s exactly what happens (spoiler alert, but you knew that already, didn’t you?).  And it’s live for you today, so if you’re hoping to start 2025 off with some swoony sighs and a giggle or two, I have a preview for you!

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Excerpt from Chapter Seven

The study at Netherfield was quiet save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the rhythmic tapping of Darcy’s boot against the floor. He sat stiffly in his chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, while Bingley leaned back on the sofa, all careless ease and infuriating cheer.

“You laugh,” Darcy said flatly. “But this is no laughing matter.”

“I fail to see why not,” Bingley replied, grinning as he waved Darcy off. “Come now, Darcy. You make it sound as though you’ve been caught in some grand scandal. All you need do is continue as you have been—polite, civil. That’s all.”

“It is far from all,” Darcy shot back, rising abruptly to pace the room. “Do you not see what she is doing?”

“Who?” Bingley blinked, his grin widening. “Miss Bennet?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,“ Darcy corrected. “She has made me her target. Every glance, every word—it is as though she has resolved to unravel me entirely.”

Bingley snorted. “Darcy, you do love to dramatize.”

Darcy spun to face him, his brows drawn tight. “This is precisely the sort of behavior I warned you about. A young lady setting her sights on a gentleman who shows her too much regard—drawing him into a trap until there is no honorable way out. Ruined reputations, entanglements, expectations—have you forgotten the sort of danger such situations invite?”

Bingley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Forgive me, but I hardly see Miss Elizabeth as the scheming sort. She seems more inclined to mock than to entrap.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Mockery is but a step away from manipulation.”

“You give her far too much credit,” Bingley said lightly. “And yourself far too little.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, turning back toward the window. The faint light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the fields in pale golds and blues. He clasped his hands behind his back. “This wager… it was foolish. I will not continue it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Bingley said. “Because I intend to.”

Darcy turned sharply. “What do you mean?”

Bingley grinned and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. “I received this letter yesterday. It’s from my man at the mill. He’s been discussing some fascinating opportunities for expansion.”

Darcy’s stomach sank. “The mill?”

“Yes,” Bingley said, unfolding the letter and scanning it with obvious satisfaction. “The numbers look promising. With a bit of investment, we might double the output within the year. And the war is sure to end sooner or later, making the cotton from the Continent that much easier to obtain.”

“Bingley, no.” Darcy strode across the room, snatching the letter from his friend’s hand. “You cannot be serious. The mill is a drain on your resources, not a boon. I told you months ago—two years ago! It ought to be sold.”

Bingley chuckled. “And I told you, Darcy, I’m rather fond of the thing. It was my father’s pride and joy.”

“And now it is your liability,” Darcy countered, glaring at the letter. “You are throwing good money after bad. You have no head for business, and no need to depend on it. Sell it. Invest the proceeds wisely.”

Bingley leaned back, his grin undiminished. “You know, I might take that advice… if I thought you were holding up your end of our little wager.”

Darcy froze, the letter crumpling slightly in his grip. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I agreed to consider selling the mill, provided you saw this bet through. You’ve been doing splendidly thus far, Darcy. Miss Elizabeth hasn’t fled in terror, and you haven’t stormed off in one of your infamous silences. It’s practically a triumph.”

Darcy’s glare could have melted glass. “This is extortion.”

“No,” Bingley corrected, wagging a finger. “This is motivation. You hold up your end, Darcy, and I’ll consider holding up mine.”

“You would risk your fortune over a wager?” Darcy demanded.

“You would abandon your efforts to ‘improve my prospects’ because you fear a witty young lady?” Bingley countered, his grin turning sly.

Darcy’s jaw tightened, his hand crushing the letter further before he thrust it back at Bingley. “You are insufferable.”

“And you are predictable,” Bingley said, rising to his feet and clapping Darcy on the shoulder. “Now, stop pacing and think of it this way—if you can survive the clever remarks of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, surely you can survive anything. Oh! You recall that we are to dine with Colonel Forster this evening, I hope. I believe I shall retire to dress.”

Darcy said nothing, his gaze fixed on the glowing horizon beyond the window. He did not reply when Bingley left the room, whistling a jaunty tune as though he had just won a great victory.

The truth settled heavily on Darcy’s chest, suffocating in its simplicity: he was trapped. And worse, the trap was one he had walked into willingly.

“Five shillings says Mrs. Long will be late for the next Assembly,” Mrs. Philips announced, her fan snapping shut with finality.

Lydia, perched on the arm of a settee, jingled her coin purse. “I’ll take that bet, Aunt! I know for a fact that her niece has a scheme because she wants to see the officers first.”

“Mrs. Long is always late,” Mrs. Philips insisted. “You mark my words, she will not arrive before the third dance. Never has, never will.”

Mrs. Bennet fanned herself with exaggerated vigor. “But she might surprise us! Last week, she was nearly punctual for morning service.”

“That was not punctual,” Elizabeth said from her seat by the window. “The sermon was already halfway through.”

“Well, it was punctual for her,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “I say she arrives before the first dance is over. Five shillings says I am right.”

“Done,” Mrs. Philips said with a delighted clap of her hands. “I shall enjoy spending your money, sister.”

Elizabeth sighed, glancing over at Jane, who sat quietly with her embroidery. “How can you sit there smiling while they wager over such nonsense?”

Jane lifted a shoulder. “It passes the time.”

“Passes the time! It encourages their folly.”

“It buys us a moment’s peace, does it not?“ Jane murmured, her voice so low that Elizabeth barely heard her over Lydia’s triumphant laugh.

“Ha! See this?” Lydia cried, shaking her purse. “I won this morning when the butcher’s pig weighed exactly as I said it would—twelve stone and not an ounce more!”

Kitty, seated on the floor near the hearth, looked up with a pout. “I said twelve stone, too.”

“But you did not put up your coin, Kitty,” Lydia retorted, dangling her purse mockingly. “And now I shall spend it on ribbons and sweets, while you sit there looking cross.”

Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why do you waste your winnings so quickly?”

“What else should I do with them?” Lydia asked, blinking as though the question were incomprehensible.

“Save them,” Elizabeth replied. “Or, if that is too ambitious, spend them on something of consequence.”

“Ribbons and sweets are of consequence. A life without adornments or treats is no life at all.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, a servant entered with a letter, handing it to Jane. Mrs. Bennet stopped fanning herself at once, her entire focus narrowing in on her eldest daughter.

“Who is it from?” she demanded eagerly, leaning forward.

Jane unfolded the letter carefully. “It is from Miss Bingley. She invites me to dine with her and her sister at Netherfield tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands together, practically glowing with satisfaction. “Oh, this is excellent news! Jane, you must go at once.”

“Of course I will go,” Jane said calmly, though Elizabeth caught the flicker of hesitation in her expression.

“And you must ride on horseback,” Mrs. Bennet continued, her tone turning decisive.

Jane’s needlework dropped into her lap. “Ride? But the weather—“

“Exactly! The weather will make you look all the more modest and unassuming,” Mrs. Bennet said with a knowing nod. “Mr. Bingley will like that, he is such an amiable young man. Arriving by carriage would be far too ostentatious. Mark my words, he has never seen the like of you, my Jane.”

Elizabeth gaped. “You mean to send her out in the rain, looking half-drowned, to impress Mr. Bingley?”

“Precisely,” Mrs. Bennet replied, as though Elizabeth had just delivered a compliment.

“It is only a little rain,” Lydia interjected. “She will not melt.”

Kitty giggled. “Perhaps Jane will be like that old nursery story and grow roots wherever she falls.”

Elizabeth turned to Jane, her voice firm. “You do not have to ride in this weather. Take the carriage. There is no sense in falling ill for the sake of appearances.”

Jane hesitated, glancing between her mother and Elizabeth. “I do not wish to offend anyone…”

“Offend!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Jane, you must think of your future.”

“I shall hardly be presentable when I arrive, Mama.”

Their mother pointed with her fan. “So much the better! They will see to your comforts and you will be the gracious recipient of their efforts.”

Elizabeth groaned. “If Jane’s future depends on the state of her hemline, we are all doomed.”

Mrs. Philips chuckled, folding her embroidery. “I’ll wager she will arrive perfectly presentable and composed either way. Jane is too sensible to let a little weather get the better of her.”

“I’ll wager two shillings she arrives with her bonnet entirely ruined,” Lydia pronounced. “And if it is, I’ll buy her a new one—with pink ribbons.”

Jane gave Elizabeth a small, helpless smile, but Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. “This is absurd.”

“Then wager against us, Lizzy,” Lydia teased. “Or are you too afraid of losing again?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort but stopped herself with a sharp exhale. There was no point. The tide had already turned in Mrs. Bennet’s favor, and Jane would not push back. With a resigned sigh, Elizabeth turned toward the window, watching as the rain began to fall in earnest.

Elizabeth strode briskly through Meryton’s market square, her bonnet tied tight against the wind and her skirts held just high enough to avoid the muddy streets. The rain had relented to a light drizzle, but the damage was done—word had already spread that Jane Bennet, invited to dine at Netherfield the previous evening, had arrived soaked to the bone and was now bedridden. And the town had wasted no time turning her misfortune into entertainment.

“She’ll be better in three days, mark my words,” declared Mr. Goulding, standing outside the greengrocer with a knot of villagers. “Mrs. Bennet will see to that.”

Mrs. Long clucked her tongue. “Three days? I say it will be five, at least. Her mother may want her well, but not before she has secured a certain gentleman’s affections.”

“Four,” Mrs. Philips interjected, her coin purse jingling in her hand. “Fanny Bennet is too clever to let her daughter look like a real invalid. What point in ensnaring a gentleman’s affections if she appears too ill to marry him?”

Elizabeth stopped short, her stomach twisting as the conversation reached her ears. “You cannot be serious.”

The group turned, startled to see her standing there, her expression a mixture of disbelief and indignation. Mrs. Goulding chuckled nervously. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth! Just a bit of fun, you know. Nothing harmful.”

“Fun? Wagering over my sister’s health is your idea of fun?”

Mrs. Philips pursed her lips, glancing at the others. “It’s only harmless speculation, Lizzy. We all know Jane will recover soon enough.”

Elizabeth stepped closer, her gaze icy. “Do you? Do you know how unwell she is? Or how she fared riding through that storm? Or how she is being cared for at Netherfield?”

No one answered. Elizabeth’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. “Of course not. Because instead of offering concern, you are placing bets as though she is a horse in a race.”

Mrs. Long bristled, muttering something about “taking things too seriously,” but Elizabeth had already turned on her heel, marching toward the road to Netherfield.

By the time Elizabeth reached Netherfield, her boots were caked in mud, and her shawl was damp from a persistent drizzle that had arrived halfway through her walk. The grandeur of the house loomed ahead, its perfectly symmetrical windows glowing softly with the light of fires within. She squared her shoulders and knocked firmly on the door.

The butler’s eyes widened slightly as he opened it, taking in her bedraggled state. “Miss Bennet?”

“I am here to see my sister. Please inform Mr. Bingley or Miss Bingley that I will wait out of the way until I have spoken with her.”

The butler hesitated, but Elizabeth’s firm tone left little room for argument. He stepped aside, and she was ushered into the drawing room to wait.

She had scarcely removed her shawl when the door opened, and Mr. Darcy entered, his dark eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of her. By the look on his face, she could only surmise that he had happened upon her accidentally—perhaps, indeed, he had fled to this particular drawing room to escape his eager hostess for half an hour.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice betraying his surprise. “To what do we owe this… unexpected visit?”

Elizabeth straightened, clasping her hands before her. “I am here to see my sister.”

“I believe is resting,” Darcy replied. “Miss Bingley and the housekeeper have ensured she is receiving the best care.”

“I am certain they have. But I would like to speak with her myself.”

Darcy studied her for a long moment, his brow furrowing. “Surely you did not walk here in this weather.”

“I did, from Meryton,” Elizabeth said, her chin lifting slightly. “And I will gladly walk back to Longbourn, once I am satisfied that my sister is in good comforts.”

Before Darcy could respond, the door opened again, and Bingley entered, his usual cheerfulness lighting up the room. “Miss Elizabeth! How very good of you to come. I had sent an offer of a carriage, in case you or your mother wished to call on your sister, not half an hour ago”

Elizabeth turned to him with a warmer smile. “That was very kind of you sir, but as you see, I managed on my own. May I ask, how is my sister this morning?”

“Oh, quite comfortable, I assure you. Caroline only just informed me that Miss Bennet is sleeping rather soundly and ought not to be disturbed. I can have the maid inform her of your arrival.”

“I would rather look in on her myself,” Elizabeth replied. “I need not rouse her if she is sleeping.”

Darcy’s expression tightened, but Bingley only looked as easy and pliable as ever. “Of course, of course. Allow me to escort you.”

Elizabeth entered Jane’s room to find her sister propped up in bed, her cheeks flushed with fever but her smile warm. And not sleeping, as had been reported.

“Lizzy,” Jane said softly. “You should not have come in this weather.”

Elizabeth sat beside her, taking her hand. “And leave you to be the subject of the town’s wagers without learning how you truly are? Never.”

Jane frowned. “Wagers?”

Elizabeth squeezed her hand gently. “It does not matter. I am here now, and I will not leave until I am certain you are well.”

“You will stay?” Jane asked. And then she coughed.

“For now, at least,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Let them try to send me away.”

The crack of a billiard ball echoed through the dimly lit room as Darcy lined up his next shot. He adjusted his grip on the cue stick, his movements deliberate and controlled. Focus, precision, restraint—these were the virtues that steadied him, that kept the storm inside at bay.

But this afternoon, even billiards could not distract him.

He drew back the cue and sent the ball spinning across the table, pocketing a red with a sharp clink. It should have been satisfying, but it was not. Not when the very house felt as though it were conspiring against his peace. He had spent the better part of the day avoiding the drawing room, the halls, even the dining room, lest he accidentally cross paths with her.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Every time he was near her, he could feel his resolve unraveling. The sharp wit, the glint of challenge in her eyes—she was far too clever, far too perceptive. If he were not careful, she might notice the way his gaze lingered too long, or the way his carefully measured words seemed to fail him when she spoke. And if she noticed, others would, too. Then what?

He tightened his grip on the cue. This would all pass soon enough. Elizabeth Bennet would return to Longbourn once she had been satisfied that her sister was well looked after, and he could return to his life of orderly solitude.

“Darcy! There you are,” came Bingley’s cheerful voice as the door swung open. Darcy froze mid-motion, his carefully maintained calm splintering at the intrusion.

“I assumed you’d taken to hiding,” Bingley said, strolling in with the air of a man who had not a care in the world. He crossed to the table and began racking the balls for a new game. “It seems you’ve made a habit of disappearing these days.”

Darcy straightened, forcing his expression into neutrality. “I prefer quiet. You know that.”

“Too much ‘quiet’ can be the death of a man,” Bingley said with a grin, setting the cue ball into position. “And I daresay Miss Elizabeth would agree with me.”

Darcy’s fingers twitched against the cue stick. “I do not know why I should care what Miss Elizabeth thinks on the matter.” He watched as Bingley took his first shot, scattering the balls with a practiced ease that set his teeth on edge.

“Ah, and speaking of Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley continued, his tone almost too casual, “I have ordered that her belongings be sent for.”

Darcy blinked, the words striking him like a physical blow. “Sent for?”

Bingley nodded, leaning on the cue stick. “Indeed. She will be remaining here until her sister is fully recovered.”

Darcy’s stomach sank. His carefully constructed plans for avoidance crumbled in an instant. “She… she is staying?”

Bingley straightened, tilting his head as he regarded Darcy with faint amusement. “Why do you sound as though you fear a ghost? Surely you are not afraid of Miss Elizabeth?”

“Of course not,” Darcy snapped, though the sharpness in his voice betrayed him. He turned away, pretending to adjust the position of a ball on the table.

“Good,” Bingley said, laughing softly. “Because I cannot fathom why you would be. She is a lady, Darcy, not some wild beast. And you are no churl. You will do very well.”

Darcy’s hand tightened on the cue stick as he stared down at the green felt. “It is not a matter of being a churl,” he said stiffly. “It is a matter of propriety.”

“Propriety!” Bingley repeated with a laugh, taking his next shot. The ball rolled neatly into the corner pocket. “You worry too much. Miss Elizabeth is not so very terrifying as that. Besides, you are nothing if not proper.”

Darcy opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He could hardly explain the truth to Bingley—that the mere presence of Elizabeth Bennet was enough to throw him entirely off balance. That he felt as though his carefully ordered self-control was slipping with every sharp glance and witticism she directed his way.

“She may well be a fortune hunter,” Darcy protested. “I daresay her mother would have her so, and who is to say her sister has not already enacted the first stage of their strategy?”

“Strategy!” Bingley barked. “How very like you, Darcy, to assume a fever and a cough were intentional elements of some battle plan waged against single gentlemen.”

“Not against us, but against our bank accounts,” Darcy huffed. “It would not be the first such attempt I have seen.”

“Well, I have every confidence in your discretion, Darcy,” Bingley added, moving to line up another shot. “You’ll manage this just as you manage everything else—with hauteur and that practiced curl of your lip. And I fancy I shall write Simmons and authorize those improvements at the mill…”

Blast the man! Bingley would jest about that foolish wager now, of all times! Darcy’s cravat suddenly felt far too tight around his neck. He resisted the urge to tug at it, instead placing the cue stick on the table with deliberate care.

“I am not certain you understand the situation,” Darcy said, his voice strained. “Prolonged proximity to Miss Elizabeth… it is not without its complications.”

“Complications?” Bingley’s grin widened. “Darcy, you do insist on making it sound like a battle worthy of Wellington himself.”

Darcy said nothing, his pulse hammering in his chest. It was a battle—against himself, against the feelings he could neither name nor allow to take root.

Bingley glanced at him as he lined up his next shot. “You’ll see, Darcy. All will be well. Quite well, indeed.”

Darcy stood motionless as Bingley resumed his cheerful game, the soft clatter of billiard balls echoing in the room. His cravat still felt like it might strangle him, but this time, he welcomed the discomfort—it sharpened his focus.

So, Elizabeth Bennet would be staying. For days, perhaps even a week. The thought was both exhilarating and horrifying, a tangle of contradictions that had no place in his carefully ordered world.

If she must remain at Netherfield, then he would act. He could not afford to let her charm, her wit, her eyes—egad, her eyes…

He shoved the thought aside with brutal efficiency. He would not countenance permitting her to unsettle him any further. Nor could he allow her to misread his attentions, to think he was a man who could be trifled with.

If civility demanded he speak to her, then so be it. He would engage. He would listen. He would smile. He would be the most polite gentleman to be found from London to Northampton.

But Elizabeth Bennet would come to understand, in no uncertain terms, that he was a man of boundaries.

She was clever—cleverer than most. Surely she would perceive the deeper meaning beneath his words, the warning that lay behind every polite remark. She would know he was no fool to be toyed with, no gentleman to be drawn into games of flirtation and folly. He would show her what it meant to face Fitzwilliam Darcy: unflappable, resolute, and utterly unyielding.

“Darcy? You’ve gone quiet again. Thinking up strategies for the billiards table?”

Darcy turned to his friend, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said. “Strategies for far more important matters.”

Bingley chuckled. “Well, do not tax yourself too much. I know you usually best me, but I mean to give you an honest challenge this afternoon.”

An honest challenge… Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. Bingley could have no possible idea… “I think I can manage two things at once.”

Bingley laughed and walked around the table to consider his next shot, leaving Darcy standing alone in the corner. His gaze drifted to the doorway, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost imagine her standing there, her sharp eyes challenging him with that faint smile playing on her lips.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. Very well. If the wager demanded proximity, he would use it to his advantage. He would remain the picture of propriety, and yet he would draw a line so clear that even the most determined woman in the world could not miss it.

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Grab  your copy of All Bets are Off, and kick back on these cold winter evenings with some warm Darcy and Elizabeth fun!