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She needed a dead husband. She built one from nothing. He was hired to find the body, and found her instead.
Elizabeth Bennet has been Mrs. Elliston for two years. She has the forged certificate, the fabricated letters, the widow's grey dress in exactly the right shade of not-quite-mourning. She has a village that loves her, a cottage full of books, and the absolute iron certainty that if anyone ever looks too closely, everything ends.
Fitzwilliam Darcy looks too closely. It is his profession. He arrives in October with a case file and a reputation and the expectation of a simple fraud and a quick conclusion. He finds the crack in her story on day eight. He finds her on the same day, at the market, laughing at something a child said, and he watches her longer than the investigation requires.
That is where the trouble starts.
He has the evidence to destroy her. He has had it for weeks. What he does not have is any version of himself that wants to use it, which is new, which is a problem, which is the most honest thing about him. She has spent two years surviving on careful details and the certainty that the truth would end her. What she has not accounted for is a man principled enough to see through every lie and stubborn enough to stay anyway.
Sharp, witty, and aching with longing, The Widow's Wager is a Regency enemies-to-lovers romance about a woman who built her whole life on a lie, and the only man in England who knew the truth and chose her regardless.
