Stanton would not be permitted to assume the seat. The race was not over. A special by-election would be called. Her fingers crumpled the edges of the broadsheet as the words jumbled to a blur.
She did not know how she felt.
Darcy had lost. But he had not lost entirely. Surely, in a second election, he would win handily.
Surely…
Her throat tightened.
Wouldhe run again? Would he even wish to?
Of course, he would. He was a man of principle, and his county needed him. Like enough, Stanton still had supporters, men just as corrupt as he. Darcy would not let Stanton’s faction take the seat if he could prevent it. And he would be good at it.
Miserable, yes, but good.
For that, she could only think well of him. Her chest ached, and she had to blink several times to clear her vision. Some small, foolish part of her hoped that, with a second election ahead, Darcy and the earl might call upon her again.
It would mean nothing, of course. A mere continuation of their charade, perhaps only for a fortnight.
But still…
Still.
“Lizzy!”
Jane’s sharp whisper snapped her out of her thoughts. Across the street, Lydia was giggling far too boldly at a red-coated officer.
Elizabeth exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Oh, merciful heavens. We had better stop her before she kisses the rogue.”
“Come on,” Jane cried. “Let us get home, out of this crush.”
Elizabeth grimaced and tucked the broadsheet into her reticule. With a final pat on the satin article—where Darcy’s fate now sat folded inside—she sighed and turned to follow her sister.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Darcy stepped out ofhis uncle’s house, the morning’s discussions settling over him like a coat he had never expected to wear—unfamiliar, yet tailored well enough to fit. The door shut firmly behind him, sealing in the quiet satisfaction of the Earl of Matlock—satisfaction that, in theory, Darcy ought to share.
The earl was pleased. That much was obvious. Everything had fallen into place. The election scandal had been neatly contained, Stanton’s disgrace was complete, and the question of Derbyshire’s representation was, at last, moving toward a resolution. The pieces were aligned just as his uncle had intended. And Darcy had done his part.
So why did he feel so—unsettled?
He descended the front steps, his stride purposeful but his mind drifting. The arrangements had been made. It was the right course of action. A responsible one. The only one, really.
Was it not?
A carriage was waiting for him at the kerb, his own crest glinting subtly in the weak October sunlight. The wind had picked up, tugging at his coat as he stepped inside. The streets of London bustled as they always did, indifferent to the shifts of power occurring behind closed doors. The city carried on, unaware—or perhaps uninterested—that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s actions this day would shift the balance of power in the House.
He leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath. The carriage door shut behind him, enclosing him in relative silence. The wheels lurched forward, the familiar rhythm of the city rolling past his window. He watched, but he did not see.
It was done. His fate, as well as that of others, now on a path that could not be altered.
The thought ought to have settled him. Instead, a restlessness stirred beneath his skin. He turned his head, watching the passing streets through the window, as if expecting to find clarity somewhere in the familiar roads leading home.
When he stepped inside his home, Benedict greeted him to take his hat and coat. “Sir.”
Darcy handed off his coat, nodding in acknowledgment.
Then, the butler’s gaze flickered ever so slightly. A pause. Barely perceptible. “Shall I assume that all is well?”
