Darcy exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “That does seem to be the case.”
Elizabeth studied him, her thoughts turning over every possible escape route, every means of untangling herself from this absurd scheme before it became something unmanageable.
But there were too many moving pieces.
Too many unknowns.
And Darcy himself was one of them.
“Then tell me—what do you propose?”
Darcy did not answer immediately. He only watched her, his brooding stare almost murky in its depths.
It should have made her uncomfortable—perhaps it did, a little—but Elizabeth refused to break the silence first. She had seen enough of men like him to know that they expected ladies to fidget under their scrutiny, to lower their gaze, to grow uneasy and fill the quiet with nervous chatter.
So she met his gaze steadily, waiting.
“I do not believe either of us is in a position to dictate terms,” he said, his expression dark. “But I do know this—my uncle is not a man who lets go of an idea once he has set his mind to it.”
Elizabeth hummed. “So I gathered.”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a hard line. “If we fight this openly, we will both find ourselves without allies.”
“And if we do not fight it at all?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. Clearly, he had already considered that very thing. And disliked the answer.
“We…” He cleared his throat. “Well, you are not ignorant, Miss Bennet. Our options are few.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. “That may be true for me, Mr. Darcy, but I find it rather difficult to believe it is true for you.”
His brows knit together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are a man of considerable fortune, from one of the most influential families in the country. You have connections in Parliament, in the courts, in every respectable drawing room from here to… to Scotland, probably.” She waved a hand vaguely. “And I am a country gentleman’s daughter with a merchant uncle and four sisters, most of whom—if I am honest—are hardly a credit to me. What, precisely, doyoustand to lose?”
Darcy exhaled slowly, as if debating how much he should tell her. His expression remained guarded, but she caught the faintest flicker of something else—irritation, perhaps, or reluctant acknowledgement.
“My uncle’s political aspirations do not begin and end with me,” he admitted at last. “This election is about more than my own standing—it is about influence, legacy, and ensuring the right man holds power in Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes slightly. “And you believe you are that man?”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened. “I did not say that.”
She arched a brow. “But Lord Matlock does.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. That, it seemed, was the heart of the matter.
Elizabeth exhaled, tapping a finger against her armrest. “So, your uncle seeks to entangle us for his own ends, but that still does not explain why you have not walked away.”
Darcy’s voice had a brittle edge to it. “Because I am beginning to suspect that walking away is not an option.”
Elizabeth regarded him a moment longer. She had never thought much about the limitations of men like him—men of power, of fortune, of influence. She had assumed they did as they pleased, married whom they pleased, moved through the worldunencumbered by practical constraints. But perhaps even a man like Mr. Darcy could find himself trapped by expectations.
The thought was unsettling.
And, perhaps, a little satisfying.
Still, she could not let him off so easily. “You must forgive me,” she said lightly, “if I find it difficult to believe that you—of all people—are truly trapped.”
