Darcy’s expression darkened. “Then you understand me even less than I thought.”
“Or you are simply more interesting than I initially gave you credit for.”
His brows lowered together, but then, curiously, one of them arched. He cleared his throat. “I believe we have both made our respective desires known, but I fear they have little to do with reality.”
Elizabeth sat back, her fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “And I must ask again,” she murmured, “are we to uphold appearances as prospective lovers, or merely as reluctant conspirators?”
Darcy’s entire frame stiffened.
The word “lovers” had made his discomfort excruciatingly obvious the first time, and she saw, with no small amount of satisfaction, that a repetition of that same word made his shoulders square in immediate resistance.
His lips thinned dangerously. “The latter, I assure you.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
“Good,” she said. “Then we are agreed.”
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth had barely setdown her teacup when Wilson entered with a silver salver, a thick envelope resting at its center like a lead weight.
“From Matlock House, madam,” he said, inclining his head toward Mrs. Gardiner.
Elizabeth felt a sharp prickle of unease. So soon?
Her aunt took the envelope, turning it over in her hands with the same cautious curiosity one might afford a snake coiled in the grass. “This was delivered by hand?”
“Yes, madam,” the manservant replied. “The footman is waiting in the hall for a response.”
Mrs. Gardiner flicked a glance at her husband, then handed him the letter. “Would you do the honors, my dear?”
Mr. Gardiner slid his finger beneath the seal and unfolded the heavy paper. As he read, his brows lifted slightly.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled around the handle of her teacup. She already knew.
“It is an invitation,” her uncle said at last, though there was little need for him to clarify.
Mrs. Gardiner sighed and reached for the letter, scanning the contents herself. “It is rather sudden,” she remarked, tapping a finger against the paper. “This evening.”
“Of course it is,” Elizabeth muttered. “He wishes to catch us off guard.”
“Elizabeth,” her aunt chided, though without much force.
Elizabeth straightened in her chair. “You must see the truth of it, Aunt. This is no ordinary invitation. It is a summons.”
Her uncle took back the letter. “He has invited us to a small gathering. No more than a dozen or so guests. It appears to be of an informal nature.”
“Informal,” Elizabeth scoffed. “Perhaps for his lordship. Not for those of us who have been maneuvered into this position.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a knowing look. “It does say that Mr. Darcy will be in attendance.”
“Naturally,” Elizabeth muttered.
Her uncle set the letter down and met Elizabeth’s gaze directly. “We cannot refuse, my dear.”
Elizabeth set her teacup down with far more care than she felt. “Of course we can refuse. It is not an obligation to attend an evening gathering.”
“Not formally, perhaps,” Mr. Gardiner admitted, “but it is a marked favor to be included in such a setting, and under the circumstances, I must consider what it would mean to reject the invitation.”
