“As you should be,” the earl said, grinning. “And Miss Bennet!” He turned his attention to Elizabeth, eyes twinkling. “I trust you are enjoying London?”
She curtsied. “I have found it… enlightening, my lord.”
Darcy noted the careful phrasing.
The earl chuckled, as though he had expected no less from her. “I am delighted to hear it. Ah, and here is my nephew—I believe the two of you are already acquainted?”
Darcy barely resisted the urge to sigh. He probably rolled his eyes.
Elizabeth Bennet turned toward him, her smile already in place, though he swore he saw the barest flicker of a grimace in the set of her jaw. “Yes,” she said easily. “I believe we have met.”
Lady Matlock stepped forward then—ever the hostess, ever the strategist. “Miss Bennet,” she said warmly, “we are so pleased you could join us this evening. And Darcy, I do believe you were just about to offer Miss Bennet your arm, were you not?”
He most certainly had not been about to do any such thing.
Elizabeth blinked, and then—blast her—she smiled. “A generous offer,” she mused, tilting her head toward him. “Shall we?”
Darcy inclined his head stiffly and offered his arm.
Elizabeth placed her hand lightly at his elbow, and together they stepped forward—right into the center of the watching room.
His uncle had curated his guests with ruthless precision. These were not the type to gossip idly in drawing rooms. No, they were men of influence, individuals whose words carried weight in political and social circles alike.
And now they were watching him.
Watching her.
Waiting to see what conclusions they should draw.
The lady, to her credit, remained composed. “Well,” she murmured as they moved deeper into the room. “This is rather transparent, is it not?”
“Painfully so,” Darcy muttered.
She glanced up at him, her lips curving ever so slightly. “Do try not to look so miserable, Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. “You are supposed to be wooing me.”
Darcy nearly choked. He turned his head slightly, his voice low and precise. “I was under the impression that we had not yet agreed upon a strategy.”
Her brows lifted. “Have we not? I was quite certain that playing along was our only choice.”
She was right.
And worse—she knew it.
Darcy inhaled slowly. This was exactly what his uncle wanted.
And now, like it or not, they were in it.
Elizabeth had always consideredherself adaptable.
She had talked her way out of trouble more times than she could count. She had held her own against small-minded men and self-important women. She had even mastered the art of smiling politely while loathing every moment of an interaction.
But nothing had prepared her for this.
For standing beside this stranger, Mr. Darcy, arm-in-arm, under the scrutinizing gazes of half the room.
For being watched—closely watched—by men of influence, men who had come here tonight expecting to see something unfold.
For realizing, with growing unease, that Lord Matlock had designed this entire evening as a stage upon which she and Darcy were expected to perform.
