She tightened her grip on Darcy’s arm just slightly, more from irritation than anything else. It washisfault she was here. Probably. Why, if not forhimthe earl would have found some other way to extract his pound of flesh from her.
“Miss Bennet,” a gentleman nearby spoke up, drawing her attention.
Elizabeth turned, schooling her expression into something polite but carefully neutral.
The man was older, with a keen gaze that gave the distinct impression that he missed very little.
“Sir Archibald Winters,” he introduced himself with a short bow. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure.”
Elizabeth curtsied. “Sir Archibald.”
His gaze flickered toward Darcy before returning to her. “You are here under the Matlock family’s invitation?”
Darcy’s arm tensed beneath her hand. The question was innocuous on its surface, but Elizabeth was not naïve enough to believe it had been asked in simple curiosity.
“Indeed,” she replied pleasantly. “Lord Matlock and his lady have been most generous in their hospitality.”
Sir Archibald nodded slowly. “As I am sure they have.”
Elizabeth held his gaze, unflinching. She had spent enough time in London to recognize when she was being assessed. When the moment stretched just a beat too long, Darcy finally spoke.
“Miss Bennet is visiting town with her aunt and uncle,” he said. “I have found her conversation to be most diverting.”
Elizabeth turned her head sharply, barely suppressing a laugh.Most diverting.A phrase so painfully stiff and proper that she could hardly believe it had left his mouth. Still, the effect was immediate.
Sir Archibald’s expression shifted slightly, and he glanced at Darcy with something that might have been approval. “Indeed,” he mused. “A lady of keen wit, I presume?”
Darcy’s eyes flicked toward her. “That would be an understatement.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, just for a moment. Not because it was a compliment, exactly—more a grudging admission of fact—but because it had been offered so casually, so naturally.
As if… he meant it.
Sir Archibald smiled faintly, as though satisfied by what he had heard. Elizabeth knew better than to believe she had won his good opinion, but something had shifted.
Darcy had just confirmed their association before one of his uncle’s most observant guests.
There was no turning back now.
The evening progressed ata painful, calculated pace. The guests were carefully chosen, well-informed men of politics, commerce, and military standing.
Each watched her with Mr. Darcy like hawks.
She and Darcy drifted through the room together, pausing occasionally for conversation, presenting a united—if reluctant—front. She quickly learned to anticipate his movements, and he, hers. When someone steered a conversation in an uncomfortable direction, Darcy intervened. When a pointed question was directed at him, she laughedlightly and redirected attention elsewhere. They began to fall into a rhythm—one neither of them acknowledged, but both instinctively obeyed.
And then, as they found themselves momentarily alone near the side of the room, Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “Well,” she muttered, “we have survived thus far.”
Darcy arched a brow. “You sound surprised.”
She glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You do not?”
A corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
Elizabeth tapped her fingers against the stem of her wine glass, studying him. “You are rather good at this, Mr. Darcy.”
His brows lifted slightly. “At what, precisely?”
She gestured vaguely. “At… saying very little, yet managing to say precisely what people wish to hear.”
