Elizabeth managed a small smile in return, but as she stepped out of the carriage and followed her aunt and uncle toward the entrance, her confidence wavered.
Inside, the heat of the room blasted against her like a physical force. Lord and Lady Beaufort’s townhouse was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers glittering overhead, towering floral arrangements perfuming the air, and walls lined with London’s most influential faces.
And all of them, it seemed, turned to look at her.
Elizabeth squared her shoulders, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she crossed the threshold into the ballroom. But the whispers were impossible to ignore.
There she is. The Bennet girl.
The one from the Matlock affair.
You know, with the French minister.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to tug at the neckline of her gown. It was a simple garment, pale blue with delicate embroidery along the sleeves, flattering enough but hardly ostentatious. She had chosen it precisely because it did not draw attention.
Clearly, that had been a futile effort.
Mrs. Gardiner led the way into the heart of the room, stopping to greet an acquaintance with polite conversation. Elizabeth hovered beside her, trying to appear at ease, but her gaze drifted—searching.
Where was he?
The thought annoyed her the moment it surfaced.
She had no reason to seek out Mr. Darcy. None.
And yet…
His presence at Lady Matlock’s dinner had provided an unexpected shield, a barrier against the more pointed judgments of theton. As much as his arrogance grated, there was no denying that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s reputation cast a wide shadow. Standing beside him made the scrutiny feel—if not entirely absent—at least bearable.
But tonight, he was nowhere in sight. Hesaidhe would be here.
Elizabeth snorted, annoyed with herself for caring. She would navigate this evening as she always did—on her own terms. Still, as she moved through the crowd, her eyes flicked toward every tall figure in a dark coat, her pulse giving a traitorous skip each time she realized it was not him.
Her attention snapped back when she caught sight of Lord Matlock near the far end of the room, deep in conversation with a group of men whose faces she recognized from political pamphlets Mr. Gardiner occasionally brought home. His gaze flicked briefly to her, lingering just long enough to send a chill skittering down her spine before returning to his companions.
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. There was something unnerving about the earl’s calculated indifference. It was as though he were waiting for her to make another mistake. Before she could dwell on it further, Mrs. Gardiner touched her arm.
“Come, Lizzy, let us greet Lady Beaufort. It would be rude not to pay our respects.”
“She only invited us because Lord Matlock told her to. She has no idea who we are.”
“Oh… I think everyone here knows who you are.”
Elizabeth swallowed and followed her aunt toward the hostess, who stood near the grand staircase, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy silk. Lady Beaufort’s sharp eyes raked over them as they approached, her smile polite but distant.
“Mrs. Gardiner,” she said, offering a hand that barely brushed against her aunt’s glove. “And Miss Bennet. Such a pleasure.”
Elizabeth curtsied, feeling the heat of Lady Beaufort’s gaze like a physical touch. “Thank you, my lady.”
“I trust you are enjoying the evening?” Lady Beaufort’s tone was gracious, but there was an edge beneath it, a subtle reminder that their presence here was tolerated, not welcomed.
“Very much, Lady Beaufort,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “We are most touched by your gracious welcome.”
Elizabeth murmured her agreement, but her eyes wandered across the room, still searching for a familiar figure in the sea of unfamiliar faces.
And then she saw him.
Standing near the edge of the ballroom, Mr. Darcy, impeccably dressed, his dark gaze sweeping the crowd with that familiar air of detachment. But there was something different tonight—his expression was tighter, his posture tenser. What had unsettled him?
