The question startled her. She should not care. Shedidnot care.
And yet, her pulse steadied at the sight of him, as though his mere presence grounded her amidst the swirling chaos of the soirée. But before she could move toward him—or even decide if she wanted to—her eyes caught on another figure across the room.
Monsieur Lapointe.
He was speaking to a small group near the window, but his gaze flicked toward her at that exact moment, his lips curling into a polite, spine-shivering smile.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The room suddenly felt too warm, the press of bodies too close. She turned quickly back to her aunt and uncle, willing herself to focus, to breathe. But in the back of her mind, one thought echoed louder than the rest.
I hope Mr. Darcy stays close.
Darcy had always despisedthese gatherings—the suffocating press of bodies, the hollow laughter, the clinking of glasses raised in empty toasts. But tonight, the atmosphere felt even more oppressive than usual. A footman discreetly relieved him of his coat, and Darcy took a brief moment to survey the room before stepping further inside.
It was exactly as he had expected—opulent, suffocating, and teeming with the very people he would prefer to avoid. But there were appearances to maintain, alliances to secure. His uncle had been adamant: this was no simple social gathering. This was strategy.
His gaze swept over the crowd, cataloging faces with an efficiency born of habit.
There were the men he wished to speak with—Mr. Harcourt, standing near a marble column, deep in conversation with Mr. Wilkinson, a respected Derbyshire landowner of moderate politics whose support could sway others. Harcourt gestured animatedly, glass in hand, while Wilkinson listened with a thoughtful nod. They were precisely the sort of men Darcy would prefer to align himself with: principled, pragmatic, and uninterested in political gamesmanship.
But then there were the others—the people hisunclewould want him to engage with. Lord Carrington, with his booming laugh and tendency to dominate any conversation, held court near the fireplace, surrounded by sycophants eager to bask in his influence. His wealth and title were impressive, but his loyalties shifted with the political winds, making him a dangerous ally.
And then, of course, there were the people Darcy intended to avoid altogether. Miss Penelope Ashcroft, dressed in an alarmingly vibrant gown of emerald silk, caught his eye from across the room, her smile widening with recognition. She had pursued him relentlessly during the last season, and her presence here tonight was an unpleasant reminder that his bachelorhood was still very much a topic of discussion. He turned slightly, shielding himself behind a passing servant, and made a mental note to stay far from her orbit.
But it was the presence of Monsieur Lapointe, the French dignitary, that gave him pause. The diplomat stood near the center of the room, flanked by his aide, a wiry man with sharp features and an expression that hovered between boredom and predatory interest. They were surrounded by a cluster of curious onlookers, no doubt eager to engage in polite diplomatic conversation while surreptitiously fishing for information on France’s current dealings.
Darcy’s gaze flicked from Lapointe to the aide, noting the latter’s fixed stare. It was not directed at the crowd or at any of the titled lords milling about—it was focused on someone across the room.
Darcy followed the line of sight and felt a strange twist in his chest.
Elizabeth Bennet.
She stood near one of the tall windows, the moonlight catching the soft curves of her face and the gentle rise of her shoulders. She was speaking with her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, her expression animated in that familiar, impertinent way that Darcy had come to both expect and… begrudgingly appreciate.
But it was not just her expression that drew his attention. It was the way the aide was staring at her—as though she were not merely an intriguing young woman, but a figure of interest.
Darcy’s eyes darted back to the aide, then to Elizabeth again, his mind whirring with possibilities. Why would a French diplomat’s aide have any interest in Elizabeth Bennet? The idea left him uneasy. He was about to move toward her, to perhaps steer her away from prying eyes under the guise of polite conversation, when a familiar voice drawled at his side.
“There you are, Darcy.”
The name was spoken with just enough condescension to prickle beneath his skin. Darcy turned, his jaw tightening as he met the smug, too-familiar gaze of Miles Stanton.
The man stood with his usual posture of affected nonchalance, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his walking stick, the other swirling a glass of brandy. “I thought I might find you lurking about the edges of the room, avoiding the lively company.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his expression neutral. “Stanton.”
Stanton took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze flicking briefly toward the crowd before settling back on Darcy. “Quite the gathering tonight. It seems Lady Beaufort has a talent for attracting… interesting guests.”
“Indeed.” Darcy glanced over at his hostess—Lady Beaufort herself, in close conversation with Lady Matlock, and neither trying to hide their interest in his conversation. It seemed his uncle had maneuvered this as well—perhaps some misguided early attempt at publicly displaying the contrast between himself and Stanton. He narrowed his eyes slightly at his aunt and glanced away.
“I must admit, I was surprised when I heard you would be here tonight. I had thought you were more inclined toward country estates and solitary pursuits than London society.”
Darcy forced a polite nod, suppressing the surge of irritation that Stanton’s very presence provoked. “Staying informed of current affairs hardly requires isolation, Stanton.”
“Ah, but current affairs are so much more engaging in the city, do you not agree? The conversations, the connections… It is all about who you know, after all. And who you are seen with.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he refused to rise to the bait. Stanton had always been a master of subtle barbs, cloaking his malice in civility.
“Though I must commend you,” Stanton continued, his tone dripping with false praise. “Your recent public attachments have certainly been… intriguing.”
