Matlock chuckled, clearly amused. “You underestimate how much people want to believe in something, Miss Bennet. They want a story they can trust. You and Darcy will give them that story.”
The conversation rolled on, strategy layered upon strategy—luncheons with influential Derbyshire merchants currently in London, private dinners with landowners who had estates both in town and the country, and carefully orchestrated appearances at gatherings where Derbyshire’s voting elite were certain to be present. It was all about visibility, about presenting Darcy as both a pillar of tradition and a man attuned to the shifting needs of the county. Each detail felt like another iron clasp locking into place around Darcy’s autonomy, every polite nod from Elizabeth another link in the chain binding them together.
But even as Matlock outlined their future with surgical precision, Darcy’s eyes kept drifting toward Elizabeth. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the picture of composure, but the fire in her gaze betrayed her. She hated this. Hated being used, hated the manipulation. And yet, every time their eyes met, that same reluctant resolve flickered between them. They would play their parts.
For now.
“And remember,” Matlock finished, leaning back in his chair with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he controlled the board, “you are not just courting votes, Fitzwilliam. You are courting trust. And nothing sells trust like the promise of a respectable future—complete with a respectablewife.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Darcy felt Elizabeth’s gaze snap toward him, sharp and questioning, but he did not look back. Instead, he focused on the earl, his voice low and cold as steel.
“Let us hope, then,” Darcy said, rising from his chair, “that the voters are easier to court than the lady.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I still do notunderstand why this could not have been a simple meeting over tea,” Elizabeth muttered, adjusting the long, fitted sleeves of her gown as the carriage jolted over a rut in the drive. “One gentleman at a time. Ask for his vote and go home.”
Across from her, Mr. Darcy raised a brow, his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the window. “Because appearances matter.”
Elizabeth sighed, smoothing the rich sapphire silk of her skirt as if it would relieve her jitters. “Appearances seem to be theonlything that matter.”
Darcy did not respond, but the slight tightening of his jaw spoke volumes.
The carriage rocked slightly as it rounded the final bend and Ashworth Manor come into full view. The sprawling estate was a study in ostentation, its towering façade bathed in the weak afternoon light, the manicured lawns stretching out like a green sea dotted with clusters of London’s elite. Guests in fine attire meandered through the gardens, their laughter and conversation floating on the crisp October air.
Elizabeth’s pulse thrummed beneath her stays, and she shifted uncomfortably. The gown—far more elaborate than anything she owned—felt like a costume. When her aunt’s maid had arrived with it earlier, Elizabeth had stared at the delicate silver embroidery, tracing the fine stitching with hesitant fingers. It was beautiful, yes, but entirely out of place for someone like her.
When she had questioned its sudden appearance, Mrs. Gardiner had only smiled, a cryptic gleam in her eye. “A little something to help you feel… prepared,” was all she had said.
Prepared. Elizabeth was not sureanygown, no matter how finely made, could prepare her for this.
But then Darcy had arrived to escort them.
He had barely stepped into the drawing room when his gaze flicked over her, lingering just long enough for her to notice the subtle shift in his expression—the faintsurprise, followed by something that looked suspiciously like approval. Perhaps even appreciation. It had been fleeting, but enough to ease some of the discomfort curling in her stomach.
Now, as the carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, that same discomfort returned.
The footman swung open the door, and Darcy stepped out first with his usual composure. He turned to offer his hand, and Elizabeth hesitated for the briefest of moments before placing hers in his. The warmth of his palm seeped through the delicate fabric of her gloves, steadying her.
As her feet touched the ground, she tilted her head up to meet his gaze, once again finding that flicker of something—surprise, approval, perhaps even something softer—before his expression settled back into its familiar stoicism.
That fleeting look made the gown feel less like a costume and more like armor.
Behind her, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner descended from the carriage, and Elizabeth heard a faint gasp from her aunt. Mr. Gardiner adjusted his coat with a thoughtful glance toward the bustling gardens ahead, while Mrs. Gardiner gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile as they fell into step beside them.
“Shall we, Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice was low, steady, but there was a thread of something warmer beneath the formality.
Elizabeth nodded, drawing in a slow breath as they ascended the stone steps together, stepping into a world where every glance, every word, every movement would be scrutinized.
And for the first time since this charade began, she was grateful to have Mr. Darcy at her side.
“Do you often attend garden parties, Mr. Darcy?”
His gaze flicked to hers, dark and unflinching. “As seldom as possible.”
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a wry smile. “And yet, here you are.”
