Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement, while Mr. Gardiner gave a knowing nod. “By all means, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, the warmth of her touch seeping through the layers of fabric. Together, they navigated through the clusters of elegantly dressed guests toward the refreshment table, where silver platters of delicate pastries and crystal bowls of punch glittered under the chandeliers.
Once they were away from prying ears, Darcy lowered his voice, his gaze fixed ahead. “I have given the letter and key to my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth’s eyes darted to his face, curiosity sharpening her features. “Colonel Fitzwilliam? I have not had the pleasure of meeting him yet.”
“You will. He is here tonight—the earl is his father. I shall introduce you when the time is right.”
She nodded, her fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “Has he discovered anything?”
Darcy exhaled, his jaw tightening with frustration. “Not yet. He is using his connections—more extensive than my own—but the matter is… delicate.”
“Well. That is hardly reassuring.”
“Be easy. If there is something to find, Richard will find it.”
She nodded. “I did not see Monsieur Lapointe or his aide tonight,” she murmured.
“I did,” Darcy said darkly. “They are here.”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply.
“I do not believe they are watching you at this moment,” Darcy added, his voice carefully neutral. “But remain cautious, nonetheless.”
She swallowed and looked up at him, searching his face as if measuring just how much she ought to trust his words. He wanted to tell her—needed her to understand—that trust was not something he would ever ask for lightly. For a moment, the din of theballroom dulled. The low hum of conversation, the soft chime of crystal glasses, the shifting candlelight—all of it faded beneath the weight of her eyes.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice softer now, meant for her ears alone. “You are not alone in this.”
He felt her fingers flex on his sleeve, just the slightest shift, and the motion sent something resolute through him. Whatever this was—whatever tangle of intrigue she had been dragged into—it washisconcern now.
He was still holding her gaze when the awareness of the room returned. He caught movement at the edge of his vision—faces turned in their direction, the keen eyes of matrons, of curious young ladies, of men watching too closely. A few whispers stirred the air.
Of course.
They had been standing too long, too near, speaking too low. A gentleman could not be seen conversing with a lady so intently in a crowded ballroom without drawing speculation. And speculation was something neither of them could afford.
From the far side of the room, Lord Matlock had stepped forward to signal the beginning of the evening’s dances. A hush settled briefly, an unspoken expectation filling the space before the first notes of the musicians’ bows met the strings.
Darcy turned back to her, schooling his expression once more. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice composed again, his hand outstretched.
Elizabeth hesitated for only a fraction of a second before slipping her fingers into his. “We shall.”
As he led her onto the floor, Darcy was acutely aware of the eyes upon them—the shifting attention, the murmurs, the acknowledgment that this dance, between the two of them, was not an insignificant one. He could feel it gathering like the weight of an oncoming storm.
Yet, in that moment, the rest of it—the campaign, the threats, the tenuous game of politics—mattered less than the simple truth unfurling in his mind.
For all his carefully laid plans and strategies, the one thing he had not accounted for—the one thing that unsettled him most—was how entirely Elizabeth Bennet had become his compass in the chaos.
And whether that truth was a threat or a relief… he had yet to decide.
Elizabeth had attended ballsbefore, but none quite like this.
Lord Matlock’s townhouse was ablaze with light, its grand ballroom filled with London’s most powerful figures. The glittering chandeliers illuminated a sea of silks and jewels, the air humming with the delicate strains of a quartet and the steady rise and fall of conversation.
But as grand as the setting was, it was nothing compared to the moment she entered on her uncle’s arm and found Darcy waiting.
He had stood near the far side of the ballroom, tall and perfect in his black coat and crisp white cravat, looking every inch the master of the evening. Elizabeth had no notion of what had compelled her to search for him the moment she stepped inside, nor why the tension coiling in her chest eased slightly when she found him.
