“…and you are making quite the impression, Darcy,” Harcourt was saying. “There is talk that Stanton’s allies are… concerned.”
“Concerned?” Darcy echoed, his tone carefully neutral.
Linton chuckled. “Do not let their silence fool you. They are watching. They expected you to be hesitant, undecided. But it seems you are taking this campaign rather seriously.”
“Stanton’s position is one of convenience,” Darcy said coolly. “Not conviction. I have no intention of allowing convenience to dictate Derbyshire’s future.”
Harcourt nodded approvingly, but his gaze flicked briefly to Elizabeth. “And the lady’s feelings on the matter?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin slightly. “I assure you, gentlemen, I have no influence over Mr. Darcy’s political ambitions.”
Harcourt chuckled. “Perhaps not. But your presence… reshapes perceptions.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, but his expression remained impassive. And yet, something in the slight shift of his stance, the way his hand curled over the edge of his coat, told her that he had registered the remark.
“Then I hope I do so in a way that benefits him,” she replied lightly.
As Harcourt lifted his glass in silent salute, Darcy shifted beside Elizabeth. With the briefest touch to her elbow, he leaned in slightly, his voice low.
“There is someone I would like you to meet.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, surprised by the quiet insistence in his tone, but she nodded.
In a clearer tone, he bowed to the other gentlemen. “Excuse us, please.”
He placed her hand on his arm, guiding her across the ballroom with a deliberation that suggested this introduction was not entirely a whim. They wove through the glittering throng, past clusters of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, past the scrutinizing gazes that still followed them. Elizabeth was beginning to suspect that no moment of this evening would be without observation.
Darcy brought them to a stop before a man of military bearing, his red uniform standing out among the sea of dark evening coats. His face bore a resemblance to Darcy’s in the sharp line of his jaw, though his expression was far less severe.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, “allow me to introduce my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
The colonel’s smile was broad and charming, his eyes bright with interest as he gave a gallant bow. “So, this is the infamous Miss Bennet. I have heard much about you.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “And yet, I know so little of you, Colonel. I wonder if that gives you the advantage.”
He laughed. “I doubt it. My cousin does not often speak at length about anyone, but he broke protocol in this instance. I think he was trying to give me some sort of warning.”
Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at Darcy, whose expression remained impassive. “Oh, I doubt that. I think our Mr. Darcy is, instead, a man of many secrets.”
“You have no idea,” the colonel said, his tone conspiring. Then, with the ease of a practiced charmer, he extended his hand. “Miss Bennet, I would be honored if you would dance the supper set with me.”
Elizabeth parted her lips to reply, but before she could, Darcy cut in, “I am afraid that particular set is already spoken for.”
Elizabeth blinked, turning toward him. “Is it?”
“It is.”
The colonel, who had clearly not expected interference, lifted his brows and looked between them. “I see,” he mused, clearly enjoying the exchange. “How unfortunate for me.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “Quite,” she said, before glancing at Darcy. “I daresay I shall have to find some way to bear it.”
“Indeed,” Darcy murmured, his lips pressing together as though he were resisting some response of his own.
The colonel exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. “I suppose I must content myself with an earlier dance, then.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “What do you say of joining this present set, Miss Bennet? Before Darcy quite spirits you away?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Very well, Colonel. I suppose I must give you some chance to make an impression.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, excusing himself as Fitzwilliam led her toward the dance floor.
