But truly, itwasa pity that when this was all over—when the election was won and her reputation was cleared, they would no longer have each other as a bulwark against the world. Yes, that was… a lamentable fact. One she must take care not to forget.
Lady Matlock was already leading her into a throng of new faces, new people to meet, but before she could lose sight of him entirely, Elizabeth glanced back one more time. And, as if Darcy felt her gaze upon him, he shifted slightly, and his eyes found her across the room.
And he smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth reclined in theGardiners’ sitting room with a cup of tea cooling beside her and a book open in her lap, though she had read the same passage three times without absorbing a word. She was not usually one for reflection, at least not in the excessive, sentimental way that novels liked to depict. And yet, here she was, staring at a page without comprehension, her mind circling back—again and again—to the previous evening.
The ball had been… disarmingly ordinary. Not in its grandeur or importance, but in the way she had moved through it with ease, as though she belonged. For one evening, she had not been a woman walking an invisible line between scandal and respectability. She had laughed, danced, sparred with Darcy in a way that left her breathless for reasons she refused to examine too closely.
And for one evening, she had forgot to be afraid for herself.
A foolish indulgence.
She was not naïve enough to believe her troubles had vanished, nor was she foolish enough to think that this precarious balance—this careful performance of appearances—could last indefinitely. It never did. Something would shift. It was inevitable.
The only question waswhen.
A sharp chime echoed from the front hall as someone rang the bell. Elizabeth barely stirred, absently running her finger along the rim of her teacup as she stared at the delicate floral pattern. The household received letters frequently—her uncle’s business dealings, invitations for the family, silk and lace orders for her aunt or Miss Fletcher. Nothing that required her immediate attention.
She let her thoughts drift back to the evening before, to the glittering chandeliers and polished marble floors, to the almost scorching heat of Darcy’s gaze when he watched her from across the room. How strange it would be when all of this—London, the intrigue, the politics—was behind her. When she returned to Longbourn, to the familiar paths ofHertfordshire, to a world where no one cared whether she danced with Mr. Darcy or what her presence at a supper table might signify.
Would she miss it?
Not the danger, certainly—if there reallywasdanger. But the rest? The quickness and depth of real conversation with a mind at least as sharp—nay, probably sharper than her own—the knowledge that she was playing a role in something larger than herself?
And, most inconvenient of all, she could not deny that something in her had shifted. Not so long ago, she had thought herself quite content with the sort of men she had always known—kind, respectable, unassuming. Now… she was not so sure.
How was she to return to men who barely challenged her thoughts, who did not provoke her wit, who never looked at her with the particular intensity Darcy so often did?
The scrape of footsteps drew her from her musings. She glanced up just as the manservant entered, a silver tray in hand, a single letter resting atop it. “This has arrived for you, Miss Bennet.”
She blinked, straightening. “Oh?” She was not expecting any correspondence, and certainly not one that had arrived with such urgency. Perhaps Mr. Darcy…
Her fingers hesitated before plucking the envelope from the tray. The paper was thick and fine—expensive. Elizabeth turned the folded letter over in her hands. The wax seal remained unbroken, but before she could move to open it, something gave her pause. Her gaze flicked to the front, scanning the bold script of her name, scrawled across the outside. Probably something from the earl. Frowning, she broke the seal.
Mr. Gardiner,
A discrepancy has been noted in the cargo of the Eleanor, docked at the South Wharf. The manifests require confirmation before clearance can proceed. Please review the attached records and confirm at your earliest convenience.
— J. Temple, Clerk of Gardiner & Co.
Her brow furrowed. This was not her correspondence. Mr. Gardiner’s name was written inside—but on the outside, the direction had been unmistakable. It had been meant for her.
Her fingers curled around the edges of the paper as she flipped it over—indeed, thatwasher name on the outside. A shipping error? Why was it addressed to her?
She had nothing to do with her uncle’s shipping business. She had never seen one of his manifests, had never even stepped foot on the docks in her life. If this were a simple clerical mistake, why had the messenger instructed the footman to give it to her?
Unless… it was no mistake at all.
A quiet cough drew her attention, and she lifted her gaze to find Wilson still waiting. “Miss?”
Elizabeth swallowed, pressing the letter lightly against her skirts to steady her grip. “Who delivered this?”
“One of Mr. Gardiner’s clerks, miss. A Mr. Temple.”
Mr. Temple? The name meant nothing to her. She knew most of her uncle’s clerks, had seen them in passing at his warehouse or overheard them speaking at the house. Temple was not one of them.
