Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Elizabeth had barely set down her teacup when Wilson entered with a silver salver, a thick envelope resting at its center like a lead weight.

“From Matlock House, madam,” he said, inclining his head toward Mrs. Gardiner.

Elizabeth felt a sharp prickle of unease. So soon?

Her aunt took the envelope, turning it over in her hands with the same cautious curiosity one might afford a snake coiled in the grass. “This was delivered by hand?”

“Yes, madam,” the manservant replied. “The footman is waiting in the hall for a response.”

Mrs. Gardiner flicked a glance at her husband, then handed him the letter. “Would you do the honors, my dear?”

Mr. Gardiner slid his finger beneath the seal and unfolded the heavy paper. As he read, his brows lifted slightly.

Elizabeth’s fingers curled around the handle of her teacup. She already knew.

“It is an invitation,” her uncle said at last, though there was little need for him to clarify.

Mrs. Gardiner sighed and reached for the letter, scanning the contents herself. “It is rather sudden,” she remarked, tapping a finger against the paper. “This evening.”

“Of course it is,” Elizabeth muttered. “He wishes to catch us off guard.”

“Elizabeth,” her aunt chided, though without much force.

Elizabeth straightened in her chair. “You must see the truth of it, Aunt. This is no ordinary invitation. It is a summons.”

Her uncle took back the letter. “He has invited us to a small gathering. No more than a dozen or so guests. It appears to be of an informal nature.”

“Informal,” Elizabeth scoffed. “Perhaps for his lordship. Not for those of us who have been maneuvered into this position.”

Mrs. Gardiner gave her a knowing look. “It does say that Mr. Darcy will be in attendance. ”

“Naturally,” Elizabeth muttered.

Her uncle set the letter down and met Elizabeth’s gaze directly. “We cannot refuse, my dear.”

Elizabeth set her teacup down with far more care than she felt. “Of course we can refuse. It is not an obligation to attend an evening gathering.”

“Not formally, perhaps,” Mr. Gardiner admitted, “but it is a marked favor to be included in such a setting, and under the circumstances, I must consider what it would mean to reject the invitation.”

Elizabeth ground her teeth together, fighting the impulse to argue. She understood well enough. If they refused, it would be noted, perhaps even considered an insult. The earl had made it clear that he had an interest in her association with Mr. Darcy, and it would not serve the Gardiners well to appear ungrateful—or worse, uncooperative.

Her uncle sighed, softening. “I do not wish to ask more of you, Elizabeth, especially after all you have endured these past days. But I must be practical. There are certain advantages to remaining in his good opinion.”

She met his gaze, reading the unspoken words between them. Not just his business—his reputation, his standing, the careful network of trust and opportunity he had spent years cultivating. And Elizabeth, whether she liked it or not, was now a piece on that board. She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to consider the situation rationally.

She was no longer helpless in this.

She and Mr. Darcy had already agreed—however reluctantly—that this entire scheme was nothing more than a pretense. They had not yet settled on a plan, but they would.

For now, all she had to do was play the part.

Mrs. Gardiner reached across the table and took Elizabeth’s hand. “It will only be a few hours, my dear. You need not like it. You need only endure it.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched slightly. Endure it?

No. She would do more than endure it.

She would learn.

She would observe.

And she would ensure that—if this farce must continue—she would have some say in how it was played.

She sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “Very well. Let us go to Matlock House.”

Darcy had hardly stepped inside Matlock House before realizing he had been drawn into a set snare.

The air in the grand drawing room was thick with expectation, the sort of charged energy that came not from idle social pleasantries but from carefully laid plans unfurling into motion.

And he was standing directly in the center of it.

Lady Matlock was the first to greet him. “Darcy, my dear nephew, I was beginning to think you meant to avoid us this evening.”

Darcy inclined his head politely. “I only just returned from my club when I received your invitation, Aunt. Had I known my presence was of such great concern, I might have hurried.”

Her smile was the sort that made him wary. “Oh, I have no doubts about that.”

“Ah, there you are, nephew!” The earl strode toward him, a glass of port in one hand, the other already outstretched in welcome. “I trust you have recovered from our last discussion?”

Darcy accepted the handshake, his grip firm. “I have given it thought, if that is what you mean.”

The earl clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. You will find that others have given it thought as well.”

Darcy frowned slightly. What others?

Before he could ask, the butler entered the drawing room.

“The Gardiners and Miss Bennet, my lord.”

Every muscle in Darcy’s body went rigid.

Of course. He turned just in time to see Miss Bennet stepping into the room, her aunt and uncle on either side of her. Her features wore an easy expression, but he could see it—the slight stiffness in her posture, the careful restraint in her usually eloquent eyes.

She was as unprepared for this evening as he had been.

The earl, however, was all ease and affability. “Mr. Gardiner! A pleasure to see you again,” he declared, his voice loud enough to draw attention from nearby guests.

“Lord Matlock,” Mr. Gardiner replied with a respectful bow. “We are honored by your invitation. ”

“As you should be,” the earl said, grinning. “And Miss Bennet!” He turned his attention to Elizabeth, eyes twinkling. “I trust you are enjoying London?”

She curtsied. “I have found it… enlightening, my lord.”

Darcy noted the careful phrasing.

The earl chuckled, as though he had expected no less from her. “I am delighted to hear it. Ah, and here is my nephew—I believe the two of you are already acquainted?”

Darcy barely resisted the urge to sigh. He probably rolled his eyes.

Elizabeth Bennet turned toward him, her smile already in place, though he swore he saw the barest flicker of a grimace in the set of her jaw. “Yes,” she said easily. “I believe we have met.”

Lady Matlock stepped forward then—ever the hostess, ever the strategist. “Miss Bennet,” she said warmly, “we are so pleased you could join us this evening. And Darcy, I do believe you were just about to offer Miss Bennet your arm, were you not?”

He most certainly had not been about to do any such thing.

Elizabeth blinked, and then—blast her—she smiled. “A generous offer,” she mused, tilting her head toward him. “Shall we?”

Darcy inclined his head stiffly and offered his arm.

Elizabeth placed her hand lightly at his elbow, and together they stepped forward—right into the center of the watching room.

His uncle had curated his guests with ruthless precision. These were not the type to gossip idly in drawing rooms. No, they were men of influence, individuals whose words carried weight in political and social circles alike.

And now they were watching him.

Watching her.

Waiting to see what conclusions they should draw.

The lady, to her credit, remained composed. “Well,” she murmured as they moved deeper into the room. “This is rather transparent, is it not?”

“Painfully so,” Darcy muttered.

She glanced up at him, her lips curving ever so slightly. “Do try not to look so miserable, Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. “You are supposed to be wooing me.”

Darcy nearly choked. He turned his head slightly, his voice low and precise. “I was under the impression that we had not yet agreed upon a strategy.”

Her brows lifted. “Have we not? I was quite certain that playing along was our only choice. ”

She was right.

And worse—she knew it.

Darcy inhaled slowly. This was exactly what his uncle wanted.

And now, like it or not, they were in it.

Elizabeth had always considered herself adaptable.

She had talked her way out of trouble more times than she could count. She had held her own against small-minded men and self-important women. She had even mastered the art of smiling politely while loathing every moment of an interaction.

But nothing had prepared her for this.

For standing beside this stranger, Mr. Darcy, arm-in-arm, under the scrutinizing gazes of half the room.

For being watched—closely watched—by men of influence, men who had come here tonight expecting to see something unfold.

For realizing, with growing unease, that Lord Matlock had designed this entire evening as a stage upon which she and Darcy were expected to perform.

She tightened her grip on Darcy’s arm just slightly, more from irritation than anything else. It was his fault she was here. Probably. Why, if not for him the earl would have found some other way to extract his pound of flesh from her.

“Miss Bennet,” a gentleman nearby spoke up, drawing her attention.

Elizabeth turned, schooling her expression into something polite but carefully neutral.

The man was older, with a keen gaze that gave the distinct impression that he missed very little.

“Sir Archibald Winters,” he introduced himself with a short bow. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “Sir Archibald.”

His gaze flickered toward Darcy before returning to her. “You are here under the Matlock family’s invitation?”

Darcy’s arm tensed beneath her hand. The question was innocuous on its surface, but Elizabeth was not na?ve enough to believe it had been asked in simple curiosity .

“Indeed,” she replied pleasantly. “Lord Matlock and his lady have been most generous in their hospitality.”

Sir Archibald nodded slowly. “As I am sure they have.”

Elizabeth held his gaze, unflinching. She had spent enough time in London to recognize when she was being assessed. When the moment stretched just a beat too long, Darcy finally spoke.

“Miss Bennet is visiting town with her aunt and uncle,” he said. “I have found her conversation to be most diverting.”

Elizabeth turned her head sharply, barely suppressing a laugh. Most diverting. A phrase so painfully stiff and proper that she could hardly believe it had left his mouth. Still, the effect was immediate.

Sir Archibald’s expression shifted slightly, and he glanced at Darcy with something that might have been approval. “Indeed,” he mused. “A lady of keen wit, I presume?”

Darcy’s eyes flicked toward her. “That would be an understatement.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught, just for a moment. Not because it was a compliment, exactly—more a grudging admission of fact—but because it had been offered so casually, so naturally.

As if… he meant it.

Sir Archibald smiled faintly, as though satisfied by what he had heard. Elizabeth knew better than to believe she had won his good opinion, but something had shifted.

Darcy had just confirmed their association before one of his uncle’s most observant guests.

There was no turning back now.

The evening progressed at a painful, calculated pace. The guests were carefully chosen, well-informed men of politics, commerce, and military standing.

Each watched her with Mr. Darcy like hawks.

She and Darcy drifted through the room together, pausing occasionally for conversation, presenting a united—if reluctant—front. She quickly learned to anticipate his movements, and he, hers. When someone steered a conversation in an uncomfortable direction, Darcy intervened. When a pointed question was directed at him, she laughed lightly and redirected attention elsewhere. They began to fall into a rhythm—one neither of them acknowledged, but both instinctively obeyed.

And then, as they found themselves momentarily alone near the side of the room, Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “Well,” she muttered, “we have survived thus far.”

Darcy arched a brow. “You sound surprised.”

She glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You do not?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Elizabeth tapped her fingers against the stem of her wine glass, studying him. “You are rather good at this, Mr. Darcy.”

His brows lifted slightly. “At what, precisely?”

She gestured vaguely. “At… saying very little, yet managing to say precisely what people wish to hear.”

His expression remained that same neutral that it had been all evening, but she swore she saw the slightest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “It is a skill,” he said dryly. “One you have not entirely mastered.”

Elizabeth smirked. “No, I am afraid I am rather dreadful at it.”

Darcy made a sound that might have been a chuckle, though it was so brief that she could not be certain.

She tilted her head. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy—why did you bother to speak on my behalf earlier? With Sir Archibald?”

His expression did not change, but his posture shifted ever so slightly. “You needed the endorsement,” he said simply.

Elizabeth studied him for a moment, unsure of what to make of that answer. Before she could press him further, Lady Matlock approached, smiling warmly.

“Miss Bennet,” she said pleasantly, “you and my nephew make a rather fine pair.”

Elizabeth stiffened immediately.

Darcy, however, merely inclined his head. “You flatter us, Aunt.”

“Not at all. It is simply a delight to see two such fine minds in harmony.”

Elizabeth could not help it. She laughed outright. “Harmony, Lady Matlock? That is generous indeed.”

Lady Matlock’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, my dear,” she said. “You will find that I am always generous.”