Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

The glow from Lady Beaufort’s chandeliers spilled into the night, casting long golden streaks along the grand entrance as the Gardiners’ carriage rolled to a stop. Elizabeth peered through the window, her pulse quickening despite her best efforts to remain composed.

The soirée was already in full swing—the sounds of laughter and the faint strains of a quartet drifted out into the evening air. Elizabeth could see the flicker of jewels and silk gowns as elegantly dressed guests swept up the marble steps and disappeared into the house beyond.

Beside her, Mrs. Gardiner adjusted her gloves with a serene expression that Elizabeth envied. Mr. Gardiner offered his niece a reassuring smile.

“Remember, Lizzy,” he murmured as the footman opened the carriage door, “no one here knows you better than you know yourself. Hold your head high.”

Elizabeth managed a small smile in return, but as she stepped out of the carriage and followed her aunt and uncle toward the entrance, her confidence wavered.

Inside, the heat of the room blasted against her like a physical force. Lord and Lady Beaufort’s townhouse was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers glittering overhead, towering floral arrangements perfuming the air, and walls lined with London’s most influential faces.

And all of them, it seemed, turned to look at her.

Elizabeth squared her shoulders, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she crossed the threshold into the ballroom. But the whispers were impossible to ignore.

There she is. The Bennet girl.

The one from the Matlock affair.

You know, with the French minister .

Elizabeth resisted the urge to tug at the neckline of her gown. It was a simple garment, pale blue with delicate embroidery along the sleeves, flattering enough but hardly ostentatious. She had chosen it precisely because it did not draw attention.

Clearly, that had been a futile effort.

Mrs. Gardiner led the way into the heart of the room, stopping to greet an acquaintance with polite conversation. Elizabeth hovered beside her, trying to appear at ease, but her gaze drifted—searching.

Where was he?

The thought annoyed her the moment it surfaced.

She had no reason to seek out Mr. Darcy. None.

And yet…

His presence at Lady Matlock’s dinner had provided an unexpected shield, a barrier against the more pointed judgments of the ton . As much as his arrogance grated, there was no denying that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s reputation cast a wide shadow. Standing beside him made the scrutiny feel—if not entirely absent—at least bearable.

But tonight, he was nowhere in sight. He said he would be here.

Elizabeth snorted, annoyed with herself for caring. She would navigate this evening as she always did—on her own terms. Still, as she moved through the crowd, her eyes flicked toward every tall figure in a dark coat, her pulse giving a traitorous skip each time she realized it was not him.

Her attention snapped back when she caught sight of Lord Matlock near the far end of the room, deep in conversation with a group of men whose faces she recognized from political pamphlets Mr. Gardiner occasionally brought home. His gaze flicked briefly to her, lingering just long enough to send a chill skittering down her spine before returning to his companions.

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. There was something unnerving about the earl’s calculated indifference. It was as though he were waiting for her to make another mistake. Before she could dwell on it further, Mrs. Gardiner touched her arm.

“Come, Lizzy, let us greet Lady Beaufort. It would be rude not to pay our respects.”

“She only invited us because Lord Matlock told her to. She has no idea who we are.”

“Oh… I think everyone here knows who you are.”

Elizabeth swallowed and followed her aunt toward the hostess, who stood near the grand staircase, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy silk. Lady Beaufort’s sharp eyes raked over them as they approached, her smile polite but distant .

“Mrs. Gardiner,” she said, offering a hand that barely brushed against her aunt’s glove. “And Miss Bennet. Such a pleasure.”

Elizabeth curtsied, feeling the heat of Lady Beaufort’s gaze like a physical touch. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I trust you are enjoying the evening?” Lady Beaufort’s tone was gracious, but there was an edge beneath it, a subtle reminder that their presence here was tolerated, not welcomed.

“Very much, Lady Beaufort,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “We are most touched by your gracious welcome.”

Elizabeth murmured her agreement, but her eyes wandered across the room, still searching for a familiar figure in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

And then she saw him.

Standing near the edge of the ballroom, Mr. Darcy, impeccably dressed, his dark gaze sweeping the crowd with that familiar air of detachment. But there was something different tonight—his expression was tighter, his posture tenser. What had unsettled him?

The question startled her. She should not care. She did not care.

And yet, her pulse steadied at the sight of him, as though his mere presence grounded her amidst the swirling chaos of the soirée. But before she could move toward him—or even decide if she wanted to—her eyes caught on another figure across the room.

Monsieur Lapointe.

He was speaking to a small group near the window, but his gaze flicked toward her at that exact moment, his lips curling into a polite, spine-shivering smile.

Elizabeth’s breath caught. The room suddenly felt too warm, the press of bodies too close. She turned quickly back to her aunt and uncle, willing herself to focus, to breathe. But in the back of her mind, one thought echoed louder than the rest.

I hope Mr. Darcy stays close.

Darcy had always despised these gatherings—the suffocating press of bodies, the hollow laughter, the clinking of glasses raised in empty toasts. But tonight, the atmosphere felt even more oppressive than usual. A footman discreetly relieved him of his coat, and Darcy took a brief moment to survey the room before stepping further inside .

It was exactly as he had expected—opulent, suffocating, and teeming with the very people he would prefer to avoid. But there were appearances to maintain, alliances to secure. His uncle had been adamant: this was no simple social gathering. This was strategy.

His gaze swept over the crowd, cataloging faces with an efficiency born of habit.

There were the men he wished to speak with—Mr. Harcourt, standing near a marble column, deep in conversation with Mr. Wilkinson, a respected Derbyshire landowner of moderate politics whose support could sway others. Harcourt gestured animatedly, glass in hand, while Wilkinson listened with a thoughtful nod. They were precisely the sort of men Darcy would prefer to align himself with: principled, pragmatic, and uninterested in political gamesmanship.

But then there were the others—the people his uncle would want him to engage with. Lord Carrington, with his booming laugh and tendency to dominate any conversation, held court near the fireplace, surrounded by sycophants eager to bask in his influence. His wealth and title were impressive, but his loyalties shifted with the political winds, making him a dangerous ally.

And then, of course, there were the people Darcy intended to avoid altogether. Miss Penelope Ashcroft, dressed in an alarmingly vibrant gown of emerald silk, caught his eye from across the room, her smile widening with recognition. She had pursued him relentlessly during the last season, and her presence here tonight was an unpleasant reminder that his bachelorhood was still very much a topic of discussion. He turned slightly, shielding himself behind a passing servant, and made a mental note to stay far from her orbit.

But it was the presence of Monsieur Lapointe, the French dignitary, that gave him pause. The diplomat stood near the center of the room, flanked by his aide, a wiry man with sharp features and an expression that hovered between boredom and predatory interest. They were surrounded by a cluster of curious onlookers, no doubt eager to engage in polite diplomatic conversation while surreptitiously fishing for information on France’s current dealings.

Darcy’s gaze flicked from Lapointe to the aide, noting the latter’s fixed stare. It was not directed at the crowd or at any of the titled lords milling about—it was focused on someone across the room.

Darcy followed the line of sight and felt a strange twist in his chest.

Elizabeth Bennet .

She stood near one of the tall windows, the moonlight catching the soft curves of her face and the gentle rise of her shoulders. She was speaking with her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, her expression animated in that familiar, impertinent way that Darcy had come to both expect and… begrudgingly appreciate.

But it was not just her expression that drew his attention. It was the way the aide was staring at her—as though she were not merely an intriguing young woman, but a figure of interest.

Darcy’s eyes darted back to the aide, then to Elizabeth again, his mind whirring with possibilities. Why would a French diplomat’s aide have any interest in Elizabeth Bennet? The idea left him uneasy. He was about to move toward her, to perhaps steer her away from prying eyes under the guise of polite conversation, when a familiar voice drawled at his side.

“There you are, Darcy.”

The name was spoken with just enough condescension to prickle beneath his skin. Darcy turned, his jaw tightening as he met the smug, too-familiar gaze of Miles Stanton.

The man stood with his usual posture of affected nonchalance, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his walking stick, the other swirling a glass of brandy. “I thought I might find you lurking about the edges of the room, avoiding the lively company.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, his expression neutral. “Stanton.”

Stanton took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze flicking briefly toward the crowd before settling back on Darcy. “Quite the gathering tonight. It seems Lady Beaufort has a talent for attracting… interesting guests.”

“Indeed.” Darcy glanced over at his hostess—Lady Beaufort herself, in close conversation with Lady Matlock, and neither trying to hide their interest in his conversation. It seemed his uncle had maneuvered this as well—perhaps some misguided early attempt at publicly displaying the contrast between himself and Stanton. He narrowed his eyes slightly at his aunt and glanced away.

“I must admit, I was surprised when I heard you would be here tonight. I had thought you were more inclined toward country estates and solitary pursuits than London society.”

Darcy forced a polite nod, suppressing the surge of irritation that Stanton’s very presence provoked. “Staying informed of current affairs hardly requires isolation, Stanton. ”

“Ah, but current affairs are so much more engaging in the city, do you not agree? The conversations, the connections… It is all about who you know, after all. And who you are seen with.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he refused to rise to the bait. Stanton had always been a master of subtle barbs, cloaking his malice in civility.

“Though I must commend you,” Stanton continued, his tone dripping with false praise. “Your recent public attachments have certainly been… intriguing.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

Stanton chuckled softly, as if Darcy had made a joke. “Come now, Darcy. You cannot expect us to believe your sudden interest in Miss Bennet is purely coincidental. A tradesman’s niece? It is a rather bold strategy, aligning yourself with such… humble connections.”

The insinuation landed like a blow. Darcy felt a surge of heat rise in his chest, an unexpected, visceral anger at Stanton’s condescension—not just toward him, but toward Elizabeth.

“I align myself with whom I choose,” Darcy said, his voice even, though his hands curled into fists at his sides. “And I do not require your approval to do so.”

Stanton’s smile widened, like a man who had baited the perfect hook. “Of course not,” he murmured, inclining his head slightly. “But the voters might care. You are hoping they will favor some quaint version of ‘authenticity’ over… convenient alliances.”

Darcy’s pulse pounded in his temples. His entire body felt coiled, taut with the effort to maintain control. “And you would know something about convenient alliances, would you not?” he shot back, his voice cold as steel. “Aligning yourself with anyone whose coin jingles loud enough to drown out your inadequacies?”

Stanton’s eyes flashed, but he chuckled, shaking his head. “Come now, Darcy. Let us not pretend this sudden affection for a tradesman’s niece is anything but strategy. It is clever, I will admit, but desperate all the same.”

Darcy took a step closer, his breath sharp. “Desperation is the tool of men like you, Stanton. I do not need to scheme to win support. I rely on integrity, something you would not recognize if it sat on your doorstep.”

Stanton’s grin thinned. “Integrity? Or arrogance? You think you can stroll into this arena with your family name and a pretty face on your arm and expect the world to bow?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make it personal. “But voters are not fools. They will see through you, just as I do. You are nothing more than a relic of an old family name, clinging to the illusion of relevance.”

Darcy’s hands twitched at his sides. He could feel the anger rising, pressing against his ribs, demanding release. “Careful, Stanton,” he said quietly, his words sharp enough to cut. “You are mistaking civility for weakness.”

Stanton’s brows lifted, as if daring him to prove it. “And you are mistaking your position for power.”

Darcy opened his mouth, the words forming on his tongue, ready to unleash something he might not be able to take back—

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the heated fury clouding his vision like a knife through silk.

Both men turned as she approached, her expression the picture of polite surprise. “I was hoping we would have the pleasure of seeing you this evening,” she said, her eyes flicking disinterestedly to Stanton before returning to Darcy with an easy smile. “I was beginning to wonder if you had fled London for more peaceful surroundings.”

Darcy straightened, his frustration cooling just enough to remember his manners. “Miss Bennet, may I present Mr. Miles Stanton of Derbyshire?”

Elizabeth curtsied. “Mr. Stanton. I have heard your name mentioned often of late.”

Stanton’s smile broadened. “All good things, I hope.”

She allowed a delicate pause, just long enough to suggest otherwise, before replying, “Oh, I find that most things spoken in London society are more entertaining when left ambiguous.”

Stanton chuckled. “A sharp wit, Miss Bennet. I see why Darcy is so… taken with you.”

Darcy felt Elizabeth’s hand slip lightly around his arm, her fingers resting there as if by habit. She tilted her head, her smile soft but perfectly calculated. “Well,” she murmured, her eyes glancing up at Darcy, “he does have excellent taste.”

Stanton’s eyes gleamed with something akin to curiosity, but before he could respond, Elizabeth continued, her voice smooth as cream.

“I wonder, Mr. Stanton, would you excuse us? I am afraid I was hoping to claim Mr. Darcy’s attention. He really is the finest dancer in all the room, and if I do not have some exercise, I fear I shall go distracted.”

Stanton raised his glass slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Of course,” he said, his gaze lingering on them both. “Duty calls, I suppose. But I do hope we shall speak again soon, Miss Bennet. ”

“I am sure we shall,” Elizabeth replied.

Darcy inclined his head curtly, offering no further word as he allowed Elizabeth to guide him away. As soon as they were out of earshot, Elizabeth’s hand dropped from his arm, and she exhaled softly. “You were about to say something regrettable,” she murmured, not bothering to disguise her frankness.

Darcy glanced down at her, his jaw still tight, though a flicker of reluctant admiration stirred beneath his irritation. “And you were about to charm him into submission,” he replied dryly.

She arched a brow. “It seems we make a rather effective pair, Mr. Darcy.”