Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Darcy stood at the threshold of his club, the heavy oak doors a final barrier between his former life of quiet stewardship and the public battlefield he was now forced to enter. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and political ambition, as if the very walls of the establishment had absorbed generations of whispered schemes.

He was not here by choice.

The messenger had arrived at Darcy’s townhouse far too early that morning, bearing the earl’s summons with the kind of officious urgency that brooked no delay. Darcy had been forced to abandon the last of his preparations for Georgiana’s departure, leaving instructions for Mrs. Younge to ensure everything was in order. But it had not been enough.

He had intended to walk Georgiana to the carriage himself, to offer a final word of reassurance, even if their last conversation had been tense. Instead, he had been summoned here—to dance to his uncle’s tune.

The thought soured in his mind as he entered the private room at the back of the club. Lord Matlock was already seated, a brandy glass in one hand and a stack of correspondence spread across the table, as if he had been there for hours and had made the place his private study. The London morning papers were neatly folded beside him, their headlines already buzzing with news of Parliament’s dissolution.

“You are late,” the earl remarked without glancing up, his voice carrying the same note of authority that had chased Darcy through every stage of his youth. “When have you ever been late?”

Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “The election will not happen more slowly because I arrived ten minutes later than you expected.” His voice was clipped, sharper than usual, but he made no effort to soften it .

Lord Matlock finally looked up, his hooded eyes gleaming with both familial fondness and political calculation. “Ah, but appearances, Fitzwilliam. If you wish to be taken seriously, punctuality is not just a courtesy—it is a declaration of intent.”

Darcy sank into the chair opposite him, suppressing a sigh. He wanted to be anywhere but here, preferably seeing his sister off properly, ensuring she was settled and safe before embarking on whatever farce his uncle had planned. But Georgiana was likely halfway to Dartford by now, with only a hurried conversation in her room to serve as their parting. She had not even looked at him as he had spoken, her eyes fixed on the window, her answers monosyllabic at best. The memory of it sat heavily in his chest, mingling with his irritation.

“Then let us proceed,” he said tightly. “I assume you did not summon me here merely to chastise my keeping of time.”

The earl leaned back, steepling his fingers, clearly unbothered by Darcy’s sour mood. “The general election was just announced officially this morning, but Stanton’s allies are already moving.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to shift from thoughts of Georgiana to the looming political battle ahead. But the sting of unfinished business lingered, a bitter reminder of how little control he truly had over the course his life was now taking. “What is your plan?”

Lord Matlock’s smile was thin and calculating. “You will attend the Ashworths’ garden party tomorrow. There, you will make your first public declaration of candidacy. Not in a grand speech—that would be unseemly at a social event—but through strategic conversations. The right words whispered to the right people.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the correspondence on the table. “And you believe this will sway the undecided voters?”

“The ones who matter,” Matlock replied. “The gentry and landowners who control the local networks. These are the men you must charm.”

Darcy’s lip curled slightly at the word. Charm was not his preferred weapon. “And Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, though he already knew the answer.

Lord Matlock’s smile grew. “She will be by your side. A symbol of your connection to the people who desire change. The voters will see a man not entrenched in aristocratic tradition, but someone who values honesty, intelligence, and unpretentious alliances.”

Darcy resisted the urge to groan. “You believe a woman of no fortune and questionable reputation will bolster my political image? ”

The earl chuckled. “It is not about her fortune. It is about what she represents. You are a Darcy, Fitzwilliam. Your name carries enough gravitas. What you lack is approachability. Miss Bennet gives you that.”

Darcy clenched his jaw but said nothing. There was no arguing with his uncle when he set his mind to something. And perhaps, in some twisted logic, the earl was right. Elizabeth Bennet had a way of disarming even the most rigid of men—including himself.

By noon, Darcy found himself following his uncle up the steps of Matlock House, his discomfort growing with every tick of the ornate clock in the entry hall. The butler informed them of the arrival of Miss Bennet and the Gardiners some minutes earlier, and he could hear their voices drifting from the drawing room ahead of him.

Darcy smoothed the front of his coat, squaring his shoulders before stepping inside. His gaze immediately sought Elizabeth. She stood near the window, her posture composed, though he noticed the slight tension in her jaw—the same tension he had seen at their last meeting. Their eyes met briefly, and in that fleeting glance, Darcy saw the same mixture of reluctance and understanding reflected in her gaze. They both looked away almost at once.

Lord Matlock stepped forward, his expression warm but laced with the usual strategic calculation that colored all his interactions. “Miss Bennet, Mr. Gardiner, Mrs. Gardiner—thank you for joining us.”

Elizabeth curtsied, her chin lifted in what Darcy thought looked like polite defiance. “Thank you for the invitation, my lord.”

The earl gestured toward the table set for luncheon, and as they all settled into their seats, he wasted no time cutting to the heart of the matter.

“I assume you have heard the news by now,” Matlock began, his gaze sweeping over them all with measured precision. “Parliament has been dissolved. The election is imminent.”

Mr. Gardiner exchanged a glance with his wife, both clearly understanding the significance of the announcement, though it was Elizabeth who spoke first. “And what does this mean for Mr. Darcy? ”

His uncle’s smile was thin, almost predatory. “You toy with me, Miss Bennet, but if you intend to hear it spoken plainly, it means Mr. Darcy will be standing for Member of Parliament for Derbyshire.”

Darcy felt the weight of every eye in the room shift toward him. His gaze met Elizabeth’s, and though he had prepared himself for this moment, he felt an unwelcome pang of resignation as her eyes lingered on his, questioning, searching.

“And what does that mean for me? ” she asked quietly.

The earl’s smile deepened, as though he had been waiting for that very question. “It means you will be seen by his side. Beginning tomorrow, at Lady Ashworth’s garden party. There will be a handful of prominent Derbyshire men present, along with their wives, Miss Bennet—which is where you come in. The voters must see Mr. Darcy not only as a leader but as a man of the people—someone who understands their values and aspirations. But more than this—he must talk, as he is seldom wont to do. I trust you will be a valuable asset in this regard.”

Elizabeth’s brows rose, though Darcy could not tell whether it was amusement or irritation that caused it. Likely both. He fought the urge to roll his eyes in solidarity.

“I certainly seem to be capable of provoking him, though I do not know if that is the same thing. And you believe I represent those values you mean to appeal to?” she asked, her brow arching in polite skepticism.

“I believe you represent exactly what the voters need to see,” Matlock replied. “A woman of integrity and intelligence, not to mention a clever wit, unconnected to any whiff of an association with Stanton's circles.”

Darcy could feel his aunt, Lady Matlock, watching him from across the table, though he kept his gaze on Elizabeth. Her eyes met his again, and for a brief, unguarded moment, there was a flicker of shared dread—a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of their situation. But then, she nodded slowly, her posture relaxing just enough to signal reluctant acceptance.

“Very well,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft but resolute. “But if I am to play this role, Mr. Darcy, I expect you to tell me before I put my foot in it.”

Darcy inclined his head. “You have my word, Miss Bennet.”

Lord Matlock cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. “Now, to the matter of appearances. The garden party tomorrow will be your first joint public outing, but it will not be the last. You will be seen at assemblies, dinners, and public events. The goal is to present yourselves as a united, respectable pair. ”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “We are not courting, Uncle. I would prefer not to mislead anyone beyond what is necessary. Miss Bennet must still have a reputation when this is over.”

The earl waved a dismissive hand. “No one expects a proposal tomorrow, Fitzwilliam. But appearances matter. You will escort Miss Bennet. You will converse with her in public. And yes, you will likely dance with her, showing a marked preference for her company. Am I understood?”

Darcy’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth again, and he was startled to see the barest glint of amusement in her eyes. As if she relished the idea of seeing him squirm through a dance.

Before he could dwell on it, Elizabeth subtly lifted her hand from her lap, curling her fingers in a slight motion—a silent inquiry about the key she had shown him the previous afternoon. Darcy’s expression remained impassive, but he gave the slightest shake of his head. Now was not the time.

Across the room, he noticed Lady Matlock and Mrs. Gardiner watching them closely, their interest far less focused on the political strategy being laid out by the earl and far more on the unspoken exchanges passing between him and Elizabeth.

It was infuriating.

“As for your rhetoric,” Matlock continued, oblivious to—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the subtle shifts in the room, “you must address the voters’ concerns without appearing out of touch. The farmers may not have the vote, but their voices carry weight in their communities. They speak to the landowners, influence their opinions, and their unrest is contagious. You already hold their respect, Fitzwilliam—the Darcy name is synonymous with fair treatment and good stewardship. But it is the landowners you must win over.”

He paused, his sharp gaze locking onto Darcy. “The landowners are not fools. They see the cracks forming beneath the surface. They hear the grumblings of the tenant farmers, the whispers of discontent. What they fear is not losing their land but losing control—losing the order that has kept society intact. Stanton promises stability, but his methods stir the very chaos they dread. You will position yourself as the alternative: a man who understands the value of tradition but also recognizes the necessity of measured progress. You must convince them that you are the bulwark against radicalism without being another relic of the old guard. Show them that you respect their positions but are not beholden to the same narrow interests Stanton protects. If they see you as both approachable and reliable, they will follow. ”

Darcy absorbed his uncle’s words. This was no longer just about standing for Parliament—it was about walking the fine line between reform and tradition, between trust and authority. And somehow, his uncle thought Elizabeth Bennet was to be the key to that delicate balance.

Darcy exhaled sharply. “And how do you propose I convince them of that, beyond merely standing next to Miss Bennet?”

“That should be simple enough. You will speak of your work at Pemberley, your management of the estate, your support for local farmers. And you will appear as a man who values character over connections.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed slightly. “But will they not see through such a transparent display? People are not so easily manipulated.”

Darcy allowed himself a brief, admiring glance in her direction. Her skepticism mirrored his own.

Matlock chuckled, clearly amused. “You underestimate how much people want to believe in something, Miss Bennet. They want a story they can trust. You and Darcy will give them that story.”

The conversation rolled on, strategy layered upon strategy—luncheons with influential Derbyshire merchants currently in London, private dinners with landowners who had estates both in town and the country, and carefully orchestrated appearances at gatherings where Derbyshire’s voting elite were certain to be present. It was all about visibility, about presenting Darcy as both a pillar of tradition and a man attuned to the shifting needs of the county. Each detail felt like another iron clasp locking into place around Darcy’s autonomy, every polite nod from Elizabeth another link in the chain binding them together.

But even as Matlock outlined their future with surgical precision, Darcy’s eyes kept drifting toward Elizabeth. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the picture of composure, but the fire in her gaze betrayed her. She hated this. Hated being used, hated the manipulation. And yet, every time their eyes met, that same reluctant resolve flickered between them. They would play their parts.

For now.

“And remember,” Matlock finished, leaning back in his chair with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he controlled the board, “you are not just courting votes, Fitzwilliam. You are courting trust. And nothing sells trust like the promise of a respectable future—complete with a respectable wife. ”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Darcy felt Elizabeth’s gaze snap toward him, sharp and questioning, but he did not look back. Instead, he focused on the earl, his voice low and cold as steel.

“Let us hope, then,” Darcy said, rising from his chair, “that the voters are easier to court than the lady.”