Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

“I still do not understand why this could not have been a simple meeting over tea,” Elizabeth muttered, adjusting the long, fitted sleeves of her gown as the carriage jolted over a rut in the drive. “One gentleman at a time. Ask for his vote and go home.”

Across from her, Mr. Darcy raised a brow, his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the window. “Because appearances matter.”

Elizabeth sighed, smoothing the rich sapphire silk of her skirt as if it would relieve her jitters. “Appearances seem to be the only thing that matter.”

Darcy did not respond, but the slight tightening of his jaw spoke volumes.

The carriage rocked slightly as it rounded the final bend and Ashworth Manor come into full view. The sprawling estate was a study in ostentation, its towering facade bathed in the weak afternoon light, the manicured lawns stretching out like a green sea dotted with clusters of London’s elite. Guests in fine attire meandered through the gardens, their laughter and conversation floating on the crisp October air.

Elizabeth’s pulse thrummed beneath her stays, and she shifted uncomfortably. The gown—far more elaborate than anything she owned—felt like a costume. When her aunt’s maid had arrived with it earlier, Elizabeth had stared at the delicate silver embroidery, tracing the fine stitching with hesitant fingers. It was beautiful, yes, but entirely out of place for someone like her.

When she had questioned its sudden appearance, Mrs. Gardiner had only smiled, a cryptic gleam in her eye. “A little something to help you feel… prepared,” was all she had said.

Prepared . Elizabeth was not sure any gown, no matter how finely made, could prepare her for this.

But then Darcy had arrived to escort them.

He had barely stepped into the drawing room when his gaze flicked over her, lingering just long enough for her to notice the subtle shift in his expression—the faint surprise, followed by something that looked suspiciously like approval. Perhaps even appreciation. It had been fleeting, but enough to ease some of the discomfort curling in her stomach.

Now, as the carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, that same discomfort returned.

The footman swung open the door, and Darcy stepped out first with his usual composure. He turned to offer his hand, and Elizabeth hesitated for the briefest of moments before placing hers in his. The warmth of his palm seeped through the delicate fabric of her gloves, steadying her.

As her feet touched the ground, she tilted her head up to meet his gaze, once again finding that flicker of something—surprise, approval, perhaps even something softer—before his expression settled back into its familiar stoicism.

That fleeting look made the gown feel less like a costume and more like armor.

Behind her, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner descended from the carriage, and Elizabeth heard a faint gasp from her aunt. Mr. Gardiner adjusted his coat with a thoughtful glance toward the bustling gardens ahead, while Mrs. Gardiner gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile as they fell into step beside them.

“Shall we, Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice was low, steady, but there was a thread of something warmer beneath the formality.

Elizabeth nodded, drawing in a slow breath as they ascended the stone steps together, stepping into a world where every glance, every word, every movement would be scrutinized.

And for the first time since this charade began, she was grateful to have Mr. Darcy at her side.

“Do you often attend garden parties, Mr. Darcy?”

His gaze flicked to hers, dark and unflinching. “As seldom as possible.”

Elizabeth’s lips curled into a wry smile. “And yet, here you are.”

“Indeed.” He did not elaborate, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of reluctant amusement.

The gardens of Ashworth Manor stretched out before them, a riot of late-blooming roses and turning leaves, their colors muted under the pale October sun. It was an ambitious scheme—a garden party on the first of October, but the Ashworth manor, just outside the heart of London, seemed to be a testament to the triumph of Man versus Nature in the seasonal upheaval. Manicured flowerbeds bordered gravel paths, and wrought iron lanterns hung from tree branches, casting soft pools of light that would glow brighter as dusk approached. A string quartet played beneath a white silk pavilion, their delicate melody threading through the air like the faintest whisper of civility.

Elizabeth felt the searing heat of dozens of eyes as they crossed the lawn, the subtle turning of heads, the flicker of fans raised just a fraction too late to hide curious glances. Whispers buzzed at the edges of her hearing—speculation, no doubt, about her presence on Mr. Darcy’s arm. She forced her chin higher, her posture straight, but her pulse thrummed in her throat.

Darcy, by contrast, seemed utterly unbothered. His posture remained impeccable, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with the detached air of a man surveying a landscape rather than navigating a social minefield. His calmness should have annoyed her—after all, she was the subject of the whispers, not him—but instead, it grounded her. As much as his rigidity irked her, there was an undeniable comfort in his reliable presence.

“Darcy,” came a familiar voice to their left. Elizabeth turned to see Lord and Lady Matlock approaching. The earl wore his usual air of easy authority as he gestured to Darcy, while Lady Matlock’s gaze settled on Elizabeth.

“My dear Miss Bennet,” Lady Matlock said warmly, taking Elizabeth’s hand and squeezing it gently. “You look radiant.”

Elizabeth managed a polite smile, acutely aware of Darcy stiffening beside her. “Thank you, Lady Matlock. It is a beautiful afternoon.”

“And an important one,” Lord Matlock added, his gaze shifting to Darcy. “Many of Derbyshire’s key landowners are here today. It would be wise to make an impression.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly. “I will do what is necessary.”

The earl chuckled, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. “Good man. And I have support of my own to curate. We shall cross paths later, I am sure.”

As the Matlocks drifted away, Elizabeth turned to Darcy with a smirk. “It seems you are in high demand, Mr. Darcy.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Unfortunately.”

They began to circulate, and Darcy wasted no time steering them toward a group of men clustered near the reflecting pool, their conversations punctuated with low laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. As they navigated the edges of the crowd, a tall, broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered features approached them, his expression one of polite interest.

“Mr. Darcy?” the man greeted, extending a firm hand. “I was hoping to see you here this afternoon. ”

Darcy accepted the handshake with a nod. “Harcourt. I trust your family is well?”

Harcourt chuckled. “As well as one could hope.”

Darcy turned slightly toward Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, allow me to introduce Mr. William Harcourt, a respected landowner from Derbyshire. Harcourt, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.”

Elizabeth inclined her head politely, offering a warm smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harcourt.”

Harcourt returned the gesture with a curious but amiable expression. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Bennet. I have heard much about you.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I hope only good things, Mr. Harcourt.”

Harcourt chuckled. “Indeed. Your reputation precedes you. I believe half of London is speaking of little else this week but you and Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth arched a brow, her smile polite but tinged with amusement. “I hope London has more pressing matters to discuss.”

Harcourt chuckled. “Oh, indeed. But one must take diversions where one can find them, eh? However, I hear we are to have all manner of diversion before us, with an election called.” His eyes flicked back to Darcy. “Speaking of which, what think you, Darcy? Stanton is, of course, standing again.”

Darcy gave a measured nod, his expression neutral. “Stanton will make himself difficult to ignore.”

“That he will,” Harcourt agreed, adjusting his cuffs absently. “Though I wonder if all his promises are as grand as his speeches. There are those who think Derbyshire might soon look for… steadier leadership.”

Darcy’s arm flexed under Elizabeth’s fingers. She wondered if he even realized he was tensing. “Derbyshire has always valued stability.”

Harcourt hummed thoughtfully, his glance sliding between Darcy and Elizabeth. “Yes, but these are restless times. The prime minister's assassination fresh in everyone's memory, the Luddite uprisings, war with France, war with America… Familiar names offer comfort, but only if they bring something new to the table.” He smiled. “Of course, there is talk in certain circles of a fresh candidate—someone who understands both tradition and the winds of change.”

Darcy inclined his head, offering no further comment.

Elizabeth, sensing the layers beneath the conversation, interjected with a lightness that masked her curiosity. “It seems politics is never far from conversation these days. ”

Harcourt chuckled. “Ah, Miss Bennet, when livelihoods and land are at stake, it tends to dominate the conversation. But I shall not bore you with more of it today.” He gave a polite nod. “Mr. Darcy, Miss Bennet. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

As Harcourt moved off, Elizabeth turned to Darcy, her brow arched in quiet amusement. “You did not declare yourself outright.”

Darcy’s lips thinned, though his eyes flickered with something close to wry humor. “Patience, Miss Bennet, is a skill cultivated when one becomes accustomed to navigating expectations.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her smile lingering. “And yet, you reveal so little of your own.”

Darcy’s glance met hers, a flicker of acknowledgment passing between them. “That, Miss Bennet, is often the safest course.”

Darcy and Elizabeth moved through the crowd, each conversation unfolding like a dance. They spoke with landowners and influential figures—men whose votes would shape the future of the county. Most of their interactions were with Derbyshire men and their wives, but not all. Darcy seemed to know—or perhaps the earl had told him—which others to approach who held enough authority to endorse him and sway the actual voters. Elizabeth observed Darcy carefully; though his words were precise and deliberate, there was a subtle ease growing in him as he navigated these discussions.

One particular conversation with Mr. Ellsworth, a prominent Derbyshire landowner, shifted the entire tone of the gathering.

“I must admit, Mr. Darcy,” Ellsworth said, swirling the wine in his glass, “there are many of us who have wondered whether you intend to take a more active role in Derbyshire’s future. Matlock, of course, speaks highly of you, and he has hinted more than once… Well! You know, Stanton has been making promises left and right, and while we respect your family name, respect alone does not safeguard our interests.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Then let me remove any doubt. I will, indeed, be standing for Member of Parliament for Derbyshire.”

The words settled over the group like a sudden gust of wind. There was a beat of silence, followed by a murmur of reactions—some surprised, others intrigued.

“Indeed?” Ellsworth raised his eyebrows, exchanging glances with the men around him. “That is news, Mr. Darcy. What shall we tell those who ask after your politics? Are you, then, a man after your father’s likeness, or have you more… modern interests? ”

Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Tell them I value the integrity of our traditions, but I am not blind to the needs of the present. We are in unprecedented times. Derbyshire deserves a representative who will protect its interests without compromising its future.”

The men nodded thoughtfully, some more convinced than others, but the declaration had been made. The ripple effect was immediate.

As they moved from group to group, Elizabeth noticed how the tone of conversations shifted. Men began to approach Darcy with more pointed questions, probing his stance on local trade issues, land rights, and reforms. Meanwhile, several of the Derbyshire wives, their curiosity piqued by Darcy’s candidacy—and perhaps by Elizabeth herself—found reasons to pull her aside.

“I imagine this must all be rather dull,” Mrs. Linton, the wife of another landowner, said, linking her arm through Elizabeth’s as they strolled along the garden path. “Men talking of nothing but politics while we ladies are left to try to think of more interesting things to say.”

Elizabeth managed a polite smile. “Not at all, but perhaps I take a rather unladylike interest in politics. It is, after all, the means by which we find our security or seek to change prevailing winds.”

Mrs. Linton chuckled. “Brava, well spoken. Does Mr. Darcy, then, applaud your interest?”

“Oh, I daresay my interest in politics exceeds his own. I believe that speaks well of his character, do not you?”

“How so?”

“Why, he is not seeking office for the sake of power, Mrs. Linton. He is doing so for the good of his tenants, his neighbors, even his country. Mr. Darcy would have been content enough with his estate, to be left alone, but too many others depended upon him to do more. He saw a need and knew he was the best man to meet it.”

That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Linton, who exchanged a knowing glance with another lady before veering off to join her husband. As Elizabeth attempted to make her way back through the crowd, she found herself intercepted by another pair of Derbyshire matrons. Introducing themselves as Mrs. Selby and Mrs. Worthington, their wide-brimmed hats cast shadows over eyes that gleamed with curiosity.

“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Selby began, her voice warm but colored with the unmistakable tone of someone fishing for gossip. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I have heard much about your… association with Mr. Darcy. ”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, keeping her expression neutral. “I daresay most of what is said should be taken with a grain of salt, Mrs. Selby.”

Mrs. Worthington gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, my dear, London thrives on more than just salt. It thrives on speculation.”

Elizabeth smiled politely. “I find speculation far less nourishing than truth.”

The two women exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the dance of words. “And the truth, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Selby pressed, leaning in slightly. “Might it include a forthcoming betrothal? You have been seen with him rather often of late.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. “I assure you, there is no such understanding between Mr. Darcy and myself.”

Mrs. Worthington waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, nonsense, my dear. These things are always so delicate at first. But a man like Mr. Darcy does not parade a lady about without intentions. Particularly not at such a time as now ,” she added meaningfully.

Elizabeth forced a light laugh, though her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. “Then perhaps Mr. Darcy enjoys defying expectations.”

The women chuckled, as though she had confirmed exactly what they wished to believe. Before they could press further, a voice interrupted from behind, each word clipped with perfect enunciation. “It seems one can scarcely step into a garden without stumbling over ladies of… obscure connections.”

Elizabeth turned toward the voice, her eyes landing on a young woman flanked by two others, all three adorned in gowns that whispered of the latest Parisian fashions. The speaker’s posture was impeccably straight, her chin tilted at just the right angle to suggest superiority without overt arrogance.

“How unfortunate,” the young woman continued, murmuring to one of her companions. “Miss Bennet, I believe we have not been introduced.”

A subtle, practiced laugh rippled through her companions, their eyes gleaming with amusement.

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, allowing a faint, polite smile to curve her lips. “Have we not? I had thought I met nearly everyone of significance this afternoon.”

The slightest flicker passed through the young woman’s eyes—just enough for Elizabeth to know her remark had struck home.

“I am Miss Penelope Ashworth,” the young woman replied, her smile tightening. “My family owns this estate. ”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, her expression the perfect picture of polite interest. “Ah, then I must thank you for such a lovely afternoon. Your gardens are quite… modest compared to what I had heard, but charming nonetheless.”

Miss Ashworth’s cheeks flushed and her eyes glittered dangerously, but before she could retort, Mrs. Selby hastened to smooth over the slight, her voice a little too cheerful.

“Miss Ashworth, Miss Bennet has only recently joined us from Hertfordshire. I imagine such grand estates as yours might be somewhat… unfamiliar to her.”

Elizabeth’s smile did not waver. “On the contrary, Mrs. Selby. I have seen many beautiful homes in the countryside. It is refreshing to see how different the London approach to taste can be.”

The implication hung in the air, subtle but undeniable. Miss Ashworth’s companions exchanged glances, their expressions flickering between amusement and thinly veiled disdain. But Elizabeth remained perfectly composed, as if blissfully unaware of any undercurrent at all.

Miss Ashworth’s brittle laugh followed a beat too late. “Indeed. The countryside often fosters a simpler perspective. But London offers experiences that are not easily replicated in smaller circles.“ She paused, her eyes glittering with a new sharpness. “Of course, some gentlemen are prone to fleeting fascinations. Mr. Darcy, for instance, showed me particular attentions last season. But“—she glanced at one of her friends with an airy chuckle—”one finds more engaging company as the seasons progress.”

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, her expression innocent. “How fortunate for you, Miss Ashworth. I heartily wish you better amusements this season—and the next as well—than you found in the last.”

The words, though spoken sweetly, landed with precision. Miss Ashworth’s companions stiffened, their amusement fading into awkward silence.

Penelope Ashworth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but Elizabeth offered no further opening. Instead, she curtsied. “It has been a pleasure, ladies. If you will excuse me, I believe Mr. Darcy is waiting.” And with that, she turned, leaving Miss Ashworth and her companions standing stiffly among the roses, their perfectly rehearsed smiles now brittle as frost.

“Well, I must say, Miss Bennet, you certainly have a way with words. No wonder Mr. Darcy finds your company so… refreshing.”

Elizabeth turned sharply and found Mrs. Selby following close at her elbow. She blinked, momentarily startled by the woman’s sudden appearance at her side. Mrs. Selby’s eyes sparkled with something that could only be described as admiration, her smile genuine in a way that felt rare in such company.

“I find honesty often does the work for me, Mrs. Selby,” Elizabeth replied, her lips curving into a wry smile. “Though I am not certain it always earns me friends.”

“Oh, do not be modest, my dear,” Mrs. Selby chuckled, linking her arm with Elizabeth’s as they strolled along the garden path. “London society could use a bit more plain speaking, if you ask me. These girls“—she waved a dismissive hand toward the shrinking figures of Miss Ashworth and her companions— “think themselves the height of sophistication, but half of them would wilt under a true conversation.”

Elizabeth’s laughter bubbled up, light and unrestrained. She glanced sidelong at Mrs. Selby, feeling an unexpected warmth at the older woman’s easy camaraderie.

“I shall try not to wilt, then,” Elizabeth teased, squeezing Mrs. Selby’s arm gently before releasing it. “But I fear if I linger too long, Mr. Darcy may think I have abandoned him entirely.”

Mrs. Selby chuckled again, her gaze darting toward where Darcy stood, deep in conversation with a cluster of Derbyshire landowners. “I daresay he looks a bit adrift without you, Miss Bennet. Best not keep him waiting.”

With a final smile, Elizabeth dipped her head in farewell and began weaving her way back through the crowd, her steps lighter, the sting of earlier barbs fading into the autumn air. As she neared him, she caught sight of Miles Stanton standing a few paces away, his stance casual, his voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear.

“Yes, Darcy’s announcement is all very well,” Stanton was saying to a cluster of gathered gentlemen. “But one must wonder if he understands the pulse of the people. Aristocratic airs do not translate to effective leadership. Nor do they replace experience. And aligning himself with… certain company?” His gaze drifted, unmistakably, toward Elizabeth. “It makes one question his judgment.”

Elizabeth felt the heat rise in her chest, but she forced herself to keep her expression composed. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them with deliberate grace.

“Mr. Stanton,” she said, her tone light but clear enough to draw attention. “It is always fascinating to hear how quickly some can judge a man’s character based on who stands beside him. I would think a true leader is known not by whom he avoids, but by whom he dares to trust.”

The group fell silent, all eyes shifting between Stanton and Elizabeth .

Stanton’s smile faltered for a brief, satisfying moment. But he recovered quickly, tipping his hat with mock civility. “Miss Bennet,” he murmured. “Your eloquence is as sharp as ever. Far be it from me to have words with a lady.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. When she glanced at Darcy, she expected to see disapproval. Instead, his brow was creased, his head tilted in wonder or bemusement, but there was a glint in his eyes—whether of admiration or astonishment, she could not tell.

“You should not have provoked him,” Darcy said quietly as they resumed walking.

Elizabeth arched a brow. “I rather think he provoked himself.”

For the first time that day, Darcy’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smile appearing. “Be that as it may, I believe you handled it better than I would have.”