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 asnow,” 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.
