Raising the Stakes Launch and Giveaway

Well, here we are at the end of February, and I am happy to wave goodbye to this month! My town has been experiencing hurricane warnings, flooding, power outages… all par for the course for late winter/early spring in our area, but I’m happy to be putting it behind us. Just 3 more weeks and we turn the corner on having more daylight hours than dark! Yes… I’m counting it down.

Meanwhile, I have a fun romp to brighten your late winter blues! What would happen if Darcy was strong-armed into throwing his hat in the ring for Parliament? Very much against his will, I might add. And what would happen if, in order to make himself appealing to certain voters, he needed to find a fiancee who was not connected to certain circles? Fast?

The Earl of Matlock takes a hand and Darcy and Elizabeth are at their exasperated, witty, swoony best. I had fun writing the banter in this one and letting them naturally grow into an unstoppable team. I have a preview for you from Chapter 10, where they finally decide they have no choice but to become unhappy allies in this charade.

I will be giving away two copies to random winners! Winners will be announced on Monday, March 3.  And I must apologize in advance, because I will be away from my computer today, tomorrow, and all weekend. I am afraid I may not be able to reply to comments immediately, but I will definitely respond by Monday if not sooner!

Stick around for pre-order details and don’t forget to comment to enter the giveaway!

Excerpt from Chapter 10

The morning had been quiet—deliciously so.

Elizabeth had woken late, grateful for the absence of any immediate obligations. No grand parties. No whispered gossip. No encounters with arrogant gentlemen. Just a book, a warm breeze from the open window, and the relative peace of her uncle’s townhouse. She was still curled up in the parlor, comfortably absorbed in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, when Wilson, her uncle’s manservant entered and shattered her illusions of tranquility.

“Mr. Darcy is here to call, miss.”

The words slammed into her like a bucket of cold water. She sat bolt upright, barely managing not to drop the book. “Mr. Darcy?”

The manservant’s face remained impassive. “Yes, miss. He is in the front hall.”

No. Absolutely not.

Elizabeth snapped the book shut and resisted the urge to throw it across the room. There had been no indication, no warning—nothing to suggest that she might be forced to endure another round of the earl’s meddling this morning. What was Darcy doing here?

More importantly, what was she supposed to do about it?

She stole a glance toward her aunt, who had been sewing with Miss Fletcher by the window. Mrs. Gardiner had paused mid-stitch, her needle hovering over the fabric. “Ah,” she said lightly, setting the embroidery aside. “That is unexpected.”

“You could say that. Tell him I am indisposed.”

“I am afraid it is too late, my dear. No doubt, he heard Wilson addressing you from the hall.”

Elizabeth groaned as she rose to her feet. There was no way out of this. The rules of civility demanded she receive him. And the rules of war demanded she prepare herself for the battle ahead.

She smoothed her gown, squared her shoulders, and nodded to the manservant. “Very well. Show him in.”

Darcy entered with the same stiff, self-important air he had carried at Matlock House. Rigid posture. Measured steps. Expression carved from stone. Elizabeth could tell immediately that he was just as displeased about being here as she was.

Good, she thought dryly. At least we are both suffering.

He bowed formally. “Miss Bennet.” He then turned his head, as if surprised to see anyone else in the room with her. “Mrs. Gardiner, and…?”

She curtsied, keeping her expression as bland as she possibly could. “Mr. Darcy. This is my aunt’s companion, Miss Anne Fletcher. Miss Fletcher? Mr. Darcy of… forgive me, where were you from, again?”

Elizabeth could not have been more pleased to see the faint flicker of annoyance at her intentional ignorance. He cleared his throat. “Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

A silence stretched between them, long enough to be noticeable, short enough to remain just within the bounds of politeness. Elizabeth resisted the temptation to glance toward her aunt and Miss Fletcher. The latter was watching them with frank curiosity, while Mrs. Gardiner’s expression was carefully neutral.

They were enjoying this, Elizabeth realized sourly.

Finally, Darcy cleared his throat. “I trust you are well.”

Elizabeth smiled—a sharp, insincere thing. “Oh yes, perfectly so. And you, sir?”

His jaw flexed. “Well enough.”

Another pause.

It was remarkable how a man so intelligent could be so utterly incapable of basic conversation.

Elizabeth folded her hands and arched a brow. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Mr. Darcy?”

His mouth pressed into a firm line, as though he had been hoping to avoid that question entirely. After a long, reluctant moment, he admitted, “My uncle… suggested I call.”

Suggested.

A direct statement. No embellishments, no pleasantries—just the blunt, miserable truth.

Elizabeth tilted her head. “And did you wish to call on me, Mr. Darcy?”

There was a half-second hesitation—so small that a lesser observer might not have caught it. Then, with his usual honesty, he said, “I… cannot say I desired it.”

Elizabeth laughed. She could not help it. “How refreshingly frank of you.”

His jaw tightened. “I thought you might prefer honesty.”

“Oh, I do. It is just that one seldom hears a gentleman admit to such reluctance.”

“Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.”

Elizabeth blinked. And then smiled. “Then by all means, Mr. Darcy, say what you came to say.”

Darcy had spent the entire carriage ride to the Gardiners’ residence mentally composing a list of people he would rather be meeting today. A tax collector. A dentist. A French spy with a loaded pistol.

Yet here he was.

Dragged into a courtship that was not a courtship, chasing an election he did not want, in service of a cause he had not volunteered for. And now he was standing stiffly in a merchant’s parlor, awaiting an audience with a woman he had vowed to avoid.

The moment his gaze fell on Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he knew his day was not about to improve.

She was, in all ways, exactly as he remembered—opinionated, quick-witted, her countenance betraying only as much civility as politeness required. She liked him as little as he liked her, and she seemed determined to make that plain. She greeted him correctly but without warmth, her chin high, her posture poised.

The expected pleasantries were exchanged—bows, curtsies, stiff smiles that did not reach the eyes. She spoke with respectable composure, and Darcy responded in kind, though every word felt like dragging a boulder uphill.

It was all perfectly civil. And yet, somehow, excruciating.

Her eyes—sharp, assessing, entirely too amused—lingered on him a moment too long, as though she were waiting for him to trip over himself. Darcy, already irritated by the necessity of this visit, had no intention of indulging her.

Darcy’s eyes flickered toward Mrs. Gardiner, who was clearly listening with great interest, and then back to Elizabeth. “It seems that that certain appearances must be upheld.”

“Oh, naturally. There is nothing so important as appearances.”

Darcy’s pulse jumped unexpectedly. She was laughing at him, of course she was, but… he found himself momentarily distracted by the sarcastic glint in her eye—it was as if she were mirroring his own feelings back to him. His gaze flickered over her before he could stop himself.

Her posture was poised, but not in the way of the women he was accustomed to in London. There was no artifice in it, no deliberate arrangement of hands and shoulders meant to best display her charms. She carried herself with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the world to challenge her—and fully prepared to meet it when it did.

Her eyes—too perceptive for his comfort—were not those of a woman flattered by his presence. If anything, she looked as though she were studying him, weighing him as a sparring partner, already preparing her next remark. Not for the pleasure of the conversation, but for the sport of it.

There was nothing meek or hesitant about Elizabeth Bennet. No careful smiles, no lowered gaze, no pretense of sweet compliance. She faced him with the same unflinching boldness as before, as if she had already determined that whatever game they were playing, she would not lose.

She was, objectively, not the sort of woman a man in his position would entertain as a possible match.

And yet, when the light caught her eyes just so, he could not look away.

Good Heavens, what was he doing?

Elizabeth was watching him closely, clearly pleased to have rattled him.

Darcy took a measured breath. Time to steer this conversation back on course. “I am here,” he repeated in a clipped voice, “because my uncle wishes it.”

Her brow arched. “Does he? And do you do everything your uncle wishes?”

Darcy exhaled slowly, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. “He believes it would be… advantageous for us to be seen together.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Seen together in what capacity, exactly? What is your intention, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy hesitated for half a breath—just long enough for her to pounce.

Her smirk was slow, deliberate. “As prospective lovers?”

Darcy’s fingers curled into his palm. The way she said “lovers” sent an unwelcome heat crawling up the back of his neck. Of all the words she could have chosen.

He did not trust himself to speak immediately, lest he say something truly regrettable. So he simply leveled her with his most unamused glare. “That, I believe, is what my uncle would like.”

She tilted her head, assessing him. But before she could fire off another impertinence, Mrs. Gardiner cleared her throat. “Well then,” she said, gesturing to her companion, “I suppose we shall leave you two to discuss… whatever it is one discusses in these situations.”

Darcy blinked. What?

Elizabeth whipped her head around so fast that the loose tendril bounced against her cheek. “Aunt—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Gardiner interrupted. “I am certain you and Mr. Darcy will wish to come to an understanding in private.”

Elizabeth’s entire face turned scarlet.

It was not that he had never seen a woman blush before, but there was something genuinely unaffected about Miss Bennet’s reaction—not coy, not calculated, just pure, honest mortification.

And, blast him, but he thought it suited her.

She gaped at her aunt, clearly horrified. “That is entirely unnecessary!”

But Mrs. Gardiner was already rising, a pleased little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Come, Miss Fletcher. I believe we can grant Mr. Darcy and my niece a quarter-hour audience without impropriety.” Miss Fletcher followed, her gaze sliding between Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet as though already taking mental notes for a wedding trousseau.

Darcy forced himself not to sigh.

Truly, he had walked into an ambush.

Elizabeth Bennet drew in a sharp breath, clearly gathering herself. Then, after a moment, she turned back to him, and her embarrassment vanished as quickly as it had come. Her expression was clear, focused. A challenge.

“Well then, Mr. Darcy,” she said coolly as she lowered herself into the nearest chair. “Shall we begin?”

Darcy exhaled slowly.

Heaven help him.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us.”

“Shall we speak plainly, Mr. Darcy?”

His dark brows lifted slightly, as if mildly impressed by her directness. “I would not object.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You have no wish for an engagement.”

“None,” he said, without hesitation.

“And I have no wish for one either.”

He inclined his head slightly, a flicker of something like relief passing over his features.

“Yet here we are,” she continued, tilting her head. “My uncle has been led to believe that you came to court me. Your uncle is rather determined to see it so. And from where I sit, you do not seem entirely free to contradict him.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “That does seem to be the case.”

Elizabeth studied him, her thoughts turning over every possible escape route, every means of untangling herself from this absurd scheme before it became something unmanageable.

But there were too many moving pieces.

Too many unknowns.

And Darcy himself was one of them.

“Then tell me—what do you propose?”

Darcy did not answer immediately. He only watched her, his brooding stare almost murky in its depths.

It should have made her uncomfortable—perhaps it did, a little—but Elizabeth refused to break the silence first. She had seen enough of men like him to know that they expected ladies to fidget under their scrutiny, to lower their gaze, to grow uneasy and fill the quiet with nervous chatter.

So she met his gaze steadily, waiting.

“I do not believe either of us is in a position to dictate terms,” he said, his expression dark. “But I do know this—my uncle is not a man who lets go of an idea once he has set his mind to it.”

Elizabeth hummed. “So I gathered.”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a hard line. “If we fight this openly, we will both find ourselves without allies.”

“And if we do not fight it at all?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. Clearly, he had already considered that very thing. And disliked the answer.

“We…” He cleared his throat. “Well, you are not ignorant, Miss Bennet. Our options are few.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. “That may be true for me, Mr. Darcy, but I find it rather difficult to believe it is true for you.”

His brows knit together slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are a man of considerable fortune, from one of the most influential families in the country. You have connections in Parliament, in the courts, in every respectable drawing room from here to… to Scotland, probably.” She waved a hand vaguely. “And I am a country gentleman’s daughter with a merchant uncle and four sisters, most of whom—if I am honest—are hardly a credit to me. What, precisely, do you stand to lose?”

Darcy exhaled slowly, as if debating how much he should tell her. His expression remained guarded, but she caught the faintest flicker of something else—irritation, perhaps, or reluctant acknowledgement.

“My uncle’s political aspirations do not begin and end with me,” he admitted at last. “This election is about more than my own standing—it is about influence, legacy, and ensuring the right man holds power in Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes slightly. “And you believe you are that man?”

Darcy’s shoulders stiffened. “I did not say that.”

She arched a brow. “But Lord Matlock does.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. That, it seemed, was the heart of the matter.

Elizabeth exhaled, tapping a finger against her armrest. “So, your uncle seeks to entangle us for his own ends, but that still does not explain why you have not walked away.”

Darcy’s voice had a brittle edge to it. “Because I am beginning to suspect that walking away is not an option.”

Elizabeth regarded him a moment longer. She had never thought much about the limitations of men like him—men of power, of fortune, of influence. She had assumed they did as they pleased, married whom they pleased, moved through the world unencumbered by practical constraints. But perhaps even a man like Mr. Darcy could find himself trapped by expectations.

The thought was unsettling.

And, perhaps, a little satisfying.

Still, she could not let him off so easily. “You must forgive me,” she said lightly, “if I find it difficult to believe that you—of all people—are truly trapped.”

Darcy’s expression darkened. “Then you understand me even less than I thought.”

“Or you are simply more interesting than I initially gave you credit for.”

His brows lowered together, but then, curiously, one of them arched. He cleared his throat. “I believe we have both made our respective desires known, but I fear they have little to do with reality.”

Elizabeth sat back, her fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “And I must ask again,” she murmured, “are we to uphold appearances as prospective lovers, or merely as reluctant conspirators?”

Darcy’s entire frame stiffened.

The word “lovers” had made his discomfort excruciatingly obvious the first time, and she saw, with no small amount of satisfaction, that a repetition of that same word made his shoulders square in immediate resistance.

His lips thinned dangerously. “The latter, I assure you.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

“Good,” she said. “Then we are agreed.”

Raising the Stakes comes out on Friday, the 28, so if you preordered, watch your Kindle! Also available in KU.