Page 140 of Honor Requires

“Precisely.”

“And Pemberley?”

Hargrave’s gaze sharpened. “In time, the property itself may be brought within reach. A purchase, properly arranged, at a figure far below its true value. Circumstances have a way of…compelling agreement.”

Langford inclined his head. “They do.”

Hargrave allowed himself the faintest suggestion of satisfaction. “Then we are agreed.”

Langford met his gaze. “We are.”

There was nothing further to be said. The course had been set.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The morning had passed in a stillness that Elizabeth could not quite name as peaceful. There was a restlessness beneath it, a subtle unease that seemed to follow her from room to room, settling most insistently whenever she allowed her thoughts to linger. She had risen later than usual, the remnants of the previous evening’s agitation still clinging to her, and though she had dressed with her customary care, there was little in her outward composure to suggest the tumult beneath.

She sat now in the Matlock House parlor with Jane, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her attention divided between her sister’s pleasant conversation and the constant, unspoken expectation that Richard would call. He had promised it. His note the previous evening had left no doubt that he intended to speak plainly, and Elizabeth, though she had attempted to calm her mind, found herself anticipating that conversation with a mixture of hope and dread.

Jane, unaware of the full extent of her thoughts, spoke lightly of household matters, of the children, of a forthcoming invitation that required a reply. Elizabeth answered where she must, smiled when expected, and her gaze drifted often toward the door, willing it silently to open.

It did not. Instead, the butler appeared. “The Count of Vendicarsi.”

Elizabeth’s heart faltered. She did not move at first. It was Jane who rose with ready warmth, her expression brightening with unmistakable pleasure.

“How very kind,” she said. “Pray, show him in.”

Elizabeth stood then, though she could not have said whether the movement was voluntary or compelled by habit. Her breath came more shallowly than usual, and she clasped her hands together to steady them.

He entered with the composed dignity that had become so familiar. His bow was impeccable and his demeanor beyond reproach; even so, Elizabeth perceived something beneath it all that would have escaped the notice of everyone else present. It lay not in his bearing, nor in his speech, but in the very stillness he imposed upon himself, every movement governed by a restraint he dared not relax.

“Lady Bramley,” he said, addressing Jane with proper courtesy. “Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “My lord.” Her voice did not betray her.

Jane welcomed him with ease, inviting him to sit, expressing her pleasure at his call, and within moments the conversation took on the shape of polite society. Matters of no consequence were discussed with suitable attention. The weather, a recent musicale, the increasing animation of the ton as the season advanced. Elizabeth listened, spoke when required, and watched him.

His gaze avoided hers more often than he met it. There was hesitation before he responded to a question that might once have been answered with greater ease. He maintained a careful distance, as though proximity itself were a danger.

Richard had not yet come. Whatever had passed between him and Darcy—between him and the Count—remained unknown. However, Elizabeth sensed, with an unexplainable conviction, a subtle alteration.

The conversation lasted for several minutes more before Darcy rose.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, turning toward her with deliberate calm, “might I have the honor of your company for a turn in the gardens?”

Jane glanced between them with a pleased expression. “A most agreeable notion. The morning is too fine to be wasted indoors.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I shall be happy to attend you, sir.” There was nothing in her tone to betray the sudden quickening of her pulse.

They did not speak as they gathered their things. Elizabeth took up her shawl with unshaking hands, though she was conscious of the tremor she could not entirely suppress. Darcy waited with a patience that seemed almost rigid, and together they left the room and made their way toward the gardens.

The air beyond the house was cool and fresh for spring. The gardens at Matlock House extended in careful order, their design a balance of structure and natural grace. Gravel paths wound between beds of early blooms, their colors subdued but growing more vibrant with each passing day. The hedges stood neatly trimmed, forming boundaries that offered both privacy and seclusion, while taller trees cast shadows across the lawn.

They walked side by side. For a time, neither spoke.

She should speak.

She did not.