Page 147 of Honor Requires

Elizabeth felt a sense of relief stir within her. “Then it will be done,” she said. Until that moment, she had not fully understood how much she feared the effect these events might have upon him. He had suffered too greatly, and with too much cause, not to be tempted by bitterness. Even now, when justice lay within his reach, he had chosen restraint over retaliation. The decision confirmed what she had always believed: that whatever had been done to him, the essential goodness of his character remained untouched.

“Yes.”

She hesitated. “Then all that remains is—”

“Wickham,” Richard finished.

The name settled heavily between them. Elizabeth’s expression grew thoughtful. “He spoke of him.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he does not know what to do,” she replied. “Part of him would punish his old friend. The other—” She paused. “The other remembers what they once were to one another.”

Richard’s mouth tightened. “Yes. That is the difficulty.”

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her gaze lowering.

Wickham… She recalled the man she had seen at Darcy House, the unevenness of his manner, the strain that lay beneath his careless speech. He is not untouched by what he has done. That much is plain. “He is not beyond remorse,” she said slowly.

Richard looked at her. “Perhaps not.”

“And if he is not—”

“Darcy may not care,” Richard said bluntly.

Elizabeth met his gaze. “He must care. He said as much himself.”

Richard was silent for an instant before he spoke. “I am not certain I can prevent him from acting.” He shrugged. The words were spoken without drama, but they carried a gravity that Elizabeth felt at once.

“He was wronged,” Richard acknowledged, “in a manner few men could endure. He has held to that for years. The hope of justice has sustained him. To ask him now to relinquish it entirely—” He shook his head. “It may be more than he can do.”

Elizabeth felt a tightening in her chest. No…he said he would not lose himself. He said he is tethered—

“He will not lose himself,” she said, more firmly than she felt.

Richard regarded her steadily. “I hope you are right.”

She rose then, unable to remain seated beneath the pressure of the conversation. She moved toward the window, her gaze drifting outward though she did not truly see what lay beyond.

“I will speak to him,” she said.

Richard stood as well. “You may succeed where I cannot.”

Elizabeth turned back toward him, her expression resolute despite the uncertainty that lingered beneath it. “I must,” she said. I have him back. I will not lose him again—not to vengeance, not to grief, not to the past.

Richard inclined his head. “Then we shall hope that mercy prevails.”

Elizabeth drew a breath, fortifying herself. “Yes,” she said. “We shall.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Over the next fortnight, Darcy found himself returning to Matlock House with a regularity that would, under other circumstances, have invited remark. As it was, the visits of the Count of Vendicarsi were sufficiently desired within the ton that no one thought to question the frequency of his attentions. Invitations were extended freely, and his presence was received with a mixture of curiosity and admiration that allowed him to come and go with ease.

It was not society that drew him there. Each call, each hour spent in Elizabeth’s company, seemed to restore some portion of himself that had long lain dormant. What had begun in caution deepened with surprising rapidity into something steady and assured, the years of separation having distilled their attachment to its truest form rather than diminishing it. There was no need for pretense between them now, no careful negotiation of feeling. They understood one another with a clarity that rendered unnecessary the artifices of polite courtship.

They walked often in the gardens.

The early signs of spring had long since given way to fuller expression, the grounds of Matlock House growing more vivid with each passing day. The hedges softened with new growth, the beds brightened with blossoms that opened one by one, and the air itself seemed to carry a warmth that had been absent only weeks before. Elizabeth took pleasure in pointing out the smallest changes, noting the progress of each bloom like a shared triumph. Darcy listened, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with attentiveness, but always with the sense that such moments held greater consequence than they might outwardly appear.