Page 71 of Honor Requires

The smooth curve of it rested beneath her fingers, cool and familiar.

Darcy. The name rose within her, as it always did in moments of uncertainty.

What would you make of this? she thought. What would you see that I do not?

There was no answer. There had not been for almost seven years. She found herself wishing, with a sudden and almost painful intensity—That he was there to give one.

The fire crackled. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant, her thoughts unsettled.

Beyond the walls of the house, London moved as it always had—unaware, indifferent, unchanged.

Chapter Fifteen

Darcy entered Ashcombe House with a steadiness of step that bore no resemblance to the tumult within him. The door closed behind him, the efficiency of his household proceeding as it ought—coat taken, gloves received, a murmur of greeting offered and answered—he scarcely marked any of it. His mind remained fixed upon the moment in the park, replaying it with a precision that bordered upon compulsion.

It had been her.

He was as certain of it now as he had been in the instant their gazes met the day before, though at the time he had denied it with a swiftness born of long habit. The almost seven years had taught him to distrust such impressions, to guard against the treachery of memory that would conjure her likeness where none existed. This had not been his imagination. It had not been a passing resemblance or a trick of the light.

It had been Elizabeth.

He crossed the hall without pausing, his expression relaxed, though his thoughts moved with uncommon force. What was she doing in Town? The question pressed itself forward with unwelcome urgency. Had she come for the Season? Had she married? The latter seemed most probable. Nearly seven years was no short span, and Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth—had not been a woman to remain unnoticed. Some gentleman, no doubt, had secured her hand, had claimed the place that—

He cut the thought short with something like irritation and pushed open the door to the drawing room.

Lucien sat at ease in a low chair near the fire, one leg extended, his booted foot resting with casual irreverence upon a small stool. A glass of wine was balanced with careless precision in his hand, and he looked, at that moment, the very picture of indolent comfort. He glanced up as Darcy entered, his expression shifting at once to one of easy interest.

“You return like a man pursued,” Lucien observed, his tone light. “Or like one who has seen something he did not expect.”

Darcy made a sound that might have served for acknowledgment and moved further into the room. He did not immediately reply, instead crossing to the mantel and resting one hand lightly upon it, his gaze fixed upon the fire though he did not see it.

Lucien watched him closely, his interest sharpening. “That is not the manner of a man who has merely taken the air,” he observed. “What has occurred?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “I saw her.”

Lucien’s posture altered at once. His foot dropped from the stool, and he leaned forward, all indolence vanishing in an instant. “Elizabeth?”

Darcy inclined his head.

“You are certain?” Lucien demanded. “Certain, Darcy—not merely hopeful? You thought you saw her the other day.”

“I do not mistake her,” Darcy said, his voice low but firm.

Lucien set aside his glass without further thought. “And you did not speak to her?”

Darcy turned then, fixing him with a look that held a measure of impatience. “Of course I did not.”

Lucien’s brows rose. “Of course, you did not,” he repeated, though there was a note of disbelief in his tone. “You encounter the woman you have not ceased to speak of in close to seven years, and you did—what?—incline your head and pass on?”

Darcy’s expression hardened. “I did not even do that. The moment was brief, and I had no intention of prolonging it.”

“You had no intention—” Lucien broke off, studying him with renewed intensity. “Why?”

Darcy turned away again, his jaw tightening. “Because she is not mine to address.”

Lucien was silent for a beat. “You assume much.”

“I assume what is reasonable,” Darcy returned. “So many years have passed. She is no longer the young woman I left in Ramsgate. She is—” He paused, the words settling with unwelcome gravity. “—very likely married.”