Page 77 of Honor Requires

Lucien looked sharply at Darcy.

Darcy did not move. He did not speak. Miss Bennet. There could be no mistake. There could be no other.

Elizabeth.

For a brief instant, the careful structure he had built within himself threatened to fracture.

Married. The word settled like a stone that was both expected but somehow unendurable. Of course she had married. Of course, she had not remained as he had left her, suspended in memory while the world moved on.

How cruel fate is.

He inclined his head once, the motion precise. “I see.”

Lucien did not speak. For once, he seemed to understand that no words would be welcome.

Stone, unaware of the full importance of what he had said, went on, “The match is considered a good one, sir. The viscount’s wife is well regarded.”

Darcy’s voice, when it came, was entirely calm. “I have no doubt.” He turned away. “You have done well, Mr. Stone.”

Stone rose at once. “Thank you, sir.”

“You will continue as instructed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gibbs appeared as if summoned by the moment itself, and Stone was shown out with the same efficiency with which he had entered.

The door closed. Silence returned.

Lucien remained where he was, watching Darcy closely. “There may be other Miss Bennets of Hertfordshire, Darcy,” he said.

Darcy did not answer.

Instead, he moved toward the window, his gaze drawn—unbidden—to the street beyond.

Across the way, the doors of Matlock House stood open. A moment later, a figure emerged. A woman. She descended the steps with composure, two young boys at her side, their small hands clasped in hers.

Darcy’s breath stilled.

Elizabeth.

There could be no doubt now.

She turned as she reached the pavement, her expression softened by something gentle, something familiar. One of the boys spoke, tugging at her hand, and she bent toward him, her attention wholly engaged.

Darcy did not move.

Married.

The word echoed again—but now, faced with the sight before him, something in it rang…false.

He watched as she crossed the street, passing nearer to Ashcombe House, unaware of the eyes that followed her every step.

There was no husband at her side. No sign of one. Only Elizabeth. And the children.

Darcy’s hand tightened against the window frame. My cousin’s wife. Bramley has married my Elizabeth.

Nothing, he had said. As far as she is concerned, I am nothing.