Page 78 of Honor Requires

What a liar he was, even to himself.

The rooms at Lady Sefton’s were already filled when Darcy and Lucien arrived, the hum of conversation rising in a steady, cultivated murmur that spoke of consequence and expectation in equal measure. Light from a hundred candles reflected in polished mirrors and gleaming surfaces, lending the entire assembly an air of warmth that did little to ease the careful scrutiny with which each new arrival was received.

Darcy descended from the carriage with precision, his countenance settled into the expression he had cultivated—calm, reserved, faintly removed. At his side, Lucien adjusted his cuffs with an ease that bordered upon indifference, though Darcy knew well enough that nothing escaped his notice.

“Remember,” Lucien murmured as they approached the entrance, his tone light but not without meaning, “you are a man of rank and leisure. You have no reason to look as though you are about to face a tribunal.”

Darcy did not look at him. “I require no reminder. Do you?”

Lucien smiled faintly. “No. But I thought to offer one nonetheless.”

They were announced without delay.

“Count Vendicarsi… Mr. Dantès.”

Lady Sefton received them near the entrance to the principal rooms, her manner gracious, her eye discerning. She regarded Darcy with interest that was neither excessive nor indifferent, and inclined her head with polished civility.

“Count Vendicarsi,” she said. “We are honored by your presence.”

Darcy bowed, careful to temper his speech with the faintest trace of foreign inflection—enough to satisfy expectation, not so much as to invite scrutiny. “The honor is mine, Lady Sefton. Your reputation precedes you.”

She smiled, evidently pleased. “You are most kind. And your brother?”

Lucien stepped forward with easy charm. “At your service, madam.”

“Delighted,” Lady Sefton returned. “You must allow me to present my cousin—Miss Halstead.”

A young lady was brought forward, her expression composed though touched with curiosity. Darcy inclined his head.

“Miss Halstead.”

She curtsied. “Sir.”

Darcy did not linger. “Might I have the honor of your second set?” he asked. Might as well get this obligation over with, and please my hostess at the same time.

The smile broadened into a grin. “You may.”

“Then I shall look forward to it,” he said, before withdrawing with the appropriate degree of deference.

He and Lucien moved into the ballroom.

The space was expansive, elegantly arranged, and already well occupied. Music swelled from the musicians’ gallery, the first set underway, while clusters of guests stood in conversation along the edges of the room.

Darcy had not taken more than a few steps before he felt it—the unmistakable awareness of being observed.

“Already noticed,” Lucien murmured at his side.

“That was the intent,” Darcy replied.

“You do not seem pleased.”

Darcy did not answer. He had never liked an excess of attention. Some things never changed.

Their progress was interrupted almost at once.

“Count Vendicarsi.”

Darcy turned. Viscount Bramley approached, his manner open and assured, his expression one of polite interest. At his side stood a gentleman and lady whose presence struck Darcy with far greater force than he allowed to show.