Page 94 of Honor Requires

She stood somewhat apart.

Elizabeth.

She appeared composed, though a subtle tension in her posture betrayed her unease. Her hands were clasped lightly before her, though he saw the subtle movement of her fingers, the faint rise and fall of her breath.

She looked at him. He saw recognition in her eyes, along with an emotion he could not immediately identify.

Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”

“Sir,” she replied.

Her voice was calm. But she was not. He felt it—an answering disturbance within himself, sharp and immediate.

“I wonder,” he said, after a moment, “if you would do me the honor of your company during the musicale.”

There was the briefest hesitation. Then—“Yes.”

They took their seats near the Matlocks and the Bramleys, the arrangement natural enough to avoid notice, but close enough that conversation might be carried on without impropriety.

Darcy settled beside her.

Across the room, partially obscured by a pillar, he caught sight of Lucien. His companion had positioned himself with deliberate care—near enough to Hargrave and Langford to observe, sufficiently concealed to avoid scrutiny.

Darcy allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction.

Then his attention returned. To her. The musicians began to play, a prelude filling the room, though Darcy scarcely heard it.

“Do you attend many such gatherings, Count Vendicarsi?” Elizabeth asked, her tone light, though her gaze remained fixed upon him.

“Fewer than society might wish,” he replied.

“I cannot imagine society is easily denied,” she said.

“It is persistent,” Darcy agreed.

There was a brief pause. “You have made quite an impression,” she stated boldly. “Your arrival has been much discussed.”

“I fear that is unavoidable.”

“And still,” she said, “there are some things which remain…less clear.”

Darcy’s gaze shifted, though he did not look away. “Clarity is not always easily obtained,” he said.

Elizabeth studied him. “No,” she said. “Nor is it always freely given.”

The music swelled, filling the space between them.

Darcy’s hand tightened upon the arm of his chair.

Say it.

Tell her.

The impulse rose—sharp, insistent. He forced it down. “There are circumstances,” he said, “which are not as they appear.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught, though she mastered it quickly. “I had begun to suspect as much.”

“They are not easily explained,” he demurred.