Page 105 of Honor Requires

When Darcy’s turn came, he stepped forward and bowed with proper deference.

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Count Vendicarsi,” the Prince said, his tone warm with interest. “We have heard a great deal of you. A most welcome addition to our society.”

“You honor me, sir.”

The Prince regarded him with open curiosity. “From Sardinia, are you not? A land of some intrigue at present. We are always pleased to receive gentlemen of consequence from abroad.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I am grateful for Your Royal Highness’s gracious reception.”

“And you have taken a house in Mayfair?” the Prince pressed. “Ashcombe House, I believe. An excellent situation.”

“It has suited my purposes very well.”

“Good, good.” The Prince smiled. “London thrives on new acquaintance. We must not allow ourselves to grow dull.”

There was a ripple of polite amusement among those present.

“You will find,” the Prince went on, lowering his voice in a manner that suggested confidence, “that English society can be most agreeable—provided one knows where to look.”

“I shall endeavor to profit by Your Royal Highness’s guidance.”

“Do so,” the Prince said. “And you must attend us again. We shall expect it.”

“I shall consider it an honor.”

The exchange moved on, as such audiences always did, but Darcy was acutely aware of the scrutiny that lingered even as the Prince turned to the next gentleman. He had been received, acknowledged, and—for the present—accepted.

When at last he took his leave, stepping once more into the crisp air beyond Carlton House, he allowed himself a single breath. The role held. Count Vendicarsi stood secure—even before the Prince himself. And that, Darcy knew, would serve him well in the days to come.

Chapter Twenty

Almack’s was already in full motion when Elizabeth entered, its famed assembly rooms alive with music, candlelight, and that peculiar blend of elegance and scrutiny which set it apart from every other gathering in London. Admission alone carried weight; to be seen there was to be acknowledged, to be observed, and—if one were fortunate—to be admired. She knew she would never have entered these rooms had her sister not married so well. Not even during their sponsored season had the Bennet sisters gained access to such exclusive surroundings.

Elizabeth had attended often enough in her years with Jane to move through its spaces without undue anxiety, but she felt, on this particular evening, none of her usual composure. There was a restlessness within her that no measure of propriety could entirely suppress. Every sound seemed sharper, every glance more intrusive, every moment stretched by anticipation she could neither fully justify nor dismiss.

The Count of Vendicarsi would be present. Of course he would be present. There was no assembly of consequence now at which he was not expected, and his absence would have been remarked upon as keenly as his attendance. Elizabeth felt the certainty of it not as a matter of society's habits, but as something far more personal—and far more dangerous.

Jane, radiant and serene as ever, moved at her side with easy grace, already engaged in light conversation with Lady Matlock. Bramley stood nearby, exchanging pleasantries with a gentleman of his acquaintance, while Colonel Fitzwilliam lingered close enough to observe all with that air of good-humored vigilance that never entirely left him.

Elizabeth heard little of what was said. Her attention—unwilling, ungovernable—was fixed upon the room.

Then she saw him.

He stood near the far end of the assembly, surrounded but not overwhelmed by attention. Ladies angled themselves toward him with calculated delicacy; gentlemen approached with interest. He received them all with civility, neither encouraging nor discouraging familiarity, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was the object of nearly every eye.

He was dressed with understated elegance, his coat cut to perfection, his bearing unmistakable. The candlelight caught upon the line of his jaw, the dark of his hair, the calm regard of his eyes as he listened to those who addressed him.

He was different. And he was not. Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

It is him. The thought came not as a question or suspicion, but as an affirmation so deeply rooted she could not dislodge it if she tried.

He turned then, seemingly aware of her observation. Their gazes met. For one suspended instant, the noise of the room seemed to fall away. There was no count, no disguise, no careful distance—only recognition, sharp and undeniable. Then it was gone.

His expression settled once more into that strict reserve he wore before the world, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning to address the lady at his side.

Elizabeth forced herself to breathe.