Page 108 of Honor Requires

Jane hesitated, then nodded.

Elizabeth gathered her things with as much composure as she could muster, then slipped from the room.

But she did not call for her brother’s carriage. Instead, she waited in the gardens outside the building. The moon was nearly full overhead. It cast shadows that hid her from view of the entrance, where the light did not reach so fully and the press of society did not intrude. She stood with her heart beating far too quickly for calm reflection.

She did not know precisely what she intended, only that she could not—would not—allow the night to end as it had. All Elizabeth knew was that she longed to run to him, to end the years of suffering they both had endured.

A carriage was called.

“The Count of Vendicarsi.”

Elizabeth moved before she could reconsider. She slipped around the back, unseen by the servants whose attention was elsewhere, and climbed into the carriage. The interior was dark, the air faintly cool. She settled herself into the far corner, her breath shallow, her pulse unsteady.

At first, there was nothing. He leaned back against the squab with a long exhale, lifting a hand to rub across his face as though the evening had cost him more than he cared to show.

Elizabeth moved.

He started—visibly, sharply—his hand dropping at once as his gaze fixed upon her.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said.

The name seemed to strike the air between them. She shifted forward, the dim light catching the sheen of tears upon her cheeks. “I cannot bear it,” she said, her voice breaking. “I cannot pretend not to know you.”

Darcy stared at her. For one instant, something raw and unguarded flickered in his expression. Then it was gone. “You have made a mistake,” he said, his voice controlled.

She shook her head, reaching out—touching his face with trembling fingers.

“No.” He caught her hand and pulled it away. “I am not this Fitzwilliam.”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Do not say such things. I am not blind.”

His grip tightened briefly before he released her. “You must listen to me.”

“I have listened!” she said, tears falling freely now. “I have listened for seven years—to silence, to grief, to the absence of everything I thought my life might be. And now you stand before me and deny yourself?”

His expression hardened. “I am not this Fitzwilliam of whom you speak.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why must we torture ourselves so? I have suffered—and you have suffered. It is plain to see. Will you not confide in me?”

Silence. It was heavy and unyielding.

Darcy looked at her, and in that look there was something very close to breaking.

“I am sorry,” he said at last, his voice low.

The words struck her like a blow.

The world seemed, for one disorienting instant, to tilt beneath her feet. She caught at the back of the bench, her fingers tightening against the cold wood peeking out from the plush cushions, clinging to the only thing that still felt solid.

“You are mistaken.” There was desperation in it. So carefully contained, so nearly hidden—but there.

Elizabeth faltered. For one terrible moment, doubt crept in. Am I wrong? Have I imagined it all?

Then—“Fitzwilliam Darcy is dead.”

The words were calm, certain, and final.

The count reached up and tapped the roof of the carriage. “To Matlock House,” he called through the window.