Page 114 of Honor Requires

The words settled between them with more force than he had intended.

The path before him seemed dangerously clear.

It would be simple to answer the cruelty he had experienced in kind, to seek complete destruction of his enemies. He dismissed the thought almost at once.

Elizabeth would not forgive it—and neither would he.

Her expression changed—subtly, but unmistakably. “That is a dangerous philosophy.”

“Only if misapplied.”

“And who,” she asked, “is to determine that?”

Darcy met her gaze. “Those who are capable of discerning right from wrong.”

Elizabeth stopped.

Not abruptly, but with a deliberation that brought their movement to a halt.

“That is precisely the difficulty,” she said. “Every man believes himself capable of such discernment.”

Darcy turned to face her fully. “Not every man.”

“Enough,” she replied. “Enough to make the distinction unreliable.” There was a spark in her now—familiar, compelling, and wholly her own. It stirred something in him that no amount of discipline could entirely suppress.

“Then you would have no one act?” he asked. “No one seek to correct injustice for fear of error?”

“I would have them consider the limits of their authority,” she said. “There is a difference between recognizing a wrong and appointing oneself its remedy.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And if no one does so?” he asked. “If wrong is permitted to stand because all shrink from the responsibility of opposing it?”

Elizabeth held his gaze.

“Responsibility,” she said, “is not the same as right.”

Darcy drew breath as if to answer, then checked himself. He stepped closer—not improperly, but with an intensity that could not be mistaken.

“And if a man has been wronged?” he said. “Grievously. Deliberately. Would you have him do nothing?”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. “That depends upon what he seeks,” she said.

“Justice.”

“Or vengeance?” Her words hung between them.

Darcy felt it like a blade drawn lightly across the surface of thought—sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.

“They are not always the same,” Elizabeth claimed boldly. “Though they are often mistaken for one another.”

Darcy looked away briefly, his gaze fixing upon the path before them. “No,” he said. “They are not.” Had Lucien not said the same thing on numerous occasions? He recalled the long nights and suppressed a shudder. He had faced worse than this without hesitation. The thought of standing before her again—unchanged in name, but not in experience—gave him pause. He did not know whether she would see the man he had been… or only what remained.

Silence fell again. The wind stirred faintly through the branches above, carrying with it the distant sound of carriage wheels and voices too far removed to be distinguished.

Elizabeth resumed walking.

Darcy followed.

“One might infer that you have thoroughly considered this subject,” she observed following a brief silence.