Page 79 of Honor Requires

His aunt. His uncle. Time had touched them, as it must, but not unkindly. There was dignity still in his uncle’s bearing, warmth in his aunt’s expression—familiar, achingly so.

For but a moment, Darcy forgot himself. He wished—absurdly, impossibly—to step forward, to claim them, to be claimed in return. To hear his name spoken as it once had been, without distance, without doubt.

The moment passed.

“May I present my parents,” Bramley was saying, “Lord and Lady Matlock. And this is Count Vendicarsi, newly arrived in Town.”

Darcy bowed. “My lord. My lady.”

Lady Matlock regarded him with gentle interest. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Darcy returned.

His uncle inclined his head, studying him briefly, though without recognition. “You have chosen a lively introduction to London society.”

Darcy allowed the faintest suggestion of a smile. “So, I am discovering, my lord.”

“And here,” Bramley indicated, “is my lovely wife.”

Darcy braced himself.

Elizabeth. The name formed unbidden, the expectation so immediate that it seemed almost certainty. He turned—and felt, for perhaps the first time that evening, something akin to genuine surprise.

The lady before him was not Elizabeth.

She was fair—blonde, with a serenity of countenance that spoke of gentle disposition and ease of temper. Her beauty was unquestionable, though of an entirely different character than that which had lived so long in his memory.

“Lady Bramley,” Bramley said.

Darcy bowed. “My lady.”

She returned the courtesy with warmth. “Count Vendicarsi. How pleased I am to meet you. It is a shame my sister could not attend this evening. She has been quite eager to make your acquaintance—and that of your brother.”

Lucien, who had been observing with keen interest, spoke at once. “Your sister?”

Lady Bramley smiled. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Darcy did not move.

“She very graciously offered to remain at home,” Lady Bramley explained, “as our little Viola is unwell. Nothing serious, I hope, but it would not do to leave her.”

Lucien glanced at Darcy, a fleeting look that held far more than his confident expression suggested.

Elizabeth. Not married. Not Lady Bramley. Relief came first—swift, undeniable, and deeply felt. Caution followed at once.

Darcy inclined his head. “I regret that I have been denied the pleasure of her company this evening.”

Lady Bramley’s smile widened. “I have no doubt you will meet her soon. She is seldom long absent from society when she is in Town. Perhaps you and your brother could come for tea next week.”

Darcy did not trust himself to reply further.

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of two gentlemen whose presence altered the air at once. Darcy knew his distant relation immediately, though he gave no sign of it. His expression remained solemn, his manner unaltered. Langford. Another man was with him, one Darcy did not recognize.

“Bramley,” the unknown gentleman said, his tone smooth, “you must forgive the intrusion—but I see you have already secured the acquaintance we all desire.”

“Mr. Hargrave. Mr. Langford,” Bramley returned. “Allow me to present Count Vendicarsi—and Mr. Dantès.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Gentlemen.” So, this is Hargrave. The man was dressed in the latest fashions. He was moderately handsome, though there was something about his presence that reminded Darcy of the filth that filled the Thames.