Page 87 of Honor Requires

Elizabeth forced herself to move.

“Sir,” she said, though the word felt strangely insufficient.

Her voice did not betray her. She would not allow it to.

Mr. Dantès inclined his head with easy charm. “Miss Bennet. It is a pleasure.”

She returned the courtesy, though her thoughts were no longer her own.

They sat. Conversation began.

Elizabeth heard every word, every exchange. None of it seemed to fully reach her.

Her mind moved elsewhere, circling, questioning, attempting to reconcile what she saw with what she knew.

He is dead.

He had been dead.

She had mourned him—had lived with that loss, shaped her life around it, carried it with her through every passing year.

Despite it all, he sat before her, very much alive.

Jane spoke, her tone warm and gracious. “We are most obliged to you, Count Vendicarsi, for your assistance this morning. I cannot express how grateful I am.”

Darcy inclined his head. “It was nothing, my lady. I am only relieved that the child was unharmed.”

“It was not nothing,” Jane said earnestly. “You prevented what might have been a terrible accident.”

Bramley nodded. “You have our thanks.”

Darcy accepted them with serene composure. “You are very kind.”

Lord Matlock joined the conversation, speaking of London, of introductions, of the increasing interest surrounding their guest. Lady Matlock inquired after his residence, his impressions of England, his intentions for the Season.

Mr. Dantès responded readily where his brother did not, offering observations with a lightness that balanced Darcy’s reserve.

Elizabeth remained silent. Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers twisting the edge of her handkerchief without her realizing it. Her gaze returned to him again and again, seeking confirmation of what she already knew.

He is real. He is here.

The count turned toward her.

“Your necklace,” he said, his voice low but distinct. “It is very lovely.”

Elizabeth started, her hand instinctively rising to the shell at her throat. “Thank you,” she said.

Jane leaned forward at once. “It was made from a small treasure Lizzy brought back from Ramsgate some years ago,” she said. “I had it fashioned for her. She rarely removes it.”

Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to the count—to Darcy.

His composure wavered. Not outwardly. Not in any way another might mark. But she saw it. A flicker. A tightening. Something carefully restrained.

He looked at her—intently, searchingly—and then, suddenly aware of himself, turned his attention away.

Mr. Dantès said something—light, inconsequential—and Darcy responded, his tone once more even.

Elizabeth’s breath came shallow.