Chapter Fifteen #3
He watched as she crossed the street, passing nearer to Ashcombe House, unaware of the eyes that followed her every step.
There was no husband at her side. No sign of one. Only Elizabeth. And the children.
Darcy’s hand tightened against the window frame. My cousin’s wife. Bramley has married my Elizabeth.
Nothing, he had said. As far as she is concerned, I am nothing.
What a liar he was, even to himself.
The rooms at Lady Sefton’s were already filled when Darcy and Lucien arrived, the hum of conversation rising in a steady, cultivated murmur that spoke of consequence and expectation in equal measure.
Light from a hundred candles reflected in polished mirrors and gleaming surfaces, lending the entire assembly an air of warmth that did little to ease the careful scrutiny with which each new arrival was received.
Darcy descended from the carriage with precision, his countenance settled into the expression he had cultivated—calm, reserved, faintly removed. At his side, Lucien adjusted his cuffs with an ease that bordered upon indifference, though Darcy knew well enough that nothing escaped his notice.
“Remember,” Lucien murmured as they approached the entrance, his tone light but not without meaning, “you are a man of rank and leisure. You have no reason to look as though you are about to face a tribunal.”
Darcy did not look at him. “I require no reminder. Do you?”
Lucien smiled faintly. “No. But I thought to offer one nonetheless.”
They were announced without delay.
“Count Vendicarsi… Mr. Dantès.”
Lady Sefton received them near the entrance to the principal rooms, her manner gracious, her eye discerning. She regarded Darcy with interest that was neither excessive nor indifferent, and inclined her head with polished civility.
“Count Vendicarsi,” she said. “We are honored by your presence.”
Darcy bowed, careful to temper his speech with the faintest trace of foreign inflection—enough to satisfy expectation, not so much as to invite scrutiny. “The honor is mine, Lady Sefton. Your reputation precedes you.”
She smiled, evidently pleased. “You are most kind. And your brother?”
Lucien stepped forward with easy charm. “At your service, madam.”
“Delighted,” Lady Sefton returned. “You must allow me to present my cousin—Miss Halstead.”
A young lady was brought forward, her expression composed though touched with curiosity. Darcy inclined his head.
“Miss Halstead.”
She curtsied. “Sir.”
Darcy did not linger. “Might I have the honor of your second set?” he asked. Might as well get this obligation over with, and please my hostess at the same time.
The smile broadened into a grin. “You may.”
“Then I shall look forward to it,” he said, before withdrawing with the appropriate degree of deference.
He and Lucien moved into the ballroom.
The space was expansive, elegantly arranged, and already well occupied. Music swelled from the musicians’ gallery, the first set underway, while clusters of guests stood in conversation along the edges of the room.
Darcy had not taken more than a few steps before he felt it—the unmistakable awareness of being observed.
“Already noticed,” Lucien murmured at his side.
“That was the intent,” Darcy replied.
“You do not seem pleased.”
Darcy did not answer. He had never liked an excess of attention. Some things never changed.
Their progress was interrupted almost at once.
“Count Vendicarsi.”
Darcy turned. Viscount Bramley approached, his manner open and assured, his expression one of polite interest. At his side stood a gentleman and lady whose presence struck Darcy with far greater force than he allowed to show.
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.