Chapter Twenty
Almack’s was already in full motion when Elizabeth entered, its famed assembly rooms alive with music, candlelight, and that peculiar blend of elegance and scrutiny which set it apart from every other gathering in London.
Admission alone carried weight; to be seen there was to be acknowledged, to be observed, and—if one were fortunate—to be admired.
She knew she would never have entered these rooms had her sister not married so well.
Not even during their sponsored season had the Bennet sisters gained access to such exclusive surroundings.
Elizabeth had attended often enough in her years with Jane to move through its spaces without undue anxiety, but she felt, on this particular evening, none of her usual composure.
There was a restlessness within her that no measure of propriety could entirely suppress.
Every sound seemed sharper, every glance more intrusive, every moment stretched by anticipation she could neither fully justify nor dismiss.
The Count of Vendicarsi would be present.
Of course he would be present. There was no assembly of consequence now at which he was not expected, and his absence would have been remarked upon as keenly as his attendance.
Elizabeth felt the certainty of it not as a matter of society's habits, but as something far more personal—and far more dangerous.
Jane, radiant and serene as ever, moved at her side with easy grace, already engaged in light conversation with Lady Matlock.
Bramley stood nearby, exchanging pleasantries with a gentleman of his acquaintance, while Colonel Fitzwilliam lingered close enough to observe all with that air of good-humored vigilance that never entirely left him.
Elizabeth heard little of what was said. Her attention—unwilling, ungovernable—was fixed upon the room.
Then she saw him.
He stood near the far end of the assembly, surrounded but not overwhelmed by attention.
Ladies angled themselves toward him with calculated delicacy; gentlemen approached with interest. He received them all with civility, neither encouraging nor discouraging familiarity, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was the object of nearly every eye.
He was dressed with understated elegance, his coat cut to perfection, his bearing unmistakable. The candlelight caught upon the line of his jaw, the dark of his hair, the calm regard of his eyes as he listened to those who addressed him.
He was different. And he was not. Elizabeth felt her breath catch.
It is him. The thought came not as a question or suspicion, but as an affirmation so deeply rooted she could not dislodge it if she tried.
He turned then, seemingly aware of her observation. Their gazes met. For one suspended instant, the noise of the room seemed to fall away. There was no count, no disguise, no careful distance—only recognition, sharp and undeniable. Then it was gone.
His expression settled once more into that strict reserve he wore before the world, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning to address the lady at his side.
Elizabeth forced herself to breathe.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice came from beside her. “You are very distant tonight.”
“I am only tired,” Elizabeth replied, though she knew the excuse would not satisfy.
Jane studied her briefly, then smiled with gentle understanding. “You must not overexert yourself. Though I suspect,” she added lightly, “that the excitement of the evening may still revive you.”
Elizabeth managed a faint smile. If only she knew. The music began. Sets were called. Gentlemen approached. Elizabeth accepted partners when she must, declined when she could, and endured each dance with as much composure as she was able, though her awareness of him did not diminish.
He danced often. Of course he did. She felt irrational jealousy directed at any other woman who gained his attention.
A man in his position—new, intriguing, and unattached—could scarcely avoid the activity, however.
Elizabeth noticed, with a strange and inexplicable relief, that he did not remain long with any one partner.
There was no lingering, no particular attention paid beyond what civility required.
He moved through the room as though it were a stage upon which he performed a role he neither enjoyed nor entirely disdained.
At length, he approached.
Elizabeth felt it before she saw it—the subtle shift in attention, the awareness of his nearness.
She turned.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing.
“Sir.”
“I wonder,” he said hesitantly, “if you would do me the honor of this set.”
There was no hesitation in her reply.
“Yes.”
His hand, when she placed hers upon it, was steady.
They took their places. The dance began.
For several moments, they moved in silence, the pattern of the set dictating their steps, the music carrying them forward. Beneath the order of it lay something far less controlled—a tension that neither of them seemed willing to name, though both must have felt it.
“You have not brought your brother this evening,” Elizabeth said at last, her tone light, though her gaze remained constant.
Darcy inclined his head. “He was otherwise engaged.”
“I had thought him fond of society.”
“He is,” Darcy replied. “But not always of its demands.”
Elizabeth studied him. “You speak like you understand him very well.”
“I do.” There was no doubt in the answer.
Elizabeth felt something tighten in her chest. “You are very close, then?”
Darcy’s gaze met hers. “Yes.” The word was simple, but there was firmness behind it—something firm, unyielding.
“He has been with you long?” she asked, though she already suspected the answer.
Darcy did not look away. “Long enough.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Wherever you were…
he was with you. She said nothing, but the realization settled firmly into place.
Whatever had happened—whatever had taken Darcy from the world she knew—Lucien had shared it.
Their bond was not merely that of brothers, but of something forged under strain.
“He must be a comfort to you,” she said.
Darcy’s expression altered, just barely. “He is.” The dance carried them onward.
“You are fortunate,” Elizabeth added. “To have such loyalty.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered upon her for a fraction longer than propriety required.
“As are those who inspire it.”
The words appeared to be chosen with care, but there was something in them—something unmistakably personal—that sent a faint warmth to her cheeks.
“You compliment me, sir,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt.
“I state a truth.”
She looked away, unable to bear the full pressure of his regard.
They moved through another figure.
“You read, I think,” he said after a moment.
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard. “I do.”
“I suspected as much.”
“And what gave you that impression?” she asked, a hint of her old playfulness returning despite herself.
Darcy’s mouth curved faintly. “You observe too much to be content with surface alone.”
Elizabeth almost laughed.
Glancing around at the crowded ballroom, she said, “This is hardly the place for discussing books.”
“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”
“Though I imagine,” she replied lightly, “you might have opinions worth hearing.”
Darcy’s expression softened—just enough. “I might.”
She looked at him then, and for one fleeting, fragile instant, the reserve fell away. She saw him. Not the count. Not the expertly curated stranger. But him.
“—it is you,” she whispered. The words escaped before she could stop them.
Darcy’s expression changed at once. The warmth vanished, the composure returned. The careful distance reasserted itself almost like a door had been shut between them; the moment was gone.
Elizabeth felt the loss of it like a physical thing.
The dance ended. He escorted her from the floor in silence, his hand at her elbow steady but impersonal. When they reached her party, he bowed to Lady Matlock, to Bramley, to Jane, offering polite farewells with the ease of a man entirely in command of himself.
“I shall not remain longer this evening,” he said. “I wish you all a pleasant night.” Then he turned and left.
Elizabeth stood very still.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice came again, concerned now. “You look unwell.”
“My head aches,” Elizabeth said quickly. “I think I must return home.”
“Of course,” Jane said at once. “You must not stay if you are unwell. Bramley—”
“I will see the carriage called,” Bramley said.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I shall manage. Pray do not leave on my account. I shall send the carriage back for you.”
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.
The carriage moved.
Elizabeth sat back, stunned, her tears falling unchecked, her mind unable to grasp what had just passed between them.
Dead. He had said it so plainly, so deliberately, treating it as incontrovertible truth.
They did not speak again. When the carriage stopped, the door was opened, and she descended without looking back, her steps unsteady as she watched his carriage pull away.
Filled with pain, she whirled and ran toward Hyde Park.
Elizabeth did not care if she ruined her slippers or if being out alone at night was folly; she wanted only for some peace.
After walking the path for some time, she made her way slowly back to Matlock House, entering through the front door and making her way to her bedchamber.
Only when she was alone—when the door was closed and the silence surrounded her—did the full significance of it return.
She pressed a hand to her mouth. His voice. His words. Fitzwilliam Darcy is dead. Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her eyes widened. And only then did she realize…
He had said Darcy.
Darcy watched as Elizabeth ran away from the safety of Matlock House.
He knocked on the roof of his carriage and gave his driver instructions to circle the block.
He dared not enter the park; it would not do to reinforce Elizabeth’s assertions.
Only when she wearily returned to Matlock House did he give the word for his carriage to return home.
Exhausted and overwrought, he bid Lucien goodnight before retreating to his bed.