Emotionally and physically drained, Darcy allowed her ministrations without protest, his eyes trained intently upon the familiar garnet cross around her neck. It swung gently from its short chain like a pendulum as she moved over him and arranged his bedding, the firelight lending the gemstone an almost bloody richness. Entranced, he lifted his hand and stilled it, holding it in his palm.
The pendant was truly beautiful and felt smooth to his touch. Like its owner, an inexplicable sensation of warmth and comfort radiated from within it, making the polished stone seem anything but cold to him, despite the deathly temperature of Elizabeth’s flesh.
Where the cross rested against the hollow of her throat, however, the master of Pemberley discerned a small, angry-looking mark that could not but concern him. Though she’d worn this particular necklace countless times before—in fact, he’d never seen her without it—his new understanding of what she was made him question her preference for it. Darcy frowned. To him, it made no sense.
“Why do you wear this?” he murmured, his fingertips caressing her injured flesh with unexampled tenderness. “Surely this causes you a great deal of discomfort?”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, and it took several moments for her to compose herself enough to form an answer. “It’s a reminder of my former humanity; an admonition, so I may do the right thing when all I desire to do is wrong. When compared to the constant burn of my thirst, or the agony I would feel should I forget myself for a fraction of a moment and bring harm to someone, the discomfort is nothing—no more than an insignificant pinch. It is worth it, for it has given me the strength to spare every life I’ve ever wanted to take, including your own.”
Darcy was shocked by her confession. She was a vampyre, after all, and undoubtedly wanted—needed—human blood in order to survive. “But I’d thought… Forgive me,” he muttered, shaking his head contritely. “It must be extremely difficult abstaining from something so vital to your survival. I had no idea abstinence was even possible for those of your kind, never mind practiced.”
“There are other ways for a vampyre to sustain one’s self,” she quietly admitted, “but that isn’t to say I don’t feel the urge to give in to far baser cravings whenever the options available to me appear less than palatable, which they very often do. The good Lord knows I would endure far more, though—far, far more than I ever have if only…”
“If only…” he urged softly.
But Elizabeth swallowed thickly and shook her head, shutting her eyes tightly and avoiding his gaze.
“Dearest, Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice urgent as his hands moved to cradle her face, but it was all he could manage before he felt the heady sensation of her breath envelope him. The subtle chill and deceptive sweetness of her scent made Darcy feel at once lethargic and dreamy, weightless and sublime, as though he was floating on a cloud without a care in the world.
“You must sleep now, dear sir,” she whispered, her dark eyes compelling as her fingers danced along his temple, the apple of his cheek, the line of his jaw. Her hands trembled as they slid along the column of his throat, caressing his pulse and the thick, vital vein pumping his life’s blood through his body with a feather-light touch. Her lips followed the same path, teasing him, pressing careful kisses to his skin as she wound her fingers into his hair.
Darcy was drowning in desire, his thoughts little more than an incoherent haze in his head. He swore he heard Elizabeth’s breath quicken as she nuzzled the curve of his neck with her nose, inhaling deeply. He felt her lips part against his throat, and the tip of her tongue trace a lazy pattern along the artery there, the sensation causing them both to moan in pleasure as his eyes rolled back into his head.
His heart pounded wildly, and he longed to know whether this experience was indeed reality or merely his subconscious deceiving him—again. But his eyelids were far too heavy to open; his limbs too burdensome to lift, and so the master of Pemberley had no option before him but to surrender to the pleasurable smother of Elizabeth’s breath, and lips, and touch, unsure of everything but the fierceness of his love for her.
Nine
Pemberley, Derbyshire, two months later…
Dearest Sir,
For so very dear to me you have become. Pray forgive my forwardness in writing to you, but time is of the essence and I must speak to you by such means are within my reach. Would that our situation was not so hopeless—that our every circumstance was fated for pleasure and promise, rather than disappointment and despair—but I fear nothing can ever be so simple where you and I are concerned, and so it is with a heavy heart that I must take matters into my own hands, lest we both do something truly unforgivable.
At my father’s behest, I am to leave Hertfordshire for London to stay with my aunt and uncle in Gracechurch Street. My departure is bittersweet, as the Gardiners—and my aunt especially—have long been particular favourites of mine and Jane’s.
Please do not attempt to follow me there, but recall instead the many hours we have spent together as I will—fondly, and with the very deepest affection. Though we have known one another but a few precious months, your friendship has been the most important of my life. I hope with all my heart I will always have it, as you shall have mine, and much, much more.
May God bless you and keep you, and grant you every happiness. Be assured, dear sir, I will remain…
Yours, most faithfully,
E.B.
†
With a long exhalation Darcy laid Elizabeth’s letter upon his desk and cradled his head in his hands. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d read it, or the tenth, or the five-and-tenth. For months he’d scrutinized the elegant slant of her handwriting and endeavoured to discern some deeper meaning within her words, some clue as to what his course of action ought to be; but each time he came up empty, and his questions remained unanswered.
She’d asked him not to follow her, so why had she mentioned the name of her relations, as well as her destination? Was it merely so he wouldn’t worry about her? Or had she intended something more by their inclusion? For the life of him, Darcy had no idea. He knew only that he missed her beyond reason, almost beyond his sanity.
With a groan, he gripped his hair tightly with his fists. How many times in the past few months had he considered calling for his carriage and setting off for London, but saddled his fastest horse instead and rode him hard—perhaps even recklessly—until man and beast were both panting and sweating, ready to drop? How many evenings had he drunk himself into a stupor, pining for her touch in the middle of the night, her musical laughter during the day, and her incomparable presence in general? Far too many to count, he realized.
The ache in his chest was almost unbearable tonight. He exhaled again, raggedly, and clenched his jaw until his temples throbbed.
“Come now, Cousin,” a familiar voice chided from the doorway. “Nothing can be as bad as your appearance implies.”
Darcy raised his head with a start. Colonel Fitzwilliam was leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I thought you and Georgiana were…out,” Darcy rasped, averting his eyes as he attempted to assume some small semblance of composure, however impossible a feat it seemed at the moment.
“We went hunting earlier,” the colonel replied pleasantly, “without your beloved dogs, as per your request, but Georgiana was impatient to return to her pianoforte, and so here I am.”
“Good.” Darcy raked his fingers through his hair and waved his hand absently toward the sideboard with a frown. “I’d offer you some brandy, Richard, but I suppose that would be pointless.”
The colonel chuckled. “Entirely, though I can’t say I don’t miss the camaraderie attached to the gesture. It’s true my tastes have…shifted, but that’s neither here nor there.” He patted his waistcoat pocket, where Darcy knew he carried a silver-plated flask. “I’m always well stocked these days. No need to concern yourself with me.”
Darcy tried to repress his gr
imace and failed. “Is that so?” he inquired tightly.
“Why, of course.” Fitzwilliam’s demeanour turned serious as he closed the door to Darcy’s study with a soft click and joined his cousin at his desk. “I would never do anything to jeopardize anyone here at Pemberley,” he said sincerely, claiming the chair opposite Darcy and folding his hands upon his lap, “or any other person for that matter. It is why Georgiana and I hunt game rather than…well, other fare. If you’d prefer I decamp, I’ll do so immediately, but—”
“No,” Darcy muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “No. I’m glad to have you here, Richard. You’ve been a world of comfort to Georgiana, and to me as well. Frankly, I wouldn’t know what to do with her if you were to go away now. Considering the circumstances, it’s the very least I can do for you. If you hadn’t been here last autumn while I was away visiting Bingley, God knows what would have happened to her, or to the staff.” He pursed his lips and shook his head angrily. “I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay.”
Shortly after dawn on the morning Darcy’s fever had broken, Elizabeth’s father arrived at Netherfield to collect her. Her middle sister Mary accompanied him, and was instructed to reside there in Elizabeth’s stead for however long she was required. Though Jane had beseeched her father to allow Elizabeth to remain to nurse her until she was recovered enough to return to Longbourn, such pleas fell on deaf ears. Elizabeth was escorted out of the house by Mr. Bennet and taken first to Longbourn, and then to Town to her uncle’s house in Cheapside. She was gone from the country before the Netherfield family emerged from their bedchambers to break their fast.
Darcy’s first trip below stairs came several days later and was, coincidentally, also Jane’s. It was she who sought him out in the quietude of Bingley’s library, she who informed him of Elizabeth’s departure, and she who discreetly slipped her sister’s letter into his hand while Mary sat primly across the room immersed in a thick, dusty tome. It was nothing short of torture to remain by Jane’s side making polite conversation for a quarter-of-an-hour when all Darcy desired was to return to his apartment and devour the flowing script on the little piece of paper he clutched in his fist.
After reading and rereading Elizabeth’s words, however, he was forced to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t going to be accessible to him for some time, either in Hertfordshire or London. Her inaccessibility didn’t stop Darcy from entertaining the idea of quitting Netherfield to take up residence in Town, though, where he happened to own a house on Brooke Street.
What Darcy wanted to do wasn’t what he knew he ought to do, however, which was to respect Elizabeth’s request for privacy and leave her alone. As soon as Mr. Jones pronounced him recovered enough to travel, Darcy steeled his resolve and departed for Pemberley instead. He’d been gone from his estate long enough and his impatience to see his sister, rather than read about her well-being and progress in letters from his cousin Richard, was considerable. As deeply as he longed to be reunited with Elizabeth, the urge to see how Georgiana did had become nearly as strong. To Pemberley he would go.
But Darcy’s homecoming was hardly what he’d anticipated. He’d entered Pemberley’s grounds just past nightfall after travelling for three long, arduous days. The torches that lined the gravel drive burned brightly in welcome, a familiar sight that made the heaviness of his heart a little lighter, as did the figure of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who threw open the door with a wide grin the moment Darcy alighted from the carriage and ascended the front steps. They exchanged pleasantries and, though Darcy desired to see Georgiana directly, he obliged Richard by joining him for a drink in his private sitting room, where the colonel promptly poured Pemberley’s master a healthy glass of brandy, and none for himself.
It was then that Darcy made several observations, the first being his cousin’s complexion. For an athletic officer in Her Majesty’s Army well-known to spend far more time out-of-doors than in, Richard appeared exceptionally pale, even in the dimly lit interior. Certainly, he hadn’t spent the last several months at Pemberley lounging about indoors! Darcy took a fortifying drink and proceeded to tease him about it, which led to a second and third observation: Richard’s uncharacteristic seriousness, and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
In that moment Darcy feared something terrible had happened, either to or concerning Georgiana, but before he could form the words something else caught his eye, the very possibility of which chilled him to the bone. The proof was there, however, staring him in the face. Darcy’s glass slipped from his hand and shattered upon the hearth. The colonel cringed, but held his cousin’s horrified gaze with a slightly sheepish expression. Instead of a brilliant, piercing blue, Richard’s eyes were now dark like Georgiana’s, like Elizabeth’s and Mr. Bennet’s.
“It’s not your fault,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said as Darcy shuddered, attempting to shake off the unpleasantness and discomfort that particular memory never failed to invoke.
“When you left for Hertfordshire—at Georgiana’s urging, I might add—we had no idea she was still relatively unstable; certainly not to the extent that she was. She’d adjusted far better than either of us had expected her to once we’d returned to Pemberley from Ramsgate, and she hadn’t shown any outward behavior that indicated we ought to be overly concerned. Since then, both of us have learned to read her better. As for me, I’m perfectly well.”
“Perfectly well,” Darcy parroted, his countenance dark. “She was a fifteen-year-old girl whose judgment was anything but sound before she became a vampyre. I never should have left you or my staff alone with her!”
“And I fail to see how things would have been any better had you actually been here. In a moment of weakness, she probably would have done the same to you.”
“Would to God that she had, then!” he hollered, his voice raw with emotion.
The colonel stared at him long and hard. There were no secrets between them. Richard knew all about Elizabeth and the depth of Darcy’s devotion to her, as well as her refusal to be with his cousin in any capacity, and her reasons why. “Darcy,” he said gently, “you know you are not entirely without options.”
Darcy clenched his jaw and shook his head, his expression nothing short of tortured. “Becoming what she is…it’s not an option, Richard, not so long as I retain my health and my sanity.”
“You consider yourself in good health, do you? And sane?” The colonel laughed humourlessly. “You hardly sleep at night and of late I’ve seen you consume more brandy than you have food. That is anything but healthy. If you continue in this vein you will drive yourself to an early grave. Surely, Miss Bennet did not risk her reputation and that of her family in order to save your life in Hertfordshire, only to have you slowly kill yourself in Derbyshire. She wouldn’t want this for you.”
Darcy pounded his fist upon his desk. “She wants nothing of me!” he cried. “Nothing at all!”
“That remains to be seen. In the meantime, tell me precisely what it is that you want, Cousin, for you cannot continue to carry on as you have been. You do yourself—and those who care for you—great harm.”
Darcy pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Her,” he breathed. “To be with her. Nothing more, nothing less, but it is hopeless, Richard. So long as I am human she will never consent to have me. She will never consent to come here to Pemberley, or become my wife.”
“Yet she loves you.”
Darcy exhaled raggedly. “So she says.”
“And you will not consider…changing. Not even for her?”
Darcy closed his eyes, his chest tight as he resolutely shook his head. “Not so long as I am in health. I have too many responsibilities, too many people who depend upon me for their livelihood and well-being. I could not bear to put them at such a risk.”
“And what if you were not in health?” Fitzwilliam asked.
Darcy swallowed thickly. “If my health was failing due to illness or if I were injured…” he began hoarsely. “If there was absolutely no o
ther option—no glimmer of hope for my recovery—then I suppose that would be a different matter.”
Fitzwilliam raised one brow. “You would consent, then? To become what Miss Bennet is—what Georgiana and I are—if that was the only option left to you, aside from death?”
The master of Pemberley was silent for a long while. “If I were truly dying, Richard, and I could be with Elizabeth—always, and never be parted from her—then yes,” he said, meeting his cousin’s eyes. “I would give you my consent.”
Ten
“Leave it alone, Georgiana, I will not discuss such things with you.”
Darcy’s tone was harsh as he led his horse from the stable and into the yard, where he wasted no time climbing into the saddle and quick-shortening the reins. He had no patience for questions, particularly from his sister, who’d boldly broached a subject she should know nothing about: namely, Elizabeth Bennet. Clearly, he would have to have a discussion with Richard later about loyalty and discretion.
Georgiana rushed forward, blocking his path and startling his horse. The stallion tossed its head and squealed as it side-stepped toward the gravel drive and tugged against the reins, dangerously close to rearing.
“Georgiana,” he snapped, struggling to keep the skittish animal under control. Most of Pemberley’s horses didn’t appreciate having vampyres in their midst. There were a half dozen or so who, for the most part, tolerated Georgiana’s and Richard’s presence—and a few who even acquiesced to being ridden by them—but this particular horse wasn’t one of those. He was fast, though, and high spirited—exactly what Darcy’s foul mood required this morning.
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