“I’m sorry, Fitzwilliam, but I’m worried about you. Everyone is worried about you.” She clasped her hands together and gazed up at him with dark, serious eyes—eyes that used to be blue, like their late mother’s.
Darcy regarded her for a long moment, his irritation slowly ebbing. “I know,” he muttered, turning his head aside and squinting toward the eastern fields, where he planned to spend the next hour tearing across the estate on horseback, exercising his demons. “It wasn’t my intention to make you worry. Pray forgive me.”
“You know I will do whatever you ask of me,” she assured him in a quiet voice. “Anything at all…”
“Georgiana…” he warned.
“Please, Brother. I would never judge you. No one will, so please, will you not simply tell me what I may do for you so that you’ll be happy again?”
“Nothing,” he said tightly, his temper flaring once more. He knew full well that she was one of the few who could help him—and would, for that matter—but her assistance in that quarter was absolutely out of the question. Not only did he not want such a thing to weigh upon her young conscience, but Darcy’s responsibilities to the people of Pemberley and his sense of familial duty rested far too heavily upon his shoulders to simply allow his personal desires to take precedence over his accountability.
Not to mention the more he thought about actually exploring such an option, the more anxious and agitated he became. The more anxious and agitated he became, the more inclined he was to reject that option altogether. It wasn’t immortality he wanted in any case, but Elizabeth.
Darcy clenched his jaw. In only a few short months Richard appeared to have embraced his accidental vampirism with startling ease and acceptance. In fact, his sunny attitude and sense of humour were so reminiscent of Elizabeth’s good-natured disposition that Darcy could no longer bear to be in his company for any length of time. The throb of longing in his breast was too painful. His cousin’s animation and ability to tease made Darcy literally ache to be with the raven-haired beauty who’d stolen his heart; but she’d refused him and had fled to London. He hadn’t seen, nor heard word of her since, not even from Bingley, who was now married to her eldest sister.
Like Colonel Fitzwilliam, Georgiana seemed to have found her stride as well. She could finally be trusted to wander through the house and grounds unaccompanied, though she often preferred a companion. More often than not it was Richard, who always went out of his way to bring a smile to her face or make her laugh, usually at Darcy’s expense.
The fact of the matter was that Darcy’s cousin and sister appeared to be thriving as vampyres. But what if Darcy underwent the same metamorphosis and didn’t thrive? What if he finally took a leap of faith and became like Elizabeth, only to discover—after the fact—that he was nothing like her at all? What if he turned into a blood-thirsty monster and retained absolutely no shred of his staunch self-control? What if he ended up slaying every human being he came in contact with, including those in his care and under his protection? Would Elizabeth be angry with him? Would she be disgusted and disappointed? Would she tell him she wanted nothing to do with him ever again and order him away? Darcy didn’t think he could survive a second rejection, or the possibility of harming anyone so barbarously, especially after having made such a permanent, life-altering commitment. The consequences were not only terrifying, but everlasting; infinite and unalterable.
How on earth would he ever live with himself?
Darcy ran his hand over his mouth and shut his eyes, expelling a ragged breath. His sister stood several meters away, a respectful distance so as not to further unsettle his horse. Georgiana’s care and concern for him were genuine, as was her almost desperate desire to see him happy. At the tender age of fifteen she’d endured enough pain and regret to last a lifetime—and last a lifetime it would, and more. With Darcy and Richard to care for her, however—and maybe, someday, God willing, with Elizabeth as her friend—perhaps she wouldn’t see her past as regretful. Perhaps her future would be bright, joyful, and brimming with promise.
The corners of Darcy’s mouth lifted slightly as he envisioned his sister and Elizabeth together. As usual, the sensation of satisfaction he felt from indulging such a heartfelt fantasy was fleeting, leaving him with a profound emptiness and deep sense of loss. Darcy opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to Georgiana, who regarded him with furrowed brows as he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.
“I’ll be fine, Georgiana. I may not be at the moment, but I will be at some point. Now, be merciful and allow me the sanctity of my morning ride before Richard decides to join me. His incessant chatter always grates on my horse’s nerves.”
Georgiana pursed her lips. “Very well, Fitzwilliam. I hereby release you, but only to spare your poor horse a headache.” This earned a genuine smile from her brother, which quickly faded when she added, “I am not so easily dissuaded, you know. We will discuss this.”
Darcy shook his head with a scowl.
“If Miss Bennet truly makes you happy,” she continued defiantly, “if you love her, Brother, then you must know I’d want to know her—especially if she’s like me.”
It was too much, by far too much. Furious with this new, outspoken version of his sister, not to mention Richard for poisoning her mind with faerie tales that could never come to fruition, Darcy snapped the reins and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. He barely heard Georgiana’s hasty cry, imploring him to be careful.
Darcy snorted contemptuously. At the moment he certainly didn’t feel like being careful. In fact, the master of Pemberley had a fierce urge to be as spiteful and obstinate as his sister was willful. Leaning low over his mount, he flew over the countryside at a punishing pace. The adrenaline pumping through his body combined with the high rate of speed at which he was travelling made him feel invincible, as though nothing and no one in the entire universe could possibly conquer him.
A fallen tree choked by thick, twisted vines lay in his path, but his horse cleared it as though it were nothing more than a branch or even a twig. A hedge, a fence, a mound of earth, a boulder, a rock wall—all were hurdled with little effort. It was exhilarating, and Darcy revelled in every soul-freeing second of his rebellion.
Just ahead a wooded grove loomed, its ancient trees sentient and still. It bordered a natural spring-fed lake, a favorite spot for fishing in the summer months; one Darcy had frequented on horseback from the time he was a young boy. He knew the path well, and his intent was to guide his mount through the dense maze of timber without slowing his pace; but as they neared the tree line his stallion began pulling against the reins and tossing his head. Darcy tightened his grip and fought to retain control, but his horse had other ideas. The ornery animal stopped short, reared, bucked, and threw his master a half dozen meters. Darcy landed hard upon the frozen ground.
There he lay, unmoving; flat on his back as he laboured to draw breath. The sheer force of his landing caused his head to reel, his ears to ring, and bright white blotches of light to pulse painfully behind his eyes. Weakened and nearly overcome by the pain in his skull, he turned his eyes heavenward, where the mid-morning sky was a deep, almost impossible shade of blue. The color, as so many things had since he’d met her, reminded him immediately of Elizabeth, or, more particularly, of a gown she’d once worn in his presence. The rich cerulean muslin had looked exquisite against her pale skin, so exquisite in fact that he’d found it extremely difficult at the time to refrain from touching her bare shoulders, or her neck, or any other part of her that was exposed to him. Somehow, though, he’d managed to remain a gentleman. It was something that, even in his current, decidedly grim state, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley could not bring himself to regret. His only regret was that he hadn’t tried harder to win her; that he hadn’t followed her to London and courted her relentlessly, until she was as passionately in love with him as he was with her and no longer of a mind to refuse him anything. But now, as he lay sprawled upon the cold ground unable to move, he
knew that any chance of reuniting with Elizabeth was lost to him. She was lost to him forever.
Darcy groaned as the pain in his head increased to an intolerable level, but so, too, had the acute discomfort spreading through his chest. Whether the latter was from constantly yearning for the woman he loved these past months or from any physical injuries he sustained after his horse had thrown him, Darcy was in no condition to discern.
With a ragged exhalation he shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth against the absolute agony seizing his body. It was quickly overpowering him, pulling him with thorny fingers and eager arms into a dark, velvety abyss where Darcy knew nothing, and felt nothing. Not even the pain of his broken heart.
Eleven
Darcy combed his fingers through his hair, exhaling heavily as he stood in Longbourn’s finest drawing room. Six months had passed since he’d last been in Hertfordshire; half a year since he’d seen Elizabeth. So much had happened in that span of time. Too much, he thought as his mouth twisted ruefully.
The anticipation of finally seeing her again, coupled with the agitation he felt regarding the obvious differences in his appearance, was enough to drive him out of his mind. Darcy needed a distraction and strode to the nearest window, where he was afforded a picturesque view of the Bennets’ small park. The weather was fair—partly sunny and dry, if not a bit chilly for late spring—and he wondered whether Elizabeth would consent to walk out with him, preferably without a chaperone. He’d be foolish to think she wouldn’t have questions the moment she laid eyes on him, and figured it would be far better for both of them if they had no audience under foot.
His injuries from his accident had been severe, so severe in fact that Colonel Fitzwilliam had immediately sent to London for a physician, but it’d made little difference in the end. Though his lacerations faded with time and his broken bones had begun to mend, Darcy never regained consciousness. After a month passed with no sign of improvement, his sister, who flatly refused to leave his sickbed, was instructed to prepare for the inevitable. Richard was grieved, but Georgiana had been inconsolable. By the time Darcy’s heartbeat had grown so faint it could barely be detected, she’d borne all she possibly could. Richard hadn’t even tried to stop her.
Darcy’s hand went instinctively to his neck, where two small puncture wounds were once visible. They’d faded almost instantly after his change, but would have been concealed in any case, neatly hidden beneath his shirt collar and the artfully tied layers of his cravat. He hadn’t felt Georgiana’s bite—not even so much as a pinch—but the pain that followed was vivid still, burned into his memory as though with a branding iron. The sheer agony of it had consumed him, raging in his body for an entire day before gradually receding to nothing more than the minor discomfort of a sore throat.
His thirst was always with him, but to his immense relief it by no means ruled him or defined who he was. As it turned out, the well-practiced self-control Darcy had so prided himself upon throughout his nine-and-twenty years as a human proved an asset to him still. Not only had the master of Pemberley learned to resist the mouth-watering lure of human blood, but he’d become adept at ignoring the incessant burn in his throat as well.
Sighing heavily, he laid his forehead against the window and closed his eyes. It was nearly tea time, and the room he occupied faced the east, untouched by the late afternoon sun. The smooth panes, however, weren’t cool to his touch, but felt almost warm. He still wasn’t quite accustomed to that; to his body’s temperature being either lower than or equal to that of inanimate objects. He recalled the first time he’d grasped Georgiana’s hand in his after he’d awoken from his transformation and smiled. By then, Darcy was so used to feeling the chill of death whenever he touched her that he hadn’t expected her skin to feel warm to him. It’d come as a shock, but it didn’t follow that shock was unwelcome. It was tangible evidence they were the same once again; the same temperature and the same type of entity. Brother and sister still, yet bound by so much more than the blood of their birth.
The slamming of a door above stairs roused him from his reverie, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the staircase alerting him to the fact that he would soon have company. Much to Darcy’s disappointment and annoyance, it was not the light staccato cadence of a lady’s, but the heavier footfalls of a gentleman. With a sigh of resignation, he straightened his shoulders and waited patiently for Elizabeth’s father, choosing to keep his back to the room as he stared fixedly out of the window. When the drawing room door was thrown open a moment later, the master of Pemberley remained as he was, and therefore sensed rather than saw Mr. Bennet enter.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said icily and without preamble. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you the last time you were in Hertfordshire that your presence is neither desired, nor welcomed in my home.”
Darcy took a fortifying breath and turned to greet Elizabeth’s father, gratified to see the expression of anger on the elder man’s face quickly transformed to one of shock as he observed Darcy’s altered appearance.
“How do you do, Mr. Bennet?” he asked cordially, pleased with himself for managing to keep any hint of smugness from his tone.
Mr. Bennet gaped at him before scrambling to shut the door. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “What in God’s name have you done?”
“I am not a frivolous man, Mr. Bennet. Nothing has been done that was not strictly necessary, I assure you.”
“Necessary…! Young man, I am not accustomed to being trifled with. However insincere you choose to be, you will not find me so. If this is some drastic ploy to manipulate my second daughter into bestowing her favour upon you, I can promise you will be grievously disappointed, not to mention exceedingly sorry once I’ve finished with you.”
Darcy stiffened. “Hardly,” he responded, his tone curt. “I merely fell from my horse.”
“You fell from your horse,” Mr. Bennet parroted condescendingly.
“I did. It was a most unfortunate accident, but hardly out of the ordinary. Plenty of perfectly capable horsemen and women are often thrown from their mounts. In fact, when I was last in Hertfordshire Miss Elizabeth informed me she’d once fallen from her own horse, and that you were so deeply grieved by the severity of her injuries that you oversaw her recovery personally.”
The elder man’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly did my daughter tell you about her accident, sir?”
“More than enough,” Darcy said with a pointed look. “Contrary to what you may think, Mr. Bennet, I’ve no desire to quarrel with you about the events that transpired between you and your daughter three years ago. That wasn’t my intent in coming here today. My intent—”
“Your intent, Mr. Darcy, is undoubtedly to blackmail me into allowing you to have my daughter!”
Darcy’s mouth twisted with distaste. “I have no wish to expose you and your family—your second daughter especially—any more than I wish exposure upon myself and my own.” Good God, the man is impossible!
Running his hand over his mouth, Darcy paced the length of the room impatiently as he debated how much or how little he should reveal to Mr. Bennet concerning his family, namely Georgiana and Richard. At length, he decided complete honesty was his best course, or else he’d most likely be in danger of facing an eternity of hostility and false accusations from a man he very much hoped would one day become his father-in-law.
Standing before the fire, Darcy propped his elbows upon the mantle and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. The steady heat of the flames licking at the logs in the grate warmed him, reminding him of countless pleasant nights passed in front of the hearths at Pemberley. A bright, crackling fire was a novelty to him now rather than a necessity, but for appearance sake the tradition must be maintained, lest suspicions be raised. “Has your daughter confided anything to you about my own family?” he inquired lowly.
Mr. Bennet pursed his lips sourly and shook his head.
“If I may, I’d like to tell you about them.”
; After taking several moments to consider Darcy’s request, Mr. Bennet indicated two upholstered chairs before the hearth with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “By all means,” he replied with a patronizing tone. “I suppose it’s only fair, since you seem to know so much about mine.”
Willing his irritation to dissipate, Darcy settled into a chair and cleared his throat while Elizabeth’s father claimed the other, drumming his fingers impatiently upon the arms of his chair and raising an expectant brow. In that moment the elder man’s expression reminded Darcy very much of Elizabeth, but the moment was fleeting.
“I was angry with my sister and riding rather recklessly,” he began, purposely meeting Mr. Bennet’s challenging gaze, “when my horse threw me. While the broken bones I suffered weren’t life-threatening, the injury I sustained to my head was another matter. I lay abed for many weeks, comatose, unresponsive, with no sign of improvement. Georgiana, I was told, never left my side.
“There was nothing to be done, however. My prognosis was extremely grim, and eventually my already poor condition began to deteriorate even further. In what ought to have been my final moments, Georgiana exerted what means were within her power in order to preserve me from true death. It was thereby done, and done for the best.”
The elder man regarded Darcy with furrowed brows and shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, but it wasn’t long before comprehension dawned and Mr. Bennet jerked to the edge of his seat. “Your sister…?” he cried incredulously. “You mean to tell me your sister, who cannot be more than sixteen years of age, has been immortalized?”
“Yes,” Darcy replied somberly, “Georgiana is a vampyre, and has been for nearly a year. Had she not acted to save me, I’m quite certain my cousin would have in her stead. While Georgiana’s intent was undoubtedly to prolong the life of a brother she’d long considered more of a father figure, Richard has been my confident since we were children. He was well acquainted with the depth of my feelings for Miss Elizabeth, as well as the impossibilities attached to our situation and the depth of my despair at the time. If he had acted, it would not have been to save my life, per se, but to give me a chance to have a future with your daughter; a future I very much desired but was convinced I would never have.”
Darkness Falls Upon Pemberley Page 6
