Page 3 of The Lost Prophecy

Sir William Lucas approached at that moment, thoroughly delighted to discover another opportunity for elaborate ceremony. He brought the two ladies to them and presented his daughter first. Darcy bowed correctly, although Miss Lucas’s calm scrutiny revealed that she had noticed the derangement beneath his composure.

Sir William extended one hand to her companion. “And this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a particular friend of my daughter and one of our neighbourhood’s brightest ornaments. Miss Elizabeth, permit me to present Mr Darcy of Pemberley.”

Miss Elizabeth offered a graceful curtsey. Her eyes met Darcy’s, vibrant curiosity passing through them before his monumental silence altered it into polite amusement.

Darcy bowed and trusted himself with nothing beyond the required acknowledgement. “Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr Darcy.” She turned back to Miss Lucas after the brief exchange, neither flattered by his wealth nor intimidated by his glowering consequence.

Sir William attempted to draw Darcy into a discussion of dancing, modern civilisation, and the elegant accomplishments of the county. Darcy supplied monosyllabic answers wherever courtesy demanded them, but Miss Elizabeth remained perilously within reach of his senses. Each movement disturbed the air. Each alteration in her pulse reached him, similar to a hand wrapping around his throat. When she accepted a dance from a local gentleman, Darcy measured the exact distance between them until the set ended and she returned safely to her friends.

He had gone too long without feeding. That was the only reasonable explanation, although he had fed sufficiently before leaving Netherfield and had never, in three hundred years, mistaken ordinary hunger for this violent awakening. He decided he should depart before his control collapsed outright. Bingley could be entrusted to his sisters, provided Miss Bingley’s social ambitions did not distract her and Hurst was geographically separated from the necks of all species present.

The first dance ended before Darcy could act on his planned retreat. Bingley escorted Miss Bennet back to her mother, received Mrs Bennet’s gratitude at a volume capable of waking the dead, then bounded to Darcy. Pleasure had restored the dangerous, canine-revealing brightness of his smile.

“Darcy, you must dance. I cannot endure seeing you planted here like a decorative pillar while everyone else enjoys themselves.”

“I have no desire to dance.”

Bingley surveyed the nearby ladies with the eagerness of a hound in a butcher’s shop. Miss Elizabeth had taken a seat because gentlemen were scarce. She spoke to Miss Lucas while one slipper moved faintly in time to the music.

“There is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sitting down for want of a partner. She is very pleasant, and Miss Bennet speaks of her warmly. I shall arrange it immediately.”

Darcy caught Bingley’s sleeve before he could take a step. The mere possibility of taking Miss Elizabeth’s hand, drawing close during the complex figures, and feeling her pulse flutter under his fingers threatened to obliterate the remains of his restraint. He needed her to keep her distance, and standard courtesy would not secure it once Bingley had decided that all of Hertfordshire must participate in a jig.

He required a barrier. He required an insult severe enough to repel her permanently.

“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Bingley’s pleasure faltered into shock. He glanced at Miss Elizabeth, plainly hoping she had not heard, but the slight lift of her chin confirmed that the words had landed with perfect accuracy. Darcy released his friend’s sleeve and turned away before his screaming appetite compelled him to soften the blow.

Behind him, Miss Elizabeth addressed Miss Lucas in a voice pitched low enough for mortal privacy, but perfectly audible to immortal ears.

“I have been declared tolerable by the only gentleman in the room who finds dancing a personal affront. You must not tell my mother, Charlotte, for she may insist on improving my face before supper.”

Miss Lucas covered her mouth, but Miss Elizabeth made no effort to conceal her laughter.

Darcy had expected offence, deep embarrassment, or wounded pride. Her amusement disturbed him far more than tears ever could. Her fragrance warmed as she laughed, and his carefully chosen insult, intended to remove her from his dangerous orbit, had instead ensured that the whole of his focus was fixed on her.

Darcy stayed by the wall after Bingley returned to Miss Bennet, maintaining sufficient stillness to discourage polite conversation while preserving an uninterrupted view of the room. His position ought to have allowed him to observe the assembly, yet his gaze narrowed repeatedly to one woman, regardless of how fiercely he directed it to the ceiling.

Miss Elizabeth continued laughing with Miss Lucas for several minutes, apparently extracting considerable entertainment from an insult intended to ensure her mortal safety. She did not glance at him to determine whether he regretted his rudeness, nor did she retreat among her sisters to conceal injured vanity. Instead, she repeated some portion of the exchange to another girl, who peered at Darcy, covered a grin, and received a warning tap from Miss Elizabeth’s fan.

He had frightened armies without raising his voice. He had brought rebellious vampire factions to silence through the pressure of his authority alone. He had once ended a brutal dispute between two ancient masters simply by entering the chamber and removing his gloves. However, Elizabeth Bennet had required fewer than thirty seconds to transform his deliberate, monstrous cruelty into domestic farce.

A local gentleman approached her when the next dance formed. Darcy recognised him from Sir William’s introductions, although the name had already departed his memory. Miss Elizabeth accepted the gentleman’s hand and entered the set, where she danced without self-conscious display. Her movements were light, her attention generous, and her laughter followed the figures as naturally as the music. She smiled when her partner stumbled, but not unkindly, and steadied him through the next turn without exposing his clumsy mistake to the surrounding couples.

Darcy tracked her from one end of the set to the other, feeling very much like a man watching his own executioner perform a jig.

He attempted to occupy his mind by inspecting the musicians, whose second violin had lost both tempo and hope. He considered the company, every means of egress, and the growing danger presented by Hurst’s proximity to a stout gentleman whose cravat had slipped far enough to reveal an enticing, pulsing portion of neck. Each diversion lasted until Miss Elizabeth approached the edge of his vision, whereupon his senses snapped back to her before conscious decision could prevent them.

Her pulse accelerated during the dance. The True Blood answered her physical exertion by releasing another measure of its impossible aroma into the heated room. Darcy tightened his control and wondered how many vampires might recognise it. His party had not recognised it, somehow. Lesser members of their kind lacked a master’s sensitivity, but dark intentions, deep hunger, or prior knowledge could easily compensate for inferior power.

Wickham possessed all three.

The thought brought Darcy’s eyes sharply towards the entrance. No familiar figure stood among the officers, tradesmen, and local gentlemen gathered there, yet the cold passage carried a residue he had noticed on his arrival and dismissed amid the stronger scents inside the room. Now that Miss Elizabeth’s blood had awakened every dormant part of his perception, he identified it clearly.

Another vampire had passed through Meryton very recently.