Page 51 of Midnight at Pemberley

Darcy blew out a breath marked with frustration. “Elizabeth, I desire you. I am consumed by my need to claim you as a man and as a vampire. I am as abhorrent as Wickham.”

Elizabeth flushed with anger. “Then you must find a means to control your desires, Mr. Darcy. Neither your sister nor I will suffer shame because of your choices. Our arrangement was I would be treated as your wife in every way except one. My reputation as a genteel woman and as the mistress of your estate depends upon the façade we create. I will not be treated as an afterthought by you.”

He stated in earnest, “I would never have you know harm, Elizabeth.”

“Then you will join me in my chamber.” She glared at him and left his room.

Darcy studied her retreating form. His wife spoke sense, but he did not think it possible to deny the pleasure of touching her. He wanted to devour her nakedness. He wished to kiss her and feel her quiver beneath him. He desired to lose himself in her body until his passion was sated. And then there was the one point on her neck, the point where Elizabeth’s lifeline pulsed below the surface. Darcy could not forget the sweet taste of her blood on his lips. Never had he felt such a compelling need for anyone. Never had his blood lust run so wild. Darcy did not know which expression of desire would satisfy him more.

With resigned self-contempt, he opened the door to the adjoining dressing rooms, leading to his wife’s bedchamber. Entering the open door to Elizabeth’s room, he noted the presence of only a single candle on the bed stand. The only other light came from the fireplace. He walked to the far side of her bed and, turning back the linens, Darcy slid his long frame into the bed. He blew out the candle and moved to spoon her body with his, draping an arm over her waist and pulling Elizabeth into his chest. The scent of lavender drifted over him.

“Thank you, William.” Her voice was barely audible.

“It is for the best, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, but Darcy could not decide which “hell” was worse: the one Wickham peopled with his followers or Darcy’s personal one of loving a woman he could not have.

Chapter Thirteen

WICKHAM EXPECTED THE MORROW WOULD BRING HIM STRENGTH, BUT Mrs. Younge tended to his needs for some five days before he stirred for more than a few minutes. Each time he woke in the shadow-filled room, he forced terror-filled dreams from his mind. Darcy came close to discovering the key to ending Lady Ellender’s curse. It was imperative he eliminate Darcy soon. It was only a matter of time before his enemy realized how valuable the woman was to his cause. She did not possess powers of her own, but the faith she held in Darcy’s powers made the man a formidable force. Moreover, he suspected Elizabeth Bennet would determine Darcy’s fate. In today’s dream, she had led Darcy to Wickham’s lair, and he and the man had fought. In the nightmare, Darcy prepared to drive a stake through Wickham’s heart. Wickham had awakened with a scream of horror.

“My lord?” Mrs.Younge tapped lightly on the door.

“Enter, Amelia.” He motioned the woman forward. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, my dear.” He took the woman’s hand and brought the back of it to his lips.

“I am pleased you are well, my lord.”

“You have served me faithfully.” Wickham finished dressing. He stood before the mirror. Only a wavy reflection—a blur of colors—appeared. It was a reflex action—a muscle memory—that even after all these years he had yet to abandon. It made him feel human.

“My lord,” Mrs. Younge said tentatively, “I have news.”

Wickham folded the cravat so it might be pinned. “Yes, Amelia? Speak.”

Mrs. Younge walked to the door and retrieved a newsprint she left upon a table. “This is today’s edition. I believe you should see it.”

Wickham snatched it. “What is it you deem so important?”

Mrs.Younge pointed to the third column. “There.”

Wickham’s sight adjusted quickly to the dim light. He read the first paragraph of an announcement:

Monday, 2 December, 1811, St. Blaise Church, London, celebrated the union of Fitzwilliam George Darcy of Darcy House and of Pemberley in Derbyshire to Elizabeth Victoria Bennet of Hertfordshire.

The news visibly shook him, and Wickham shoved the paper into Mrs. Younge’s hands. “Bloody hell! The woman will be my death!” He grabbed the paper again to search for his answer before he asked the question. “Does it say whether they left for the country?”

“It does not. Such would be from the ordinary.”

“I know where to find him. Darcy will retreat to his ancestral home, the same house where I have stalked every other generation.” He threw the paper on the bed. “Join me for the day.”

“I will be happy to serve you, my lord.”

“We leave in a quarter hour.”

Sally tapped lightly on Elizabeth’s door before entering the room. She waited, and hearing the Master bid her enter, the maid rushed into the room, only to find her mistress in Mr. Darcy’s arms in the bed. “Beg–Begging your pardon, Sir,” she stammered, stunned to find her employer in his wife’s bed.

When Darcy heard the light tap, he knew what to expect. He had covered Elizabeth with the blanket before rolling her towards him. The maid discovered “the reality” they had created.

“Nonsense, Sally. It is commendable that you are so attentive to your new mistress.”

“I’ll return later, Sir.” She backed towards the door.