Vampire Darcy's Desire (13 page)

For two days, Elizabeth heard nothing of and nothing from Mr. Darcy. She fretted and fussed and fumed about Longbourn, much to the annoyance of her family, although none of them knew why she felt out of sorts.

“I know just what you need,” Lydia asserted, barging into her bedroom. “Mr. Denny is on his way, and he is bringing a friend—a
handsome
friend.”

“Oh, Lydia, tell me you did not do this,” Elizabeth protested.

“Too late.” Lydia twirled around the room. “They just came into the garden. Arrange your hair, Lizzy, and come downstairs. Jane, Kitty, and Mary are already in the drawing room.”

Elizabeth went to the mirror to check her looks.“What makes you think a man can solve what ails me, Lyddie?” However, as she observed her reflection, she could think of one man in particular who could remove her anxiety with just a sideways glance.

“Meeting new gentlemen
always
cheers me up,” her youngest sister declared, as if it were a given fact for everyone.

“You are our mother’s child,” Elizabeth remarked. “You go on down, dear, with the others, and I will follow momentarily.”

Left alone, Elizabeth fished out Darcy’s handkerchief from a dresser drawer; she placed it in her pocket, where she might touch it. When Elizabeth entered the room, Mr. Denny addressed her directly and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say accepted a commission in the corps.This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals
to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favor; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. His best characteristic, Elizabeth quickly noted, was his steel grey eyes. She thought that she had never saw seen any like them.

“From where do you hail, Mr. Wickham?” she asked out of politeness.

Wickham sat beside her on one of the drawing room settees. “Originally, I am from Scotland, Miss Elizabeth, but more recently I lived in Bakewell, as well as in London. I returned eight months ago from a short stay in Kent.”

“Bakewell? In Derbyshire?” she demanded, latching onto the words.

Wickham shifted his weight, as if he would like to change the topic or quit the room.“You know Derbyshire, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Our aunt, Sir, comes from Lambton.” Taking real note of the man at last, somehow she felt she sat next to evil. His smile was too perfect—his manners were too perfect—
he
was too perfect.

Wickham’s voice changed tenor; suspicion appeared at once. “Outside Pemberley? Do you know the estate?”

“Only by reputation.”

Before the conversation could go further, Lydia and Kitty interrupted. “We wish to walk to Meryton;Aunt Philips invited us all to tea.You will come, too, will you not, Mr. Wickham?” Lydia asked flirtatiously.

“I will happily see you to town, Miss Lydia.” He stood and made a quick bow to her. “I am most anxious to hear of your luck with lottery tickets. I understand from Mr. Denny that you win quite often. Do you have a method you employ?” He took her hand and placed it on his arm as he led Lydia to the entrance hallway.

Needing the exercise and Jane’s company, Elizabeth trailed along—despite her misgivings about the fine-looking stranger. Of late, Jane shared secrets about Mr. Bingley with her; Jane told her everything he had said to her while she recuperated at his house. Elizabeth would like to reciprocate and tell Jane of Mr. Darcy, but
she could not. It was a secret not even Jane would understand.

Upon reaching the village, they turned towards their aunt’s house. Luckily, Aunt Philips met them coming from the shops. Introductions were made once again. The introduction was followed upon Mr.Wickham’s side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. Elizabeth’s heart leaped.

On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly forward then and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object.

“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said as he tipped his hat to Jane, “I was just now on my way to Longbourn to inquire after your health.”

“I am well, as you can see, Mr. Bingley.” Jane blushed from his attention.

As the two openly flirted, Darcy and Elizabeth both fought the urge to fix their eyes on each other, and then Elizabeth noted his distress at the sight of finding Mr. Wickham a member of the Bennet party. Elizabeth, happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed color: One looked white, the other red. Darcy’s ice-blue eyes hardened in apparent hatred. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation, which Darcy just deigned to return.What could be the meaning of it? Elizabeth’s curiosity was piqued. It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

In another minute Mr. Bingley, without seeming to notice what passed, took his leave and rode on with his friend. Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips’s house and then made their bows, in spite of Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in.

Before the gentlemen could escape,Aunt Philips invited them all to dinner for the next evening.The younger girls readily agreed for
the whole family, while the gentlemen agreed on their own behalf.

Elizabeth followed her sisters into the house, where she tried to enjoy their company and the tea, but her mind rode with a stranger across the rolling hills of Hertfordshire. Why had Darcy snubbed Mr. Wickham? Even in distress, his good breeding took over and Darcy would act the gentleman. It had something to do with Derbyshire, she surmised. Obviously, Darcy would not tell her; she would just have to ask Mr.Wickham for his story.

As he rode away, Darcy’s anger boiled over.Trying to respond to Bingley’s happiness at seeing Jane Bennet only complicated his feelings. Wickham was in town. Even worse, he was in
Elizabeth’s
company. Had Wickham followed him here to Hertfordshire? Did he know how Darcy felt about Elizabeth—how lonely the past two days without her had been? He, Darcy, had to stay away from her, for if Wickham knew, he would target Elizabeth as revenge against himself. Wickham had tried with Georgiana, and now
his Elizabeth
was in danger from the same evil. Darcy had to figure out a way to protect her. Staying away from her completely seemed the only logical course of action, but he knew her. His absence would increase her inquisitiveness; she had observed his reaction to Wickham today, and she would not let it rest.

The woman flirted with him brazenly, and Wickham allowed her to sit upon his lap. Her dark skin indicated that she was of Mediterranean descent. “You are beautiful, my pet.” He bit down on her earlobe, harder than most men might, but the lady did not complain. Instead, she pulled his face to her breasts, allowing him to rub his lips, his nose, and his tongue along her cleavage. Wickham caressed her breast and then he whispered eagerly,“Where can we be alone?”

She giggled and wanted to be kissed, but he hated kissing any woman other than Ellender. Only Ellender fulfilled those needs he tried to bury deep within.

“Let me get my shawl.”

“I will keep you warm,”Wickham insisted.

The woman said playfully,“I expect you will, Love.”

Within a few minutes they walked along a quiet country road. “Me house be just down here.” She gestured to a small cottage.

Wickham pulled her to him. “I do not believe I can wait that long.” He slipped the bodice down, exposing one of her breasts.

“You be an anxious one, Love,” she reprimanded him, but she did not withdraw from his aggressive touch.

Wickham shoved her chin up, so that she might look into his eyes. He held her there with his grasp and with his stare. “Let me show you how anxious,” he growled. He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the tender flesh of her neck. Tasting the blood, he closed his jaw, and with the strength of a wolf, he bit harder and ripped away the flesh.The woman did not scream as he took her; instead, she lolled back into arms. He licked and sucked and tore away more of her.The fear in her eyes remained as her body went rigid. Now, he felt the erection, and he laid her on the ground to ravish her completely.

Determined to have her answer, Elizabeth set out for Meryton as early as propriety would allow. If necessary, she would find Mr. Wickham with the rest of the militia. Luckily, the man lazily sauntered down the main street of the village. She crossed the street at an angle, with the purpose of seeming to accidentally meet with him. She positioned herself as if interested in a fine bonnet displayed in the window of a mercantile. Waiting, her heartbeats anxious, Elizabeth counted to ten before he stepped up beside her.

“The color would do nothing for your beautiful hair, Miss Elizabeth.” He spoke close to her ear—intimately close.

Elizabeth did not turn; they could behold each other’s reflection in the store’s window, and although hers was crystal clear, even showing the wrinkles in her sleeves, Mr. Wickham’s was a blur of color. A shiver ran down her spine, but her words hid her fear. “I thought it to be a gift.” With deliberate innocence, she turned to face him. “Good day to you, Mr. Wickham. I see you have your lieutenancy.” His regimentals added to his perfection. Her mouth went dry as his rapier-sharp gaze narrowed on her.

“I am a lowly foot soldier, Miss Elizabeth.” He made an exaggerated bow.

Forcing herself not to look directly into his eyes, Elizabeth feigned delight. Cool and calm came her words: “I am pleased to know Meryton is safer than it was this time yesterday.” Setting her mind to her task, she reached for Wickham’s arm. “And now, Mr. Wickham, I might implore you to escort me safely to my Aunt Philips’s house.”

“My true pleasure, Miss Elizabeth.”

He reached for her hand to place it on his proffered arm when Elizabeth took note of a birthmark or tattoo on the back of his hand. When Wickham saw her staring at it, he withdrew his free hand and turned her towards her aunt’s house, but Elizabeth was aware of how he stiffened with the action.“It is a burn,” he offered before she could ask.“My father was a strict disciplinarian.”Wickham
lowered his voice. “I made a poor choice on that particular occasion, and my father thought it best that I had something by which to remember my folly.”

It was all the explanation he presented, and no other avenues of conversation could be had with pursuing it, so Elizabeth let it drop with simply a nod of her head. Instead,they walked slowly, pausing often to peer into the nearest window. At last she asked, “Do you suppose the militia will be long in Meryton, Mr.Wickham?”

“I hope not.” He let his smile fade.“My hopes are to see action on a battlefield.” His expression was unreadable.

“I do not know many men who wish for battles.”

Eyes—hard and bleak—traced the outline of her face. “Some may call it irrational, but I
live
for the action—the smoke—even the
deaths
.”

Elizabeth hated the war—the useless loss of life. She did not answer. How could she? Marshaling any arguments against the determined curve of his lips seemed fruitless. “May I change the topic, Mr.Wickham?”

“Of course, Miss Elizabeth. Forgive me for speaking so passionately on such an indelicate subject.”

“Speak to me of your time in Bakewell. I wish to know more of the area in which my Aunt Gardiner resides. She is so dear to me; anything you could tell me would bring me pleasure.”

“I suppose you realize, Miss Elizabeth, that the terrain in Derbyshire is more rugged—more intense—the winters are colder and the summers milder; therefore, the vegetation is thicker. I am not one to look at things for their natural beauty, but I do enjoy the wildness of the Peak District. It reminds me of Scotland. Next to Northumberland, it is the most pleasing of areas, although the population is growing steadily and taking away the privacy we all cherish.”

“Ah, yes,” she said with deep regret in her tone,“my aunt speaks as such. She is in London now, but one hears the wistfulness in her voice when she speaks of
home
.”

“Indeed.”

Elizabeth paused, as if considering her next question. “I could not help but notice, Mr. Wickham, you and Mr. Darcy seemed acquainted, although you did not speak. I thought it quite unusual.”

His face paled slightly, and he tapped the fingers of his free hand impatiently against his thigh. “I am vaguely familiar with the younger Mr. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth. My father served as his father’s steward for several years. Old Mr. Darcy looked upon me as a second son at one time. Of course, that was before the current Master of Pemberley took over. Fitzwilliam Darcy is a cruel man, I am sorry to say, Miss Elizabeth.”