Page 74 of Midnight at Pemberley

“It be just a sleeping room.”

“I have no desire to sleep.” Wickham leaned back in the chair to release his hold on her. “Say we will not sleep, my lovely Lucy.”

The woman shook her head, attempting to clear it. “No, guv’nor, we will take no sleep.” She gave him a smile, showing one missing tooth. “I’ll bring ye the tankard. I be askin’ Harry about leavin’.”

“That would be capital, Lucy.”

Surprisingly, Lucy appeared at the table in less than a quarter hour. “Ye be prepared, guv’nor?” She extended a hand to him.

Wickham took her hand and tugged her into him as he stood. “Never been more so, lovely Lucy.”

He slung his arm about her shoulder and maneuvered the barmaid out into the crisp December air. “Whew,” she uttered, her breath forming a solid film, “it be colder.”

“I will keep you warm,” he growled close to her ear.

Lucy laughed, a bit nervously, but she never paused or faltered as they crossed the intersecting streets. “I live just down here.” She pointed to a row of tenements, shabby-looking buildings even in the daylight. In the cold night, they appeared to huddle together for warmth. “Ye be tellin’ Lucy yer name, guv’nor?”

“I am James,” he said as he followed her up the narrow stairs of the second row house.

“James be an honest soundin’ name,” she observed as they reached her door. Unlocking the bolt, Lucy opened it to a darkened room. “I find us a candle.” She fumbled along the mantelpiece.

“Allow me.” Needing no light to see clearly, Wickham managed to find the flint and the rush candle.

Lucy removed the scarf she wore around her neck. “My, ye be handy.”

“I am here to please.” He gave her an exaggerated bow. “You settle yourself, Lucy, and I will stoke the fire.”

He poured a handful of coal into the grate and added some bunched newsprints she likely had found on the streets. Then he went to her. He did not kiss her, as she had anticipated. Instead, Wickham caressed her jaw and raised her chin to look into her eyes. He would do nothing else but rest his intense gaze upon her. With a slight tilt of his head, he indicated the bed, and Lucy backed towards it. She lay back and he straddled her, taking both her hands in his large grasp. With the other hand, he traced circles across her breasts with his fingertips. He heard her quick intake of breath.

He lowered his mouth to the side of her neck. She smelled of sweat and of tobacco and of cheap ale, but Lucy also smelled of life and of iron-filled blood, and Wickham required what she offered. He looked down upon her a second time to judge whether she was completely under his spell. Then came the snap of her neck, a quick movement of his hands, placing the thumbs at the indentation before giving a lethal jerk. Lucy’s eyes rolled back in her head, the life leaving her.

Finally enjoying himself, he lowered his head to drink his fill. The act of tasting her in the most personal of ways brought the erection the woman had thought to enjoy, and Wickham sated himself with a different sort of copulation with her lifeless, rapidly cooling body. It was pure power—this lustful lapping of the woman’s life fluid. It was the taking of a human life. It was the build-up of emotions—the control—his control— and the submission—her submission. He lived for that one split second before they died—the moment his victims knew the folly of their decision. He considered the act very much like the Christian Eucharist—a sacrifice inasmuch as it is offered up and a sacrament inasmuch as it is received. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.

Chapter Twenty

AFTER THE STORM, THE DAYS QUICKLY TURNED UNSEASONABLY WARM for December. The weather permitted Darcy and Elizabeth to escape the house and resume her riding lessons. They had left Ceres in the London mews behind Darcy House, so Darcy introduced Elizabeth to a new horse, the gelding Apollo he had considered for her back at Netherfield. Apollo was more spirited than Ceres and would challenge Elizabeth’s natural skills.

“Straighten your back,” Darcy reminded her when she bounced in the saddle.

“He is so powerful, William!”

“No more so than Ceres. Apollo is simply not as comfortable as your favorite, but he is a better horse for the rolling hills of Pemberley. Ceres is better for the city, not as skittish with the noise and the traffic.”

“Do we have a destination?” she asked.

“I thought we might call on a few of the tenants and perhaps the vicar if there is time.”

“I would take pleasure in that.” Elizabeth shot him a quick glance. “I was thinking.” Suddenly, she appeared tongue-tied.

“Dare I ask of what?” Darcy found her embarrassment endearing.

Elizabeth paused again. “I considered where I might find my place as your wife—as the mistress of this estate. At Longbourn, I often handled the tenant affairs for my father. He chooses his books to avoid such trivial confrontations, and my mother’s nerves make the confrontations too tedious. I flatter myself by saying I have a way with the workers—at least, I seemed to at Longbourn.”

Darcy halted on the crest of a hill. He presented her with a level look. “What did you do for the tenants at Longbourn?” he asked seriously.

Elizabeth sparkled with his interest. “Papa trusted me to settle the disputes and such matters. And at this time of year, I would arrange baskets for the families on Boxing Day. Papa is not wealthy, but everyone appreciated our acknowledgment of their service to the estate.”

Intrigued, Darcy asked, “What kind of basket?”