Page 12 of The Lost Prophecy

Darcy stared at Bingley’s dilated, overly bright eyes. “You have consumed enough venison blood to hear a thistle drop in Edinburgh.”

Bingley tilted his head, listening intently to the ceiling. “There is definitely a reel being danced somewhere to the north.”

Miss Bingley pressed her fingers to her temples, a picture of aristocratic despair. “Charles, you cannot remain in civilised society in this condition.”

Bingley beamed at her. “I shall sit quietly.”

He walked into the room with boundless energy, missed the armchair, and lowered himself firmly onto a delicate side table. He remained there for several seconds, smiling blankly at the wall, before recognising the error. Hurst calmly moved his glass out of Bingley’s orbit.

From upstairs came the muffled sound of a woman speaking in delirium. Bingley was on his feet immediately, knocking the table sideways, but his fangs were safely concealed behind his lips.

Mrs Nicholls entered the drawing room moments later, wringing her hands. “Miss Bennet is resting again, sir. She is feverish and has been asking repeatedly for her sister, Miss Elizabeth.”

Darcy’s hand curled into an involuntary fist at his side. He pretended to observe the groom riding into the rain to fetch the apothecary, ignoring the phantom quickening in his chest.

BY TEN THE FOLLOWING morning, Mr Jones had examined Miss Bennet. He prescribed rest, warmth, and several foul-smelling remedies whose usefulness was largely dependent on the patient recovering before anyone questioned the ingredients. He departed under clearing skies, leaving Bingley to patrol the passage below the blue chamber and Mrs Nicholls to prevent the master of the house from sending up food trays every quarter of an hour.

Darcy had withdrawn to the breakfast room. Hurst was rearranging sausages without consuming them, Mrs Hurst embroidered near the window, and Miss Bingley composed a lengthy note intended to inform her London acquaintances that country life was an intolerable burden.

Bingley entered the room whenever Miss Bennet moved overhead, announced loudly that she was alive, and returned to his sentry position in the passage before anyone could offer a response.

The household had settled into this chaotic pattern when the front door opened.

Darcy caught Miss Elizabeth’s scent. The True Blood reached him, sharpened by physical exercise, crisp fresh air, and deep concern. Every instinct he had fiercely controlled since the Meryton assembly rose at once. He stood up, placed both hands firmly on the back of his wooden chair, and froze there while footsteps sounded in the entrance hall.

The butler opened the door. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

She entered the breakfast room wearing a walking dress whose hem had collected a considerable portion of the muddy way from Longbourn. Thick mud darkened her petticoat, damp curls had escaped the confines of her bonnet, and the three-mile walk had brought vivid, breathtaking colour into her cheeks. She was breathing quickly, which drove her impossible blood through her veins at a pace Darcy had no wish to hear and could not prevent himself from counting.

At Lucas Lodge, one accidental touch through her glove had disturbed him. The sight of her now, warm from exertion and intent on reaching her sister, reduced centuries of discipline to a collection of urgent objections.

Darcy bowed deeply because formality offered the only defence available to him. “Miss Elizabeth.”

Her gaze passed over him, paused briefly on his white-knuckled hands gripping the chair, and moved to Bingley. The host had rushed into the room so fast that he struck his shoulder against the doorframe.

Bingley recovered without acknowledging the collision. “Miss Elizabeth, you have come. Miss Bennet has been asking for you all morning.”

Miss Elizabeth removed her bonnet and surrendered the damp item to a waiting footman. “How is she? Your servant brought word that she is ill and her fever has risen.”

Bingley clasped his hands together. “Mr Jones has examined her and believes there is no immediate danger, although she must remain unmoved until she recovers. Mrs Nicholls is attending her, Louisa has provided everything she requires, and I have ordered broth, tea, fresh linen, more blankets, and several items Mrs Nicholls forcefully removed from my hands before they reached the stairs.”

Miss Elizabeth’s features eased slightly, although the concern did not leave her eyes. “I am grateful for your care of her.”

Bingley opened his mouth, forgot what he intended to communicate, and his eyes dropped helplessly to the pulse at her throat.

Darcy tightened his crushing grip on the chair. The animal blood Bingley had consumed during the night had restored his control, but human affection made him foolish. Foolishness in a vampire had consequences stretching far beyond awkward conversation.

Miss Bingley lowered her quill, her eyebrows reaching her hairline in pure horror. “You walked from Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth?”

Miss Elizabeth met the condescension with a bright smile. “The distance is not great.”

Miss Bingley pointed a trembling finger at the floor. “The road is muddy!”

Miss Elizabeth glanced down at her skirts. “I noticed that fact primarily during the portions where it attempted to retain my shoes.”

Hurst lowered the newspaper he pretended to read, genuine curiosity in his voice. “Did it succeed?”

Miss Elizabeth brushed a spot of dirt from her sleeve. “Only once, but I persuaded it to reconsider.”