Page 54 of The Lost Prophecy

The shortening afternoon eventually forced Elizabeth to insist on leaving. She rose, collected her gloves from the table, and reminded Lydia that they were expected at home.

Mrs Philips protested. “You have scarcely finished your tea.”

“We have finished it twice, Aunt,” Elizabeth replied. “Any further refreshment may require us to remain for dinner.”

Lydia complained that the officers were not leaving. Kitty added that they had promised another story. Elizabeth handed Mary her bonnet and directed Mr Collins to the door before either younger sister could secure an invitation to stay permanently.

Mr Wickham reached Elizabeth first.

“Allow me.”

He retrieved her glove from the carpet where it had fallen, then took her bare hand before returning it. His fingers were cold enough to remind her of Mr Darcy’s touch, but where Mr Darcy’s restraint had made his coldness curious, Mr Wickham’s contact produced immediate alarm.

He bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Then his body became rigid, the genial expression vanishing. His grip tightened until pain travelled through her fingers, and when he raised his face, his eyes were black.

No white remained, no iris separated pupil from shadow. For one impossible moment, the handsome officer disappeared behind the face of a hungry creature.

Mr Collins retreated blindly, his face a mask of horror. “No,” he whispered.

Mr Wickham released Elizabeth.

His eyes returned to normal so quickly that she might have doubted what she had seen if her hand had not remained trapped. His smile reappeared, polished and effortless, although hunger lingered beneath it.

“Forgive me.” He opened his fingers. “I fear I held you too firmly.”

Elizabeth withdrew her hand and pulled on the glove. “You did.”

Lydia laughed at Mr Collins, who stood white-faced by the wall, while Mr Denny asked whether Mr Collins had stumbled.

Mr Collins continued staring at Mr Wickham. “We should leave,” he said with a trembling voice.

Elizabeth had never agreed with him more readily.

“Mary, Kitty, Lydia.” She fastened her second glove and moved to the door.

Lydia groaned but followed her sister.

Mr Wickham bowed again but did not attempt another touch. “Until the twenty-sixth, then.”

Elizabeth gathered her sisters, took Mr Collins by the arm when he failed to move and led the party from the house before Mrs Philips could produce another argument or another pot of tea. Cold air struck her face when they reached the street. Mr Collins remained close, but his earlier courtship had been replaced by fear. He glanced behind them twice before they passed the first shop and a third time when the Philipses’ door closed.

Elizabeth’s hand still felt cold inside her glove where Mr Wickham’s lips had touched it.

She walked faster, unable to dismiss the instant when his charming face had become inhuman.