Page 83 of The Lost Prophecy

Mr Wickham led her into the forming set. “I fear our last meeting ended strangely.”

“You held my hand too tightly, as I recall, Mr Wickham.”

“A momentary illness.” He guided her through the first figure, his expression touched by regret so graceful that half the room would have forgiven him without knowing the offence. “The excitement of arriving in a new neighbourhood, irregular hours, and the demands of military society must be held responsible.”

“Do irregular hours often turn your eyes black?”

His step did not falter. “You observed that?”

“Mr Collins observed it as well, although he has since become uncharacteristically discreet.”

The dance separated them. Elizabeth wove between two couples and returned to him as the musicians carried the set forward. He had used the interval to abandon regret and recover amusement.

“You have been speaking to Darcy.”

“I have lately acquired knowledge of several unpleasant things, Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth allowed him to take her hand for the turn and released him at the earliest instant permitted by the figure. “I believe you are of a similar nature.”

He laughed softly. “How delicately you arrange an accusation.”

“I have not accused you of anything.”

“Not yet.”

“Should I?”

He studied her while they moved down the line. “Darcy has told you enough to encourage suspicion but not enough to damage himself. That is very characteristic.”

“You admit that he and you share certain qualities.”

“We share an origin. I should not flatter him by claiming any greater resemblance.”

The next figure brought Lydia and Mr Denny past them. Lydia smiled broadly at Elizabeth, delighted that Mr Wickham had distributed his notice within the family, while Mr Denny appeared less pleased by the arrangement. Mr Wickham returned Lydia’s greeting before turning back to Elizabeth.

“Has Darcy told you how long he has desired to become human?”

“He mentioned the desire.”

“Mentioned it,” he repeated the phrase with enjoyment. “He has pursued every scrap of prophecy, every rumour, and every relic for centuries. There is not a master vampire in Europe who does not know that Fitzwilliam Darcy despises what he is.”

Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “That does not make his desire dishonourable.”

“No, but desire becomes dangerous when a man has patience, power, and very little conscience.”

“You have accused him of pride, injustice, and calculation. A want of conscience is a new addition.”

“I lacked privacy at your aunt’s house.”

The dance carried him away before Elizabeth could respond. She completed the figure with another gentleman, aware that Mr Darcy watched closely. He had not moved, but his gaze followed Mr Wickham. Charlotte was next to Mrs Hurst, and Mr Collins stood beside her resting both hands on his walking stick.

When Mr Wickham returned, he lowered his voice.

“Darcy never approaches anyone without calculation. Every courtesy has a purpose, every confidence advances a design, and every sacrifice purchases a greater advantage. You cannot believe his interest in you began before he recognised your blood.”

“What advantage do you suppose he expects?”

“Your consent. He cannot take what he needs by force,” Wickham said. “You must give your blood willingly. Fear will not suffice, and compulsion is useless against you, so he must secure affection. Once you care for him, he will present his suffering, his long imprisonment, and his noble reluctance to ask. You will offer what he has wanted all along.”

“And if I do?”