Page 100 of The Lost Prophecy

“Miss Bingley is correct in one respect,” Miss Elizabeth murmured. “You are rejecting a solution before establishing whether the woman involved wishes to be rescued from it.”

“I am preventing you from mistaking sympathy for affection.”

“And I am discovering that three centuries have not taught you the difference between honour and presumption.”

Darcy’s control faltered. “You cannot know what life with me would require.”

“Then explain it. I have found direct information unexpectedly useful this evening.”

“You would leave Longbourn and your family. You would become mistress of Pemberley, responsible for an estate and all who depend on it. My past would not disappear because I became human. The elders would recognise our binding, and those among our kind who resented my authority might regard my mortality as an invitation to settle ancient grievances. There would be danger, obligation, and the daily society of a man who has been accustomed to command for longer than our country has had its present constitution.”

Miss Elizabeth considered this formidable catalogue. “Would you also expect me to endure your silences?”

“Most certainly.”

“Your tendency to decide what I think before I have spoken?” she pushed further.

Darcy inclined his head. “I would endeavour to correct it.”

“And your punch bowl?”

The vessel peeked at them from Fletcher’s coat.

“That appears unavoidable.”

“Then I am grateful that all material disadvantages have been disclosed.” Miss Elizabeth closed her fan. “Now let us remove the prophecy from the equation.”

Darcy studied her, uncertain whether hope or dread had made her voice so calm. “That is impossible.”

“It is perfectly possible. Imagine that the inscription remains incomplete. Imagine that I have no blood beyond the common variety, that the bowl has never stalked me carrying a knife, and that you will remain exactly as you are. Put aside humanity, immortality, Mr Wickham, binding rituals, and every ancient law which has made the past month unnecessarily eventful.”

He could not imagine her ordinary. Even without prophecy, her presence had disturbed every discipline he ever had. She had invaded his thoughts, challenged him before she understood his nature and made him desire her company when desire itself had become a sensation he associated chiefly with hunger.

Miss Elizabeth watched him attempt the impossible exercise. “There is only you and me, Mr Darcy. Do you hold any regard for me?”

The question entered him more cleanly than Collins’s sharpened stick had entered Wickham.

Fletcher turned his face to the ballroom. His expression was sombre, although the rigid set of his shoulders revealed that he had discovered an urgent professional interest in the musicians. Miss Bingley did not withdraw. She gazed at Darcy with an understanding which stripped the ambition from her features and left only the pain of a woman who had finally received an answer to a question she had never permitted herself to speak.

Darcy could have offered Miss Elizabeth a cautious phrase. He might have confessed esteem, admiration, or attachment, each respectable word concealing the force of the truth. Such concealment had already endangered her, and he had promised that it would end.

“Yes.” His voice emerged rougher than he intended. “I hold more regard for you than I believed myself capable of feeling.”

Her fingers tightened around her fan, but she did not turn away.

“You are the most remarkable woman I have ever encountered. I have lived three hundred and seventeen vampire years, and another twenty-eight in human time, Miss Elizabeth. In all that time I have known no one who has challenged me, amused me, infuriated me, and understood me in equal measure. You entered Netherfield for your sister’s sake and confronted everything within it for the sake of others. You learned what I was and demanded honesty rather than protection. You faced Wickham when men who knew his nature had failed to stop him for fifty years, and now, after witnessing death and discovering a prophecy, you stand here debating my future as calmly as another woman might discuss the supper.”

Her lips curved, though her eyes had grown bright. “I have not inspected the supper.”

“That may be counted among your wiser decisions.” Darcy permitted himself no retreat now that the truth had begun. “What I feel for you cannot be reduced to gratitude, hunger, or the promise contained in your blood. I desired your company before I understood why the bowl followed you. I feared for you before Wickham recognised you. I refused the first form of the prophecy because I would sooner remain what I am than purchase humanity through your condemnation. The warmth I experience in your presence has only one possible interpretation, though the word has been absent from my life for so long that I scarcely know how to speak it.”

Behind them, the musicians reached a lively passage, and the dancers changed partners in a sweep of colour which concealed the five figures standing closely motionless. Darcy allowed his hand to fall open at his side.

“I love you, Miss Elizabeth. I love you ardently, entirely, and without any expectation that you must return it. That is why I cannot take your offer as proof that you wish to become my wife. Compassion may produce a noble sacrifice, but it cannot produce a happy marriage.”

The bowl began to vibrate, and Fletcher tightened his hold. “If you would permit me an observation, sir, the vessel appears dissatisfied with the conclusion.”

“The vessel has no experience of marriage.”