Chapter Two
ELIZABETH BENNET THOUGHT that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was the most disagreeable man in the whole of England.
She had overheard him saying she was not handsome enough to tempt him to dance, and then…
well, that was all, but there was something about the man that made her feel something strange and odd and dreamy, and this made her even more determined to hate him.
After all, when a man insults a woman, a woman does not spend the rest of her time going strangely soft on him, or daydreaming about him from time to time, or finding his handsome countenance dancing on the edge of her consciousness, imagining him saying things like, You are exquisite.
He was handsome, that was the truth.
He was altogether awful in every other way, however.
She had spent the past several weeks since the ball at Meryton telling positively everyone how much she disliked him.
It was to the point that her sister Lydia had told her that anyone who spent so much time actively hating someone obviously didn’t hate them, and Elizabeth had resolved to say nothing else of Mr. Darcy ever again, for if Lydia had noticed, that meant everyone had.
She had four sisters, and most of them were not entirely self-absorbed, but Lydia was. Lydia was the youngest in the family, and she noticed positively nothing except things that involved herself. So, if Lydia had seen this, it meant it was quite bad.
Of course, no one else in her family would have said anything, only Lydia blurted out everything that crossed her mind with no forethought. Even Catherine, who they called Kitty, would not be so bold. Kitty was older than Lydia, but rather followed her about and was Lydia’s shadow and imitator.
In truth, Elizabeth often found members of her family embarrassing, with the exception of Jane, who was her eldest sister and was likely Elizabeth’s favorite person in all of the world.
Jane was good and sweet and patient and everything that Elizabeth wished she could be.
But next to Jane, Elizabeth felt clumsy and boorish and foolish.
If Jane hadn’t been so sweet and accepting, Elizabeth might not have loved her so dearly, but she hadn’t a cruel bone in her body.
Now, Elizabeth was standing next to Jane. They were at a dinner at Lucas Lodge, which was the home of Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte. Her father Sir William, was knighted.
The dinner portion of the evening having been concluded, all of those who had been invited had retired to a sitting room where they all stood and sat in clumps of people here and there.
Mr. Darcy was there.
Elizabeth was trying not to pay any attention to him, but it seemed that every time she looked up he was staring at her, and she was fairly certain he was looking at her with a great deal of distaste and disapproval.
Truly, she thought he could conceal it a bit better and that he need not look at her in such a fashion. He was altogether too severe upon her. She may not be handsome enough to tempt him, but he was gazing at her as if she were a rodent that must be caught and put from the house.
She shifted, uneasy, and she paid little attention to the conversation that was going on around her, which was all about throwing a ball.
Charlotte elbowed her and whispered to her to tell Colonel Forster he must give them a ball at Meryton, and Elizabeth, faithfully, relayed the message, though she thought she might have better instructed Charlotte to simply say this on her own.
Mr. Darcy was on the periphery. He seemed to have heard. He was still gazing at her as if she disgusted him, but he also came closer.
She bore his disdainful stare as long as she could before she found herself saying, “Ah, Mr. Darcy, you seem to be studying me rather closely. I suppose you are thinking to yourself that I expressed myself uncommonly well as I teased Colonel Forster to give us a ball, are you not?”
“Oh, with great excitement,” said Mr. Darcy, and his voice was low and deep and a little bit sardonic. “But balls are a subject which tend to make ladies excited.”
“You are severe, sir,” she said.
“Severe?” he repeated.
“On ladies,” she said, but she meant that he was severe on her, with that awful expression of his.
He made to answer this, but was interrupted, because Charlotte was asking her to sing along whilst she played the piano forte, and Elizabeth agreed, only because Charlotte did not wish to play and sing by herself.
Elizabeth’s voice was passably good, she thought, but by no means anything extraordinary.
It was a bit embarrassing to always be called upon to perform.
However, Elizabeth did as she must with Charlotte, and then she retired to another part of the room, only to find that Mr. Darcy appeared there, too.
She was surprised at this. Why was this man following her about the room? He clearly did not like her in the least.
She was thinking about escaping him and going elsewhere when Sir William injected himself into the conversation, saying that Mr. Darcy must be in want of a dance partner, and saying that Elizabeth was right there, that Mr. Darcy could ask her to join him for a dance.
Elizabeth was exasperated. “You must not assume that I am standing over here to beg for a partner. I have not the least intention of dancing. With anybody.” For, of course, it was very impolite to deny a dance with a certain gentleman. One must, instead, turn down the entire activity.
“I should, in fact, be quite honored to dance with you, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy.
“Indeed, I am flattered, and thank you, but no,” said Elizabeth. She would have simply fled then, but she felt she must not run away just yet, that it would be more polite to wait a moment and then find a break in the conversation to excuse herself.
But just then Miss Bingley, who was the unmarried sister of Mr. Bingley, the man who seemed enamored of Jane—but then who would not be?—pressed herself between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley had very pale skin, Elizabeth noted, but then everyone in the family seemed to have that same pale skin. Her hair was blond, very fair, and her eyes sought out Elizabeth’s, dancing with some hidden amusement.
“Here you are, then,” said Miss Bingley. “What an interesting creature you are.”
Elizabeth thought that was a very strange thing to say, but decided she would take it as a compliment. “How kind of you, Miss Bingley,” she said.
Miss Bingley smirked, looked at her from head to toe, and then turned to look at Mr. Darcy, shrugging at him.
And then—
Elizabeth didn’t know. She tried to think back over the conversation after that, but she couldn’t remember any of it. The next thing she knew Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley were gone and she was standing there with Sir William, who had a vaguely confused look on his face.
“YOU CERTAINLY ARE not helping the situation by charming her yourself, Caroline,” muttered Bingley, pacing in the sitting room at Netherfield.
“I quite agree,” said Mr. Darcy, who was sitting down, pouring glasses of port for the four of them.
As vampires, they could drink, but they could not become inebriated.
Even still, they imbibed alcohol nearly daily, as well as tea and even morning chocolate.
It was always easier to drink than to eat.
Food took quite some time to be broken down by their vampire bodies.
It often sat quite uncomfortably for days in their stomach before it was eventually broken down and absorbed. Liquid was easier.
“Oh, I thought I would not have to,” said Caroline, who was running her fingers over the back of one of the chairs. “I simply got careless, I suppose, with whatever it was coming out of my mouth. It will not happen again, I assure you.”
Caroline had started saying all manner of things about sirensongs and blood-drinking and teasing him about how much he wished to drain Elizabeth entirely dry, and there had been no choice but to charm both Elizabeth and Sir William, make them forget whatever it was she had said.
“Now that I think about it,” said Bingley, “you were this way the last time Darcy had a sirensong.”
“I was not,” said Caroline, sweeping across the room to take her glass of port.
“You were, actually,” said Darcy, picking up his glass, leaning back in his chair to level his gaze at her.
She sat down, sighing. “Well, we all know how it often goes, don’t we? I have done it myself, after all. You remember that time in France in the 1350s.”
“I’m not going to turn Elizabeth Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy. “I have never turned a sirensong, Caroline.”
“You have never turned anyone,” she countered, witheringly.
Turning a human could go badly sometimes if one didn’t take care.
One had to take the prospective vampire all the way to the point of death, and if one went too far, sometimes certain things got, well, damaged.
Then, the resulting vampire would be nothing more than a hungry, mindless, raging beast. Those sorts of vampires gave the rest of all vampires a bad name, because they would kill indiscriminately, nothing but rage and hunger. They were monstrous.
This was what had happened with Caroline’s sirensong. She had tried to turn him, done a bad job of it, and then the resulting monstrous creature had gone on a rampage, killing a number of people.
They had restrained the creature but Caroline had prevented them from killing him, clutching him and begging him to come back to her. She had fought to keep him alive for longer than had made any kind of sense.
“Which is why I have no intention of starting now,” said Mr. Darcy. “I am not going to turn her, and you needn’t worry that I shall.”
“Indeed, it seems that Darcy showed remarkable restraint tonight,” said Bingley to Caroline. “You, on the other hand, did not.”
Caroline pressed her lips together and looked away.
“What is that face you are making?” muttered Bingley.