Chapter Thirteen
MR. DARCY KEPT her from his bed and from being locked up with him for the daylight for some time after that.
He did not drink from her, and he barely touched her, keeping it only to kissing and drinking in the delight of her cinnamon and honey scent, even though he was aware he had not seen her uncovered, had not touched her bare skin, had definitely not buried himself inside her, between her spread thighs.
He wanted all of these things with a kind of frenzy that terrified him, and this was why he held her at arms’ length for so long.
The conversation about turning her seemed to have subdued her in some odd way.
They spoke of it again and again, always with her bringing up more and more consequences to it.
If he turned her, she would have to drink blood, she said, and he agreed, yes, it was that way. She said he would have to watch her drink from others, and it would mean he saw her differently. He agreed to that, too.
Did he like the fact she was sweet and soft and never vicious? Likely.
Did he like her warmth and her humanness? Quite definitely.
One night, she brought up the fact that if she was turned, she would not be able to see her family in the same way. “Maybe for a few years, I could go and visit—but only at night, of course—but after a while, it would be noticeable that I am not aging, I should think, and it would need to cease.”
Yes, he told her, yes.
Another night, she said that if she was turned, she could not have children.
“You could not,” he said quietly.
“Of course, I already have married you,” she said. “And this means I cannot bear the children of the man I love anyway.”
He felt something lurch inside himself at the thought of her bearing his children.
She felt it in the bond.
And then they were kissing.
The kisses turned breathless and frantic, and she was soon in his arms, writhing against him and whispering that they had been married for weeks now, that he must take her virtue at some point, that they could not carry on this way, not forever.
“I know you will not hurt me,” she breathed. “I am sure of it.”
He was sure of it, too, and he was moments away from taking her to his bedchamber to strip away every stitch of her clothing and to finally—finally—taste her blood again, but a servant came in and said that he had visitors.
It was Mr. Bingley and Caroline.
“Lizzy,” he said to her, “perhaps you might go and entertain yourself elsewhere while I speak to them.”
“No, don’t send me away,” she said. “Please, do not keep secrets from me, husband.”
So, they all sat down together. He poured wine for them all. He sat with Elizabeth close, close enough he could pull her onto his lap if necessary.
“You’ve been reckless,” said Bingley, getting right down to it. “This marriage is the talk of all of Meryton and parts of London as well. The Matlocks don’t know what to make of it. Your aunt is affronted on the part of her rector, Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, but I have had a letter from home about that,” said Elizabeth. “He’s asked Charlotte Lucas to marry him, as I understand.”
“The point isn’t Mr. Collins or how easily settled he is with someone else,” said Mr. Bingley.
“The point is that you, Darcy, are calling too much attention to yourself. We can’t go around marrying young human girls with special licenses in private ceremonies, charming their families into not objecting.
We can’t go about charming people to forcibly break entails.
This is not done, Darcy. It’s not even like you. ”
Darcy felt embarrassed. If he’d still been human, perhaps he would have blushed. He glanced at her, this woman who had made him not act like himself, and he found a strange and silly smile was spreading over his face.
“Darcy,” said Bingley coldly.
He turned back to him, struggling to stop smiling and failing. “I suppose I have positively nothing to say for myself.”
Caroline’s expression narrowed.
Mr. Darcy turned to her, looking her up and down, and then this all began to make sense. He turned back to Bingley. “Why does it matter to you, Charles?”
“Are we doing it that way?” said Bingley. “Well, Fitzwilliam, it’s because you and I are quite heavily associated, and if everyone discovers you’re a vampire, it will not take long for them to notice that we, too, do not ever come out in the day and that no one ever observes us eating and that—”
“No one is going to discover we are vampires,” said Mr. Darcy, brushing this away. “Caroline put you up to this.” He looked directly into her eyes.
Caroline’s nostrils flared.
“Indeed, she did not,” said Bingley. “She and I have spoken about it, of course.”
“Yes, whispering back and forth on one pillow, as I suppose she has crawled back into your bed,” said Mr. Darcy. “How many times must she do that before you realize she only ever gives you her favor because she wishes something of you.”
Bingley sighed heavily. “I don’t expect you to understand, I suppose. You’re so solitary.”
“Understand what?” said Mr. Darcy.
“This sort of love,” said Bingley. “What it is to be with someone for this many centuries, the way it ebbs and flows and the way you hurt and devastate each other, but the way you always come back to each other also. Caroline and I…” He looked at her.
She looked at him.
Darcy looked between them, back and forth, and he shook his head.
“You may love her, Bingley, I shall grant you that. It may be that way for you. But I don’t think Caroline is quite capable of love, only obsession and indifference, and a fluctuating between the two.
She is currently obsessed with me, not you, but this obsession has soured and now she thinks only to hurt me. ”
Bingley grimaced. There was a long pause. “No,” he said finally, but Darcy could tell his words had affected the other man.
Caroline spoke up. “Cor meum, you forget what has been between all of us. It is as Charles says, that there is a longstanding relationship between us all, and that it morphs and grows through various phases of our long lives. I am not, and have never been, obsessed with you, but you are connected to us, and we worry about you.”
“Worry,” repeated Darcy, nodding knowingly. “All of this is for my benefit.”
“Your actions do affect us,” said Bingley.
“What is it you are here to ask me to do?” said Darcy. “You have come to ask something.”
Bingley furrowed his brow. He turned to look at Caroline. “Ma belle, I am thinking it through now, and I wonder if it makes as much sense as I thought. Are you punishing him? Is it that?”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed. She pointed at Elizabeth. “She is causing the problem. The problem must be solved.”
Bingley cleared his throat. “Perhaps we look for other alternatives, however.”
“No, you agreed with me when we came here,” said Caroline.
“Well, we were speaking of how the situation might worsen the longer that she is affecting him thus,” said Bingley.
“And I said that I thought it might be true, that Darcy does seem out of his head when it comes to her. He could further endanger us. But I shall say, Caroline, I have not been nearly as bloodthirsty about it as you seem to be.”
Elizabeth gasped next to him.
Darcy put his arm around her, drawing her close. “I shall not let her near you, my love,” he breathed to Elizabeth. To Caroline, “You cannot have come here to propose to kill my wife.”
“What if you turn her?” said Bingley.
“What?” said Caroline.
Darcy sighed. “We are discussing it, but she is… reticent, and I…”
“Turning her does not solve the problem at all!” said Caroline, horrified.
“Well,” said Bingley, “once she is not his sirensong, then he will be less likely to be driven to do mad things to secure her.”
“I have secured her,” said Darcy. “She is my wife.”
“Yes, but you have her here, all alone, and you are going to be driven to take more and more of her blood,” said Bingley. “If your wife dies suspiciously, it reflects badly on us all.”
“Oh, that is…” Caroline got up from her chair. “You are never on my side, Charles.”
“Your side is simply about him,” said Bingley, gesturing at Darcy. “You can’t think I am your instrument in your separate lovers’ quarrel, ma belle. What do you take me for?”
Caroline stalked out of the room, huffing all the way.
Bingley sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. “She is… trying sometimes.”
Darcy glared into Caroline’s wake.
“She still wants to kill me,” said Elizabeth softly.
“Yes, apologies, Miss Elizab—Mrs. Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley. “I can’t imagine this is an easy subject to listen to.”
Elizabeth laughed faintly. “It seems all we talk about lately is my dying and how imminent it is if we do not take drastic action.”
“So, I’m correct,” said Bingley. “You are taking too much of her blood.”
“I have been abstaining lately,” said Mr. Darcy, not wishing to admit he’d been just about to take her to bed and claim her completely, in every way he could claim her, and that he was not certain he would have kept himself in check for such a thing. “But yes, I suppose it’s a concern.”
“You don’t wish to be turned, madam?” said Bingley to Elizabeth.
“I haven’t said that exactly,” she said quietly. “But I don’t think my husband wishes to turn me, either.”
Bingley chuckled. “Yes, well, he wouldn’t.”
“I don’t really see that this is any of your business, actually,” said Darcy to Bingley.
“Caroline’s revenge schemes aside, I’m not wrong that you’re being reckless,” said Bingley.
Darcy considered what he was saying.
“The fact you’ve married her in haste and then no one has seen her in weeks, that her own family did not attend the wedding, that she has not written one solitary letter to anybody at all—”
“Oh, I suppose I’ve been distracted,” murmured Elizabeth.
“Anyway, none of it looks good,” said Bingley.
Darcy nodded. “All right, all right.”
“Do not drain her. Keep her in good health. And, for God’s sake, take her to a ball.”
“Yes,” said Darcy quietly.
“And you,” said Bingley to Elizabeth, “write to your family.”