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closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Elizabeth,” he rasped, his voice hoarse after heaven-knows how many days without use. “Thank God you’re here.”
    “Yes,” she murmured with feeling. “Thank God. Thank God you are out of danger.”
    Her breath was ambrosia against his lips, and Darcy desperately wanted to taste her; to capture her mouth with his in a tender, heartfelt kiss. “Elizabeth,” he repeated on a breath, his eyes intent upon her lips.
    He watched in fascination as the tip of her tongue appeared, moistening her bottom lip before disappearing once more. “I am here, dear sir.”
    Before Darcy could act, however, the sound of a throat being discreetly cleared was heard and Jennings emerged from the sitting room, a hint of amusement in his expression as he addressed his master warmly. “You certainly had us worried, sir. Did he not, Miss Bennet?”
    Elizabeth nodded once, a curt inclination of her head, before expelling a tremulous breath and slowly withdrawing from Darcy’s embrace.
    Already the master of Pemberley missed the comfort of her touch more than he could say—more than he could even fathom—and was on the verge of commanding her to return to him when the impropriety of their situation suddenly hit him with the force of a runaway carriage. Shocked, Darcy gaped at her, his words catching in his throat as he watched Elizabeth silently lift the counterpane and slip from his bed, hurriedly smoothing the creases in her dressing gown with unsteady fingers. To his dismay, he realized it was the same gown he’d envisioned her wearing in his dream the previous night.
    Good God, what a dream it was—so strange and disturbing. Darcy frowned. At least, it had certainly felt like a dream to him at the time…
    Darcy’s inhalation was swift and sharp, and brought on a coughing fit that wracked his body. Ever efficient, Jennings procured a glass of water and assisted his master to drink while Elizabeth hovered at his bedside, her expression deeply troubled as Darcy’s coughing slowly abated. He dropped his head back onto the pillows and closed his eyes, his head spinning as the missing pieces settled into place.
    Last night had been no fever-induced dream! Elizabeth Bennet had indeed come to his bedchamber—at the behest of his valet, no less—and lain with him in his bed. At one point Jennings had argued with her and brashly accused her of being something unthinkable: he’d accused her of being like Georgiana.
    Impossible,” Darcy whispered raggedly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Impossible! There was no way Elizabeth, so perfect and pure of heart, could possibly be such an unspeakable creature anymore than his most trusted servant could have suggested such an abhorrent thing to her in the first place.
    But the image of his fif teen-year-old sister immediately came to mind and gave him reason to pause. It was true. Georgiana was indeed a vampyre, but she was still essentially the same sweet, kind-hearted, inherently good girl she had always been. She still loved music—Bach and Beethoven—and played her pianoforte as beautifully as she ever had. Of course, her more recent proclivities had presented a bit of a challenge initially, most of her focus being on her music master and the pulsing artery beneath his cravat than the new sheet music he’d brought with him from Vienna. Fortunately, Darcy and Fitzwilliam were able to usher her out of the music room before she could give herself away, or—God forbid—inflict any damage upon the poor, unsuspecting gentleman.
    Darcy shuddered at the remembrance and chanced a look at Elizabeth, who regarded him cautiously, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. His heart pounded against his ribs as he studied her beloved face—her dark eyes, her snow-white skin, her pale lips. All the signs were there, staring steadily back at him, leaving him in no doubt of the truth. He wondered why on earth he’d never made the connection