Elizabeth woke up late, when the rays of the morning sun were already beating against the pane of glass. Immediately, she was seized by fear, for Georgiana was not near; but, as she jumped off the bed, she saw the girl, sitting, knees pulled up, in the window-seat.

"Good morning," Elizabeth said, cautiously. Georgiana nodded.

"G-good m-morning," she said.

"How are you feeling?" Elizabeth came to stand next to the window, looking tryingly into Georgiana's eyes.

The girl shrugged, her expression more tired than anything.

"Have you slept at all?"

A nod. Then, looking up at her companion (Elizabeth noticed the dark rings around Georgiana's eyes, the puffiness and the redness, the traces of tears), the girl asked:

"H-have you a-a-arranged it a-a-all?"

Elizabeth gasped, audibly.

"Arranged it all?" she repeated.

"So that a-a-I m-might s-see it?"

For a second, she thought to deny it. Then, she remembered: she had committed no crime, no falsehood. George Wickham really was unfaithful, had really kissed Lucy Post in the darkened Chocolaterie (and had probably done other things to her, as well, though Elizabeth did not think it prudent to remind Georgiana of that now). Elizabeth reminded herself that she could not bear to stand idly by and let the young innocent lose herself to this terrible, terrible man. She had hurt her friend, but only out of desperation and only for her benefit.

"Yes," she said slowly. "I thought you should."

Georgiana nodded again. "I th-thought s-so," she whispered and looked away again, resting her forehead against the glass. Elizabeth remained where she was, thinking, in strange detachment, that she would be, perhaps, dismissed immediately. All the same, she thought, I have done the right thing.

Georgiana turned back to her, her gaze gentle.

"Th-thank you," she whispered. "He is a b-bad m-man, is he n-not?"

"A very bad one, Georgie," Elizabeth replied. "A very bad one."

"H-he h-has p-played m-me so f-false."

"He would have played you worse, if you had married him." If he had married you.

"W-w-w-was he a-a-a-after m-my f-fortune, Elizabeth?"

"I do not know," Elizabeth said honestly. "I suspect so. Not because he could not love you. Rather, because no honest man would induce a sixteen-year-old to elope."

"H-he s-said he l-loved m-me," Georgiana mused.

"Georgiana, he promised that girl Lucy post that they would marry by Michaelmas!"

"Oh!" Georgiana sighed, torturously, and leaned her forehead against the glass. "Are all m-men l-like G-george, Elizabeth?"

"I do not know," Elizabeth said. "I have never-" she sighed. "It is a bit different, Georgie, when one is poor. I am not likely to be pursued for the sake of money-for I have none."

"H-how f-fortunate you are," Georgiana said. Elizabeth sighed, thinking of Jane.

"We have pitfalls of our own," she whispered. She sat down next to Georgiana, and, wrapping her arms about the girl, pulled her in her embrace.

"It still h-hurts, m-most t-terribly."

"It will, for a while. But it shall pass. Come," Elizabeth added, her relief at Georgiana's change of countenance immeasurable. The girl was still sad, but she was no longer inconsolable, and seemed now unlikely to return to George Wickham. "Let me ring for your maid."

"What on earth is wrong with you, Darcy?!"

He was sitting on the floor, naked to his waist, pressing something cold against his cheekbone. The skin there was split and stung painfully. What was worse, his head spun and he felt, to his mortification, like he was going to be sick. He had harangued Bingley to fight him in an improvised boxing match; Bingley, having refused steadily, time after time, agreed after Darcy had pestered him for a good day. Now, he was squatting next to him, looking terribly upset as he surveyed his handiwork.

Bingley, the gentle boxer, was dismayed at the damage he had unwittingly inflicted. Darcy would have been amused, had he not been quite so sick.

"I should never have agreed to fight you! Where was your concentration? What were you thinking of, man?"

Ah, that. Darcy did not choose to enlighten his friend that the delectable subject of his daydream-in the middle of their boxing match, no less, leaving him so unprotected to his friend's rather powerful knock-was at the moment upstairs, reading Molière with his sister. And that Darcy would have given half his fortune to put his head in her lap and have her soothe his pain.

The compress that Bingley had improvised out of his own shirt was becoming disgustingly warm. Attempting to remedy the action, Darcy rose to his feet unsteadily and stumbled to a bucket of cold water, very aptly at hand in the corner of the room. As he lowered the shirt into the bucket, the water became pink.

Now, Darcy was hardly afraid of blood. He had hunted and fenced. But his own blood was quite the different matter from that of a stag he had shot; and so, he felt hazy again, and terribly vertiginous, and well-nigh sick to his stomach. Slowly, he slid down the wall.

"Dear God!"

It was she, Darcy thought. What an embarrassment that she should see him like that.

"What are you doing here, madam?"

Both of them were naked to the waist, and Bingley, red in the face, bowed quickly and escaped into the dressing room. Darcy, too weak in the knees to attempt to stand up (he would not wish to fall on his face in front of this woman), tried to look his usual imperious self while sitting on the floor, half-naked, with his back to the wall, and his face bleeding.

"I have come-Miss Georgiana and I wanted to invite you gentlemen for a walk in the garden-I thought you and Mr. Bingley were fencing-it is the fencing room after all...But dear God, you are bleeding! I shall send for a doctor!"

"No need," Darcy said, with difficulty. "It will stop."

"No," she said, seriously. "It will not stop. You need stitches-"

"No," Darcy said, quite firmly. "No stitches." He looked up into her face. She looked worried. Dear Lord, he thought, what a remarkable thing it is; she is truly worried for me. She has no ties to me; she receives nothing from me beyond her meager pay-which she finds to be quite generous and a blessing; and still, she is worried for me. He felt warmth rise, unwanted, uncalled-for, from his stomach to the approximate location of his heart.

Arms crossed on her chest, she stared him down. He actually had to look away, so intensely did she gaze at him.

"You may fire me, sir," she said, softly, "but I shall send for a doctor."

Darcy sniffed a little and pretended to give in, reluctantly. But the truth was, he liked her worried expression so much, he would have let her do the job herself. After all, pain was not so far from pleasure, and if he had to be in pain, he would much prefer it come from her hands. Or at least, he hoped, she would stay reasonably near him for the duration of all this ord-unpleasantness.

The doctor was sent for, then, and he was afraid she would go; but she returned and sat near. She had a maid bring a clean shirt and helped him slip it over his head. She and Bingley, together, helped him stand up and then sat him down in a chair in the corner of the room. With gentle fingers, she took the compress from his hands and dipped it in cold water-clean water, he noticed. Gently, gently, she laid it against the side of his face. He winced a little and she said, apologetically.

"I know, I am sorry to cause you pain."

"No-" he found himself smiling, quite stupidly. "No, Miss Bennett, you are not causing me pain." He tried toying with her. "Do you suppose you could do the honors?"

She laughed at this preposterousness, a bright smile momentarily reshaping her pretty mouth, lighting up all of her face.

"Me?" she asked. "You are a brave soul, indeed! I have never stitched anyone before..."

"It cannot be all that difficult," he said.

She cocked an eyebrow, somewhat derisively. "Have you ever done it?"

"No, but you devote a large amount of time to complicated needlework. You create most beautiful images with your needle-I've looked. Surely you can lay a few stitches?"

"And stand a chance of disfiguring you, sir?"

Mrs. Reynolds, who had come up to say that Doctor Ripley had been sent for, turned white at the idea and wrung her hands a little.

"Take care, Miss!" she said. "The Master is quite the handsomest gentleman in all of Derbyshire."

Oh, how he wished she hadn't said that. He raised his eyes at Elizabeth again and saw her bite down a smile.

"Do you see, sir, that I could not possibly allow myself to experiment on-" the smile blossomed again, making the jest bearable, "-the handsomest face in all of Derbyshire?"

Darcy sighed. Indeed, he thought, I should take the chance of being disfigured by you, if you would dare. Then, he shook his head; you are deranged, he told himself, insane. Mad and fit for Bedlam. He thought he saw something in her face that sent the most improbable volley of desire through his body. Now, he thought in utter despair, now?!

"Indeed," Elizabeth said, softly, "I do not dare."

The pain was almost irrelevant, so fascinated he was with her, so fiercely he desired her. She laid the compress against his cheekbone with such gentleness! And her gaze was focused, unwaveringly, upon his injured face. And a good thing it was, too; for Darcy found, that, despite the pain and his best intentions, her presence in such close proximity was doing things to him, things that he would not have her see. Not yet, at least. She was sitting very close to him, turned towards him as she tended to his face; he could feel her knees touch his thigh once or twice. And, to his absolute dismay, as she leaned closer, her bosom became so exposed in the low cut of her dress, he quite fancied he could see the deep, dark, no doubt sweet valley between her breasts and two wine-colored velvet nipples. She was all of her so beautiful; he longed, he could not wait to see her the way she was meant to be seen-without the encumbrances of corset and dress. He suspected that these offending garments concealed a feast that was altogether too scrumptious.

He sighed, and then he sighed again.

"I am sorry," she said, softly. She smelled of lemon verbena. He wished to God he could have crossed his legs-a small maneuver that had saved him in the past two months-but she was sitting too close. Too close, he thought...

"Oh! The doctor is here."

Doctor Ripley had known the family for years; at the sight of Darcy's bloodied face, he only shook his head.

"What has happened to you, sir?" he asked disapprovingly. "You were hardly wild as a boy! That you should start getting into fights now!"

Elizabeth rose and took a step towards the door, making him realize two things: one, the very great pleasure her figure afforded the beholder (him), and two, that he did not wish her to leave. Somehow, the thought of having his face stitched up by a long crooked needle (he had seen one when a similar treatment was afforded to Wickham at school) when she was not near almost robbed him of all his courage.

"Miss Bennett!" he said, hastily. "Do you think you could-I mean to say-do you suppose 'tis possible-if you do not mind, of course-if you are not afraid of blood-I mean, how could you be afraid of blood, having stood here all this-"

"I shall be back, sir," she said evenly. "I only need to inform Miss Darcy that she should not come in here. She, I know, is afraid of blood."

She returned, soon, and stood near, watching him with lively, warm, fine eyes. Darcy knew he had to show courage-after all, there was nothing to it, he thought-but then, to his great surprise and even greater pleasure, her hand found his and she squeezed it, gently. Dear God, Darcy thought, what a woman.

The doctor approached, holding one hand behind his back, Mrs. Reynolds hovering behind him with a brandy bottle and a glass. Darcy frowned.

"Despite of what you might think, sir, I can bear to see a needle and a thread."

The old man shrugged and took his hand from behind his back. Is it really so big? Strange, the one they used on Wickham was quite a bit smaller.

"But," Darcy added, his voice sounding more plaintive than he would have hoped, "I think I shall take some brandy..."

He took quite a bit of brandy, and still his face hurt excruciatingly. Seeing everyone flinch around him did not help one bit, and so, he fixed his gaze on Elizabeth, who did not flinch. She held his gaze, steadily, as she held his hand. He was touched, ever so deeply, and was almost sorry, when the doctor cut the thread, quickly, and handed the bloody needle to Mrs. Reynolds.

"Well, there you are," the doctor said, lightly.

"Oh dear," the housekeeper said, looking concerned. "Oh dear."

"Beautiful work, sir," Bingley said with feeling.

Elizabeth said nothing, but it hurt him more than the stitching-up to have her withdraw her hand.

He kept sitting, looking up into her lovely face. He heard voices, Bingley's, Mrs. Reynolds', the doctor's; he saw Georgiana, who had disregarded Elizabeth's advice to stay away and was now swaying a little. He saw, looming disturbingly, a somewhat horse-like face that he recognized, through the brandy haze, to be Miss Bingley. But none of it mattered. The only thing certain in the world was that he needed Elizabeth Bennett; wanted her, desired her, yearned for her. She must be mine, he thought.

Mine.

Whatever it takes.

Elizabeth was in the Pemberley gardens, reading a letter from Jane. The latter informed her that, upon arrival to Longbourn, she was greeted by her mother's expressing most fervent relief at Mr. Collins' demise. Jane, who abhorred all pretense, was shaken: she still remembered how her mother had lauded her husband when he was alive. Now she seemed to find fault with him for everything: that he was not generous enough with Jane, that he had not left her enough, that the settlement of Longbourn upon her was a pure accident, and that it might not have happened this way, had there existed another cousin of male sex ("and then what would happen to us?"); and even, paradoxically, that he had been incautious enough so as to die.

"And when I asked her as to the incongruity-for she had pronounced herself relieved he was dead (Lud, Lizzy! How can one be happy a human being is dead?), and, at the same time, blamed him bitterly for dying and leaving me a widow-she called me a bad daughter, an ungrateful one, and complained, once again, of her nerves!"

Elizabeth rose from the bench in impatience. Georgiana, who was sitting, a book in her lap, on the other end of the bench, looked up in surprise.

"Please," Elizabeth murmured. "Do not mind me, dear Georgiana."

She paced back and forth on the gravel path, thinking that Jane must truly be miserable at home, if she had dared to write of it. It must be rather bad, she thought, for her to say anything. She turned around.

"Georgiana," she said. The girl looked up from her book, a tome of Keats, in which, upon Elizabeth's suggestion, she was looking for instances of metaphor. With the sunlight on her face, quiet and reposed, her charge looked older than her years. She has matured so in these weeks, Elizabeth thought. Misery ages us, truly it does.

"Georgiana, do you suppose I could speak with Mr. Darcy about my sister coming to visit?"

"I d-do n-not s-see w-w-w-why n-not," Georgiana said. Elizabeth had been pondering, quietly, what to do about her stutter.

"But do you think it a good time? With the ball?"

Georgiana shrugged.

"Well, it does not signify," Elizabeth said. "I must speak with him. Now."

"She-shall I c-come w-with you?"

"No need for it. Finish with Keats, please."

She turned and hurried off, with a little hop, down the path.

Darcy was in his study, reading some reports, and-for the first time in his life-utterly unable to keep his mind on them. Usually, anything of importance to Pemberley was of absolute and automatic interest to him. Now, all he could think of was the lovely Elizabeth and the logistics of making her his. At the moment, it was as difficult as ever, what with Caroline Bingley constantly watching his every move, like a particularly jealous harpy.

There was somewhere he had to be, Darcy remembered. Then, the clock struck twelve, and he groaned, pitifully, remembering more. The picnic. Caroline. The picnic. Caroline indoors was unpleasant; Caroline amidst the beauties of nature was insufferable (particularly as he imagined sharing these treasures with Elizabeth... alone). But he could not have refused it when she had suggested it the night before; and he had prayed, fervently, for rain.

Unfortunately, the weather was beautiful today.

A knock on the door, and he shook his head in exasperation. He considered opening the window and climbing down from the other side. But, he reminded himself, it would be rather undignified.

"Come in," he said, heavily, prepared to see the familiar, somewhat equine, though undeniably anxious to please, countenance (he had noticed, also, that it was in trying to please him that Caroline usually committed the worst of her petty cruelties).

"Mr. Darcy," he heard and twisted around in his chair, only to see Elizabeth standing there, all lovely tan and beautiful tousled curls. Lizzy, he thought, not a little shaken by her sudden appearance, my lovely Lizzy. My beautiful Bess. He shot to his feet and bowed to her, curtly.

"Madam. How may I be of service to you?"

There was an involuntary shadow of surprise upon her face; it nipped him painfully inside to see that she had not expected gentlemanly behavior out of him, to notice that a mere show of courtesy to a lady was not expected of him. He had been rude and wrong in speaking about her like he did, that much was true: but how long must he suffer for it?

"I wished to speak with you-"

She looked so coy and so pretty standing there in her simple peach-colored dress. She looked so much like a nymph in it, what with that tan and that flush in her cheeks, and biting-down-on the full-lower-lip. He swallowed, convulsively.

"Mr. Darcy!" The rapping on the door was insistent, and the voice behind it-anxious. Inwardly, he groaned. The first time, he had been saved. The insufferable Caroline had been replaced, magically, with the lovely Elizabeth. Now, he knew, there was only one Elizabeth in the world... and this time, he would not be as fortunate.

He was not, of course. Caroline was standing on the doorstep, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. Darcy felt a hint of amusement: she looks at me as if I am her own, he thought, like a cat that has caught its mouse. He shuddered at the thought of being Caroline's mouse.

"Mr. Darcy, shall we proceed with our plan, then?" Caroline Bingley drawled.

"Our plan?" He knew, perfectly, what she meant, but wished her to say it. The last thing he wanted was to have Elizabeth think he and Caroline had plans together...

"I mean to say, the picnic."

"Ah," Darcy said nonchalantly. "I quite forgot! Miss Bennett, there is to be a picnic. Will you join us?"

He saw Caroline grow dark in the face. He was perfectly aware that, having suggested the idea of a picnic to him after supper last night (or, more like it, having warned him that one was to be held on the morrow, and to please appear, or else), she had failed to invite anyone else. But Darcy knew better than to be left with this woman all alone; so, he had informed Bingley covertly. He and the Hursts would be there-he suspected, against Mrs. Hurst's desire. As to Hurst himself, it hardly made a difference to him where to snore; but he would do splendidly as a guardian of Caroline's virtue. Should, that is, she try to take advantage of their solitary state during the picnic.

Be it as it may, having Elizabeth Bennett around was clearly not in Caroline's plans. She raised one eyebrow, surveying young woman with perfect disdain, and said, in rather a loud and haughty whisper:

"Come, come, Mr. Darcy, I thought this picnic wasn't to include any help!"

Darcy felt something inside of him clench, like a fist. Caroline addressed herself to him only, while in reality perfectly aware that Elizabeth heard every word she said. He turned to the woman and gave her meanest, coldest stare.

"You really should make up your mind what you think of Miss Bennett's station in this house, my dear Miss Bingley. If she is help, you can have no business discussing her relations and advising her on her gowns!"

Immediately, Caroline backed down.

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Darcy. I only expressed my surprise-"

"I assumed you held Miss Bennett in some esteem. As a habit, I reserve such haranguing for those I hold equal to me."

Caroline bit her lip, but dared not answer. Darcy gave her another one of his piercing stares and turned to Elizabeth, who seemed as shocked as Caroline was. "Well?" he asked, in a far gentler tone. "Will you join us, madam?"

She seemed lost, and only shrugged, uncomfortably. "I should not wish to inconvenience you, sir."

"No inconvenience, madam," he said, softly, and offered her his arm, leaving the visibly dismayed Caroline to trudge in their wake.

Halfway down the garden path, with Caroline pretending to study the greenery around them assiduously, Elizabeth stopped in her tracks. "I almost forgot!" she said. "I must inform Miss Darcy, so that she may join us."

Without breaking his stride, Darcy walked on, pulling her along. She was such a divine weight on his arm; he longed to know how she would feel when actually in his arms, in his embrace.

"I shall send for her," he said. "Now, Miss Bennett, what was it that you wished to speak to me of?"

Elizabeth shook her head, throwing a fleeting glance over her shoulder, whence emanated Caroline's heavy breathing and her poisonous hostility. "Perhaps later."

One would think that the appearance of the entire Bingley party, plus Georgiana, could not possibly spoil Caroline's mood any further (since her plans had already been ruined by Elizabeth's appearance). But, upon seeing her brother, sister, and brother-in-law, in the company of "dear Georgiana," reposed comfortably on the grass, she could not longer contain her malice.

Therefore, an attack commenced.

"Miss Eliza, do you suppose you could fetch-oh, forgive me, I quite forgot you are not considered help in this house-"

"Miss Eliza, you really should have taken a parasol. You have already grown quite...brown in the sun. It is ever so coarse for a young lady to be so dark in the face."

"Faith, Caroline," Bingley said, disagreeably, "I, for one, quite like a fresh summer tan!"

Caroline threw her brother a murderous look, and said, with unparalleled contempt:

"You would, Charles. We all know you like your chambermaids coarse and brown-but I doubt that Miss Eliza wishes to seem a chambermaid."

Elizabeth, paying measly attention to the insufferable woman-for she had found that ignoring Caroline Bingley was the wisest possible strategy-sat on the corner of a large blanket spread on the grass, legs stretched out, leaning back on her arms, enjoying the rays of the summer sun. It was by no means scorching, for a gentle breeze caressed Elizabeth's cheeks and toyed with her hair.

Darcy, on his part, was hardly as disposed to listen to Caroline's vicious drivel; he stood, arms folded, on the opposite side of the blanket, near Georgiana, who fumed quietly, but dared not attempt a confrontation. Suddenly, he turned to Caroline, and said, scathingly:

"Miss Bingley, I'll thank you to change the subject of this conversation, now!"

The woman's groomed eyebrows crept slowly up.

"Whyever so, Mr. Darcy?"

"I'll not have you speak of such things in front of my sister," Darcy said, coldly, and turned around again. That she might disobey him did not cross his mind; he was not used to be gainsaid, particularly not by someone like Caroline Bingley. A true bully, the woman only harassed those she thought to be weaker than her.

"So what of that ball you are having, eh, Darcy?" Bingley said, as if on cue, and Darcy could only wonder at his friend's ability to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. For Caroline, of course, did not wait to take advantage of this new turn in conversation.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Darcy, tell us all about it!"

He sat down on the edge of the blanket and bit a long, bitter leaf of grass he had been twirling in his fingers.

" 'Tis a local affair," he said, reluctantly. "Nothing outrageous. My father had one every year, I have felt obliged to continue the tradition."

He paused, and felt compelled to add:

"You are all invited, of course."

"Mmm," Bingley said, "particularly since we'll still be here in two weeks' time."

"Ah," Darcy agreed, biting down a smile. "You can see how inconvenient it could be otherwise."

"Right," Bingley said, sprawling on his back, right on the grass. "Us, the uninvited, peering into the glittering ballroom, hanging over the balustrade. Perchance one of us may fall over."

"You see, then."

Elizabeth had turned her head at this exchange (effected in the flattest voices possible) and was listening, her expression amused and surprised.

"What is it, Miss Bennett?" Darcy asked, trying his damnedest not to stare at her-and failing miserably.

"Nothing, sir."

"Are you surprised to see Bingley and me exhibit such levity of spirit?"

"I should not call that levity exactly, sir," Elizabeth said, thoughtfully. "At first, at least, I thought you quite serious."

"Hmph," Darcy said. "A fine opinion you have of my wits, then, madam."

"Only that you are not a man for levity."

"Why, Miss Bennett," Bingley said, making large round eyes at her, "you ought to know by now, he levitates daily! There is hardly a man in all of Derbyshire-nay, shall I say it?-all of the Empire who is as good at levitating as our man Darcy here."

"Right, right," Darcy said mildly. "Do not mind this buffoon, Miss Bennett."

"Believe me, Miss Bennett, the man is a wonder at sprouting wings and levitating at all times-"

Georgiana, seeing that the conversation, now between her brother, his dearest friend, and Elizabeth, had become considerably more friendly, calmed down and busied herself with making a large wreath of wildflowers. Caroline, on the other hand, felt that the reins of the conversation had slipped from her, and fidgeted.

"Speaking of the ball," she said, louder than the occasion necessitated, and clearly-in order to turn the conversation her way. She paused, effectively, ensuring that all heads (save Elizabeth's) turned her way, minded that Georgiana turned her with an expressive roll of her large blue eyes, resolved to remember it all to the impudent brat when she finally married her brother, and then went on: "Louisa, what will you wear?"

"I am thinking purple moire gown I bought at Bath this spring," Mrs. Hurst replied, knowing perfectly well to what the question tended, but always glad to aid her sister's wicked little scheme.

"And you, dearest Georgiana? I find I positively must know, so that I do not wear a dress of the same color as anyone else...I find that quite common!"

"Hmph," said Georgiana, in the exact same manner as her brother had earlier. She had already fashioned one lovely multi-colored wreath, and was now busily braiding another one. "I h-have n-not thought o-o-f it," she said, curtly.

"Darcy, do think how fortunate we men are," Bingley said, with a feeling. "It is a very comforting thought that whatever the occasion, the only thing we need worry about is the color of our coat."

"And that choice can be usually left to one's valet." Darcy nodded and nibbled, once again, on a long leaf of grass. He found that nibbling on something kept him from thinking of what he really wished to nibble upon.

"But Miss Eliza," Caroline said, smiling, "pray assuage my doubts. I must know what you are thinking of wearing to this ball! I think it would be positively dreadful if the two of us appeared in the same dress."

Imagine the likelihood of that, Darcy thought; he knew Caroline to be the most atrociously overdressed person, no matter the occasion. Her elaborately decorated gowns and bright turbans made her look like a parrot, what with her love of canary-yellow and amethyst-two colors that would not become even Aphrodite herself, never mind a young lady gifted, from her youth, with rather dun complexion and appreciably bad teeth. On the contrary, when it came to Elizabeth, Darcy found her simple gowns quite delectable: they but accentuated her loveliness and her beguiling assets. "Oh no, Miss Bingley," Elizabeth said softly, "I have not made any plans."

"But madam, the ball is in another fortnight!"

Darcy watched Elizabeth closely. He would love to have her at that ball: at the thought of standing up with her, dancing with her, holding her hand in his, his heart dipped low and he felt like a green boy of sixteen, sick with lust.

"You must have thought of it," Caroline insisted. Darcy sighed. He knew what the woman wished to hear, what she wished Elizabeth to admit to-that she would not go to the ball, would not be expected there, that she, simply put, had no suitable gowns to choose from.

"I am not much for balls," the young woman said. Caroline opened her mouth again, no doubt ready to deliver the final blow, but at that moment, Georgiana, still genuflecting on the blanket, sidled over to Elizabeth and placed a wildflower wreath on top of her head.

"Oh!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her face lighting up with pleasure and becoming so beautiful that Darcy did quite forget how to breathe. Georgiana, holding another wreath in her hands, slowly beckoned to her brother. He smirked and pointed a finger at himself.

"Me?"

"Y-yes, y-you," the girl said, imperiously. Too lazy to stand, he twisted towards her across the blanket and she placed the second wreath around his head. "F-for the t-two p-people I l-love b-best in the w-world," she added, softly.

Bingley, sitting up on the grass in his shirtsleeves, rather stained now, clapped his hands in approval.

"Bravo, Miss Darcy!" he said and laughed warmly. His sisters pretended they did not see it happen; turning away, they continued to chat about the dresses they and other ladies of the ton had worn to other balls.

Elizabeth and Darcy stared silently at each other. If she was beautiful with the flowers in her hair, he was breathtakingly, dashingly handsome, endearingly young, his dark curls ruffled and pressed by the weight of his crown. Neither could bear look away from each other, Elizabeth examining, apprehensively, the strange fluttering her heart gave whenever he looked at her in this manner; whenever his velvet eyes rested on her, making her feel, strangely enough, the only woman in this world. Darcy, on his part, was dying of desire; thankful, like he had never been before, for the informality of this outing. For it allowed him to lie on his stomach, pretending to study yet another leaf of grass, while in reality, waiting for his erection to die away, so that he might turn about and sit up with dignity.

Oh, if Caroline only knew.

But perhaps she did know, and indubitably, her mind was occupied not so much with which gown she would wear to the ball, but with the possibilities for Elizabeth's sudden breaking of a leg within the next fortnight and with the punishments she would inflict upon Georgiana when she finally did marry Mr. Darcy.

"Why are you looking so dour, Darcy?" Bingley asked, munching cheerily. "You ought to have one of these cucumber sandwiches-they are simply divine. I must, after all, steal your Cook."

In the next fortnight, the household readied itself for the ball. Elizabeth had told Caroline Bingley the truth: she really was not much for balls and other such public entertainment. She much preferred quiet solitude or the company of the few she loved with all her heart (which had once meant her father and Jane, and then, sadly, only Jane, and to which elite group she had now sincerely added Georgiana). Balls were full of empty chatter, of hypocrisy, of people sizing each other up for money and position, of men not unlike her late brother-in-law, and certainly of women quite like the detestable Miss Bingley.

Surely there were better things to occupy herself with.

Therefore, no matter the amount of Georgiana's pestering, Elizabeth had resolved not to go. After all, she could always remain in her rooms for the duration of the ball. Lord knows she had letters to write, one to her mother, one to Jane; books to read; needlework to finish. She would certainly not be bored; and a few hours out of Miss Bingley's company were a blessing, indeed.

But then, one morning, she had finally found a moment when Miss Bingley did not watch her employer in her usually severe fashion, and asked him about Jane, outright.

"I should like Mrs. Collins to visit me at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy," she said, honestly. "Do you suppose it can be arranged?"

He shrugged. "I do not see why you even bothered asking me, madam. Your sister is welcome to Pemberley, of course."

At such a show of generosity, Georgiana well-nigh choked on her bacon, and Elizabeth, to her great surprise, felt a flush of heat against her cheeks.

"Thank you, sir," she said, sincerely. He nodded, curtly, and turned his attention to his food; but, after the breakfast, as Elizabeth was about to quit the dining-room, she heard him call after her.

"Miss Bennett," he said, when she turned around. "I trust we shall see you at the ball next week?"

She bit her lip. "I have not planned on attending, sir."

"What did you plan to do, then?"

"I thought I should simply read in my rooms."

He shook his head, vehemently. "Miss Bennett, I think it ought to be clear that it is my express wish that you attend this ball. You live in this house, and you ought to be there."

Elizabeth had nothing to say to that, not after his magnanimity with relation to Jane (though she suspected, seriously, that he was simply calling on a favor-and so soon, too!); and, saying nothing, she curtsied.

"I shall see you there, yes?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. After all, she was thankful to him; and so she would not anger him; would not deny him. She would go down to the ballroom and dance two or three dances, and then she would retire. There, she said to herself, how convenient; you have killed two birds with one stone. But the Fates laugh at us, constantly. And it was in the midst of thinking thus that a confrontation brewed and Mr. Darcy crossed the line.

Elizabeth had thought to appear at the ball, wearing the prettiest dress she possessed-a dress of ivory silk, done with lovely pale lace and with a single rosette placed in the cut of her bodice. She liked it quite a lot, though she suspected it to have gone out of fashion some three years ago, at the time of her first Season (which was a local one, she had to admit). In addition, Georgiana, upon hearing that Elizabeth already had a dress (and her garnet cross, which Georgiana had by then relinquished, her heart more at peace), insisted on seeing her wear it. Upon seeing Elizabeth don the gown, the girl clapped her hands and threw herself at her companion.

" 'T-t-tis e-e-e-ever s-so p-pretty!" she opined.

Elizabeth knew her enjoyment to be absolutely genuine, and so, she assumed, it was her choice which gown to wear to the Pemberley ball; therefore, her distress was rather great upon finding, three nights before the ball, a box on top of her bed. It was foreign there; Elizabeth could say, with reasonable certainty, that the box had not been there before she had gone down for tea. Havingsome idea as to its contents, she nevertheless scooped up the box and went to find Georgiana.

The girl, disturbed in the middle of critically studying herself in the mirror wearing an improbable lilac confection, stared at her in amazement.

"N-no," she said. " 'T-t-twasn't m-my d-doing...W-w-w-what's in it?"

Elizabeth marched towards Georgiana's bed, set the box on top of the covers, and pulled on the lacy bow that held it together.

Inside was the most beautiful dress she had ever beheld. Fashioned out of rich indigo taffeta, it had a deep plunging bodice and an overlay of silver lace. Without a doubt it was an evening gown; it even came with a pair of pretty indigo dancing slippers, which Elizabeth, to her amazement, judged to be her size. But what amazed-and angered-her even more, was that atop the dress, in a separate box of its own, lay a rather stunning pearl necklace.

Georgiana gasped and held one hand to her mouth.

"This m-must b-be f-from W-wills!" she whispered, her eyes shining. "Elizabeth, he r-really-"

"Silence," Elizabeth said, curtly, startling the girl with her rudeness. "Do not tell anyone-"

She exhaled, loudly. Then, moving perhaps too quickly, she stuffed everything back inside the bigger box, tied the ribbon haphazardly, and took off running from the room.

Furiously, she strode towards Mr. Darcy's apartments. What on Earth does he think of himself? Surely, he was a rich man, used to getting his own way, but did he think she would simply swoon if he put an expensive dress and a necklace of pearls on her bed? How inappropriate it was of him to toy with her so; how wrong. How criminal it would be of her to accept these gifts.

She did not wonder whether the Master would be in his apartments, but rapped, urgently, on his door. Quick steps behind it, then it swung open, and there he was, wearing naught but his shirt and breeches, his stock hanging, like a long kerchief, around his neck.

"Forgive me," he murmured, cutting her a bow, "I was dressing for sup-"

Without letting him finish, Elizabeth thrust the box at him (in his stupor, he accepted it and held it to his chest), turned and left.

That night, she claimed a bad head and did not go down to supper, no matter how much Georgiana importuned her. To say that she was distraught would be to grossly understate the emotional upheaval she was experiencing. On the one hand, she knew, all too well, how inappropriate such a gift would be from any male not engaged or married to her, and particularly, from her employer. It seemed to intimate certain things in their relationship which, Elizabeth knew, she would never allow to happen. On the other hand, lying back on her bed, she admitted to herself that she had begun to like him-but, she argued, in rather a Christian sort of way, as a man who was changing for the better from his insufferable superior self right before her eyes. Yet, dishonesty had always been abhorrent to her; and, after much arguing with herself, Elizabeth had to admit that Christian good works had nothing to do with it. She was beginning to like Mr. Darcy as a man; now that she saw how generous, how kind he could be, nothing prevented her from admiring, rather like a brazen hussy, his impressive height, his handsome visage, but most of all, his restless, dark, well-nigh burning eyes.

What a pity, she thought, what a pity it is-but she could hardly allow herself to dwell on possibilities, or to feel sorry for herself. When she thought of what the dress on the bed portended, a warm fluttering appeared in her stomach; but she could not allow herself to be so carried away. The attraction was mutual, she knew; but she knew, also, that a marriage between them would necessarily be a misalliance, and that any such connection would be regarded as highly reprehensible by the society. And Mr. Darcy did not seem a man to disregard the society's opinion; of the two of them, he had far more to lose.

Elizabeth sighed and tossed and turned into the very late night, before finally succumbing to uneasy sleep. When she woke, the sun was shining, and it was a new day. It was easy to convince herself that the events of the previous night were a mere misunderstanding-perhaps, she thought, he had meant the dress for Georgiana, or for Miss Bingley. She was momentarily amused at the questionable reasoning her mind had concocted in an attempt to placate itself.

There was a scratching at the door. Barefoot, she padded to it, and opened. A young maid, curtsying, held out the familiar box, now properly folded once again and with the bow retied.

"Please, ma'am," she said. "From the master, ma'am."

Anger, cold and sudden, flooded her heart.

"Take it back to him," she said, frowning. The girl blanched.

"Forgive me, ma'am, but it was Master's orders that I deliver this one to you-"

"Take it back!"

The girl shook her head, mutely, and set the box on the floor by the door. Apparently, the Master's displeasure was not easily suffered, Elizabeth thought, softening a little. The girl was simply a messenger; there was hardly a need to subject her to Mr. Darcy's anger. She leaned and picked up the box.

"Tell the Master you have delivered it," she said.

The girl curtsied. "Thank you, ma'am."

The maid hurried away, and Elizabeth took the box back inside her bedchamber. Sitting down on the bed, she noticed a small rectangle of paper attached to the bow. She unwrapped

"My dear madam," the note read. "I have spent several hours choosing this dress and pearls and I should like, very much, for you to wear it at the ball. If you do not wish to keep it as a gift, consider it a loan and return it to me after the ball. Yours, F.D."

Fuming, Elizabeth crumpled the note and threw it away. Then, she sighed, climbed off the bed, found the note and smoothed it out on her lap. Then, with a resounding mental slap, she sat up again. Wake up, she said, wake up. Men of his stature do not make gifts like these to women of yours, unless a relationship exists, one that would be wholly impossible. She sighed, plopped back on the bed, folding her arms over her chest, and, closing her eyes, thought of what it would be like to have a hope for a man like him. To be his, in every honorable way, to appear with him in public, to have in him, not only a suitor, but also, a friend. She could not imagine a marriage that would not rest on the fundament of friendship; and Mr. Darcy was the first man, she was surprised to discover, with whom she could become friends. She imagined receiving gifts from him, but not this kind, the compromising, inappropriate kind-rather, small signs of his affection, until they were properly engaged-gifts that would warm her heart without injuring her conscience. She hoped that this one, so wholly out of place, was merely an expression of his will, rather than an intimation at something improper. It would be strange and wonderful, indeed, to have someone so...she searched for a word, but nothing short of amazing came to mind. She sighed again. One more time, she thought. You can sigh once more and pity yourself just a bit longer. She did, and then it was time to go down to breakfast. As she dressed, Elizabeth threw a thoughtful glance at the box, which, this time, she did not even open.

Before going down, she sat down at her writing desk and penned a quick note, feeling, annoyingly, that her penmanship could hardly compare to that of her addressee (whose strong, aristocratic hand spoke of a man of refinement and privilege).

"Dear Sir," she wrote, "I am ever so thankful for your thoughtfulness. However, I cannot possibly accept your gift (or loan, call it what you will), without compromising myself. Accept my thanks, and please do not send this box to me again. Yours truly, Elizabeth Bennett."

She rang for a maid, and, having handed the girl the box, instructed her to take this to the Master's apartments.

At breakfast, Mr. Darcy seemed so absolutely, utterly nonchalant, Elizabeth would never have believed he was the one to send her such a compromising gift. He joked with Mr. Bingley, who seemed to have a bad head from overindulging in brandy the night before; he was kind and attentive to Georgiana, who seemed to bloom every time their eyes met. He ignored, utterly, the solicitous Miss Bingley. And he hardly looked once at Elizabeth herself.

It was towards the end of the breakfast, however, that he turned to Elizabeth and said, rather strictly:

"Miss Bennett, I trust you have found my note to you this morning satisfactory."

She felt herself blush, a thin pink sheen covering the tops of her breasts and creeping, unpleasantly up to the roots of her hair.

"No sir," she said, softly. "That is, I find the note itself quite satisfactory. It hardly lacks in either style or propriety. However, it has failed to assuage my doubts."

He frowned.

"Am I to expect a reply, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmph," said Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth wondered whether it only seemed to her that a shadow of a smile touched his eyes.

"A note?" cried Miss Bingley. "Do tell, Mr. Darcy, what is it you have been writing Miss Bennett! Dear Georgiana, you simply must demand that he tells you! After all, Miss Bennett is your companion!"

Georgiana shrugged in the surly manner she specially reserved for Caroline. But she was eyeing them curiously, her large intelligent eyes darting from her brother to Elizabeth and back to Darcy again. To her disappointment, neither was useful in providing her with any clues to their bizarre behavior (but, in truth, she had to say, her brother had behaved strangely every time Elizabeth was around).

Therefore, Miss Bingley's outburst went quite ignored, as had most of her lately.

Having quitted the dining room in his usual dignified gait, Darcy looked back across his shoulder, and seeing himself quite alone in the hall, ran up the flight of stairs, jumping over three steps at a time.

In his bedchamber, upon his bed, like such utter mockery, sat the box. Pinned to the ribbon that held the box together, there was a note. Not his note, not the one he had sent her. Her note. Her reply. Though he knew, approximately, what the note would say, his fingers were still exceedingly clumsy as he opened it.

Hm, he thought. Hm.

Do not send this box again.

He was surprised, and even a bit disappointed. That she should leave him such a glaring loophole! Immediately, he reached for the bell-pull.

Some two hours later, he had only just come back from his morning ride with Bingley and was about to dismount Lucifer in the courtyard, when Ponsonby came hurrying out, and informed him that a different color box was procured, with quite a different ribbon.

Up in his bedchamber, Darcy refashioned the midnight-indigo dress inside the new box, placed the pearls, now without their box, over the silk, tied the box together and gave it to Ponsonby. He then sat down at this desk and wrote a new note.

"Madam, as you have objected to me sending you the ill-fated box, I have taken it upon myself to procure a different one, which I am now sending to you. Yours, F.D."

Ponsonby returned some half an hour later. Darcy was soaking in a tub, lazily contemplating how delicious Elizabeth would look if only she conceded to wear this dress. He had seen it upon a mannequin when accompanying Georgiana to a modiste a few months back; he was hardly a man to dwell on ladies' clothing, but this one really did strike his fancy. It was not pretty, not girlish, but truly feminine, with simple lines and noble colors. Just the thing to wear with a single string of precious round Baroque pearls. Just the thing for Elizabeth. In his anticipation of the ball, he had gone back and bought it, supplying the measurements very approximately. After all, he had studied her figure far too much in the past months; he could not have possibly be mistaken.

But he had not anticipated that she would prove so bullheaded about wearing it. After all, it was only a dress; yet, she saw it as a sign, as some sort of a bizarre portent of her own moral failure. He had not thought of it, had not thought of what it would mean for her to accept such a gift-for the dress was quite expensive, and the pearls were more so, of course-from a man such as him...

As always, thinking of Elizabeth sent a rush of pleasing warmth coursing through his veins-and his loins. It was then that Ponsonby returned, carrying, to Darcy's chagrin, the goddamned box and a new note.

"Dear Sir, you have misunderstood me. I apologize for not making myself clear. It is not the particular container to which I have objected, but its contents. You understand it would be highly improper for me to accept them. Truly, Elizabeth Bennett."

Darcy groaned and crumpled up her note.

"What shall I do with this, sir?"

"Just take to my bedchamber-leave it on the bed... And Ponsonby, bring me more hot water!"

He hated the thought of giving up; he would pay great sums of money only just to see her in this gown. Why was she so stubborn? He thought, but then, smiled inwardly. She is a match for you.

No, he corrected himself. No match. No woman was ever a match for him, not in wits, not in determination.

As Ponsonby, having lugged two buckets of hot water up three flights of stairs, helped him lather his hair and then poured, generously, blinding him temporarily, Darcy kept thinking, already composing his next note-and the next contents for the box.

The morning of the day before the ball dawned, and a young maid, wearing a white cap and a white starched apron, brought the box from Mr. Darcy's bedchamber to Miss Bennett's door. She almost knocked on the door, but the hour was still very early, and so, she merely set the box on the floor by it. Surely, when the lady woke, she would come out and get the box.

Some half an hour later, a gentleman and a lady were passing by the hallway. Upon seeing the box by Elizabeth's door, Caroline slowed her step and came nearer to see what it was. Her brother, in vain, tried to hold her back by hissing:

"Caroline! Don't you dare! Don't-"

"Sh-sh!" Caroline turned around, putting a finger to her lips. "Charles! Will you hush, please?"

He did not; instead, he grabbed her arm before she had managed to undo the bow.

"How dare you?" he whispered. "It is not yours!"

"I'll only look," she murmured, twisting out of his grip. She managed to grab the box, and, sitting back on her heels, gave an eager tug on the ribbon, and was nearly blinded by the soft gleaming of pearls and the stunning shimmer of diamonds in the subdued light of the hallway lamp. She gave an arrested gasp and almost tumbled backwards.

At that very moment, there was a sound of a key turning from the inside of the door.

"Damnation!" Bingley growled, grabbing Caroline's arm and pulling her after him, behind the nearest corner. There, they stopped, and, peeking carefully around it, Bingley saw Elizabeth Bennett come out. Dressed in a simple morning frock, the young woman almost stumbled over the box. At the sight of the box already opened, she frowned and shook her head. Then, she leaned lower, looked in, and gave a gasp that was surprisingly like Caroline's. Upon which, she reached inside the box, and extracted, to Bingley's open-mouthed surprise, the very thing that had made Caroline sputter in indignation: a stunning, shimmering, exquisite necklace of large round pearls and long dripping diamonds.

"Dear God," he heard his sister whisper. "What a harlot!"

"Sh-sh," he murmured, continuing to watch the girl. He could not read her face very well: it showed no joy at finding such an exquisite piece verily on her doorstep. Rather, there was confusion written on it, and bitterness, and not a little anger. Bingley, who was by no means a stupid man, wondered at whether the sender of the jewels had expected such emotions to show on her lovely face.

Silently, Bingley and Caroline watched Elizabeth Bennett pick up the box and take it inside.

Madam,

I understand that I have made a mistake in my meager offering. I completely agree: it was inappropriate for one such as you. Please accept my apologies and wear these diamonds with the dress (which, I confess, is so much to my liking that I absolutely refuse to change it). Humor me, Miss Bennett. I believe it is a small thing to ask. F.D.

Elizabeth folded the note again carefully and hid it inside her desk. Standing by her bed, she was looking at the dress and the diamonds, which were, she had to admit, far more gorgeous than the pearls he had sent her earlier, or anything, for that matter, that she had ever seen-never mind worn-before.

Amused, she thought that here were her wages for a good decade; and yet, she could not wear them. It would not be right. She would be allowing him an unprecedented liberty-one she found quite repulsive. Sighing to herself, she swept away the thoughts of how she would look in indigo silk and diamonds and chided herself for thinking thus: for clearly, he did not respect her enough not to send her such inappropriate gifts; and not even enough to desist and leave her be. No, she thought, choking the vile little twinge of regret, and turning to her dressing-room door, where her old ivory dress was hung, seeming now so plain and not a little old. No, she could not wear these.

But neither could she send them back to him; not when he was so bent on having her wear them. He had substituted diamonds for pearls; Lord knew what he might do if she rejected this offering. Elizabeth did not like lying, did not like herself when she lied. But, she thought, it must be done: for the next day and a half, she would placate him, letting him think that she would wear his dress and his outrageous diamonds to the ball.

Therefore, when he asked her, over supper, whether his latest note had provided a satisfactory explanation, she looked him straight in the eye and said yes.

The morning of the Pemberley ball dawned. The household bustled. It was only a tradition, nothing else, and only for the local society, but it was also the tradition of the Darcy family that any formal entertainment given at Pemberley had to be given on a scale equal to that of the finest London houses. Doves in white wine, Russian salmon and caviar on ice, French truffles, the best wines from the Pemberley's own cellars; long lines of lanterns stringed in the gardens, to make them beautiful and inviting once the darkness fell (the gardener had been praying for no rain for the past fortnight, and, he said with a superstitious crossing of fingers, all signs portended a dry and lovely night). Fireworks were carted in from two counties away and set up to produce elaborate and colorful patterns in the night sky, "so that they may dim the stars," as the man in charge of them had said. If he had to entertain, Darcy would do so as befitted a Duke.

In the midst of all the preparations, a rather fine carriage rolled into the yard, accompanied by a red-coated gentleman on horseback. Georgiana, upon seeing the visitors from her window, left her post by the mirror (she had been in front of it for hours, absolutely disheartened by a pimple that had the ungraciousness to appear on her nose the day of the ball. Elizabeth watched her, half-amused, half-pitying the girl. Finally, Mrs. Reynolds put a salve on it, and told Georgiana that she ought to pray for it to disappear by night-which was hardly satisfactory to a young lady of sixteen) and dashed down the stairs. On her mad sprint through the hallway, she well-nigh toppled Caroline who was already at her finest in a new feathered turban (though it was not nearly the time to dress for the ball yet), and thought she might have heard her whisper the word "hoyden."

In the yard, having already descended from carriage, a young woman, rather small and pale, dressed in traveling clothes and a rather homely bonnet, leaned upon the arm of a tall, exceedingly handsome, blond man. Come to think of it, Cousin Fitzwilliam, with his fair curls and large blue eyes, looked far more like Georgiana herself than her own brother did.

"C-cousin Anne!" Georgiana cried, throwing her arms about the young woman's neck. She was a head and a half taller and almost knocked her down to the ground, but Anne de Bourgh did not seem to mind. She was laughing and then pushed Georgiana over to the Colonel, who looked upon the scene with certain older-brother warmth. Before her dashing cousin, the girl pulled herself up and dropped a proper curtsy, but he would have none of it. Pulling Georgiana into his embrace, he placed a fat square kiss on the tip of her nose, making her sputter and fight and fuss.

He was then gone up the stairs into the house, to bother and distract the Master. Anne threw a worried glance at her little cousin, who towered over her and looked all angles, elbows and awkward knees.

"My, my!" Anne de Bourgh said. "My, my! That is some pimple you have there, Georgie!"

Georgiana blushed, furiously. "M-mrs. Reynolds s-says it'll b-be g-one b-by t-tonight..." she mumbled.

"Oh, no, it'll not," Anne said with a vehement shake of her head. "But you need not worry about it, Georgie. I have some powder that we can put over it, so that no-one'll be the wiser."

Georgiana's jaw dropped. Young ladies of proper upbringing did not use powder, only actresses did, and other such "loose women."

"P-powder? You h-have p-powder?"

Anne winked at her. "For as long as I listen to her sermons on proper behavior for young ladies, my mother is surprisingly uninterested with what goes on behind my closed doors... In fact, I do not believe she has ever set foot in my bedchamber," she said cheerily.

Not a little shaken, Georgiana grabbed Anne by the arm and dragged her upstairs, to introduce her to her wonderful new companion and friend. Elizabeth was in Georgiana's own room, helping Maggie, Georgiana's maid fashion a light headpiece of spray roses, for the girl to wear tonight. She rose as Georgiana dragged her cousin into the room; instinctively, she bristled at the memory of the humiliation she had suffered in front of this woman. But Anne de Bourgh seemed all warmth and sincerity, and she pressed Elizabeth's hands in hers, fervently.

"I am so glad Darcy has taken my advice and hired you!"

Elizabeth looked at the girl. Pale, and sickly, she still had eyes that burned with a strange fire; large, luminously-gray, lively eyes. Elizabeth sighed, letting go of her old animosity. She pressed Miss de Bourgh's hands in a gesture of friendly warmth and smiled back at her.

"I am glad to be here, Miss de Bourgh."

"Anne, please. I insist."

A dark shape shadowed the doorway; two dark shapes, actually-the Master of the house, with the grinning Colonel at his side. It was simply uncanny, Elizabeth noticed: the Colonel was a large man, but he reached just over Mr. Darcy's shoulder. He grinned broader and whiter at seeing Elizabeth.

"My dear Miss Bennett!" he said, stepping forward and bowing over her hand with such gallantry, she well-nigh swooned. "Words cannot express how lovely it is to see you again."

Elizabeth, her heart fluttering slightly, looked over the blond head over her hand; his curls shone pure gold in the rays of the sun falling through the window. He straightened out and flashed her another blinding grin.

"You look ravishing, madam."

She looked up and saw Mr. Darcy, who seemed, suddenly, darker than usual, his eyes like bright coals.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured, sinking into a low curtsy. "You are too kind."

"Anne," Mr. Darcy said, his voice suddenly rasping. "Lovely to see you, my dear." He reached over and kissed the young woman on the cheek. Then, he straightened out and gave the Colonel an askance glance. "Fitzwilliam, we must away now, if you wish to accompany me."

"Come to think of it, Darcy," the Colonel drawled, "I am somewhat tired from our journey. I think I might stay-"

Mr. Darcy looked like not a little like Lucifer if you startled it; his nostrils flared, his mouth disappeared into a thin line. Elizabeth thought he might rear up any minute and start spouting steam from every orifice.

Anne de Bourgh must have seen it as well, for she grasped the Colonel by the sleeve and verily pushed him out of the room.

"Well, you are not wanted here, either of you!" she said nonchalantly. "You'll only be in the way, Fitzwilliam, so why not go with Darcy wherever it is he is going?"

The Colonel laughed, mirth abounding. "Hush, Darcy, I have no intention of stealing what's yours."

Elizabeth thought she might die, right there, right now. Why was it that her every meeting with this family must lead to such utter mortification? Mr. Darcy seemed to think the Colonel in the wrong as well. His eyes flashed dangerously; his frown was verily terrifying.

"Nothing is mine, Fitzwilliam, and it is presumptuous and wrong of you to say that!" he ground out. Seeing that he had wandered into a dangerous territory, the Colonel sobered up immediately.

"Forgive me, Darcy, perhaps I was out of line," he said, all of his hilarity suddenly gone. He might as well have been an attendee at a wake, so grim was his handsome mien. He cut a bow to the women, who were still standing in the doorway, in an array of emotions: Elizabeth-mortified, Georgiana-confused, and Anne-shrewdly guessing. "Ladies. Pardon me."

Later that day, after Anne had retired, claiming a headache and the need to rest before the evening's entertainment, she sat on the bed in her room, wearing only her undergarments and listening to the report of her maid on the goings-on in the house. The girl had been picked by Lady Catherine herself for being sensible and proper, and knowing her station well; she was also an excellent spy. .

"Miss Bingley-"

"Oh, how I detest that harridan," Anne murmured. She knew that the Bingley woman wanted Darcy for all the reasons that were not enough for Anne to want him: his money, his status, his land. His overall grandeur. It was strange, Anne thought, so strange, to want someone for what they are, rather than who they are.

The maid, as small as Anne, and as inquisitive and shrewd, smiled. "Then you will be pleased to know, madam, that Miss Caroline Bingley has been falling over herself because of a certain box that has been going back and forth between the Master of the house and Miss Elizabeth Bennett."

"A box?" Anne murmured, pricking her ears.

"Yes, ma'am, and Miss Bingley's maid says that her mistress saw what's in it."

"I am certain she isn't the only one who has."

"Yes, ma'am, but it seems to me that in this house, no servant would utter a word if it were injurious to the family. Rather, it was Miss Bingley's maid who informed me."

"Well, then?" Anne looked impatiently at the girl, who was unfolding a pretty gown of gray silk and laying out on the bed. "What did Miss Bingley's maid tell you?"

"That there was a beautiful gown in there, ma'am, and a necklace of diamonds."

Anne, who had been studying a mole on her shoulder, snapped back.

"A necklace of diamonds?" she whispered. "Good Lord, has he seduced the poor girl?"

"That was what Miss Bingley's maid seemed to intimate. And she says that her mistress was mad angry over it all, and that she was going to tell everyone tonight, that the dress and the diamonds Miss Bennett wears at the ball are from the Master-"

Anne considered the matter for a minute. Of course, she thought, of course. That look in Darcy's eyes, that proprietary, possessory look when Fitzwilliam gave her that smooth smile of his-

She jumped off the bed.

"Get me a dress, quickly," she said.

A minute later, she was striding down the hallway, hopping one-footed while pulling on a slipper as she walked. She rapped, urgently, upon Georgiana's door.

"Where is your companion?" she asked, quickly, when her cousin opened the door.

"I d-do n-not-w-w-what is this about, A-anne?"

"I must have a word with her," Anne said. "Where is her room?"

Georgiana, not a little shaken already by all the arrivals and all the things that were happening, passing just over her head, just barely out of her understanding, pointed down the hallway.

"Three d-doors t-to the r-right..."

To Anne's chagrin, Elizabeth Bennett was not in the room, but the room itself, she found, was unlocked. And, under Georgiana's shocked gaze-the girl was standing near the door to her own room, watching shakily-she opened the door and slipped inside.

There it was, the box, sitting in a chair. Anne studied it, quickly, then pulled on the lacy ribbon. She was blinded, momentarily, by the glimmer of diamonds inside. She did not recognize it-it did not belong to her late aunt (true, Anne was only seven or so when Lady Anne Darcy had died, but if there was one thing she did not forget, it was her aunt's exquisite, tasteful diamonds); he must have bought it specially, as a tool of seduction-oh, she thought, what an insufferable man he is! Try to gainsay him when there is something he wants!

"Pray tell, what are you doing here?"

She spun around in one spot. Elizabeth Bennett was standing there, arms folded on her chest, looking absolutely furious. Georgiana's pale countenance loomed over her shoulder.

"I realize that I present a bizarre curiosity, Miss de Bourgh, but would you please refrain from rifling through my things?"

Anne sighed. "I suppose it would be rather pointless to try to convince you I had a higher purpose in mind?"

The young woman shrugged. "That would depend, entirely, on your powers of persuasion."

Anne looked, askance, at Georgiana. "Georgie," she said softly. "Go to your room, sweeting."

The girl, looking suddenly resolute, wagged her head. "N-no," she said. "I th-think I h-have a r-right to h-hear your r-reasons."

"Georgie," Anne said. "I am older than you, and you ought to obey me."

Georgiana's lips narrowed into a thin line, making her look almost exactly like her brother.

"I-I ought to," she murmured. "B-but I sh-shan't."

"Oh dear," Anne said. "Elizabeth, perhaps I can prevail upon you to demand that she leaves? What I am about to say is hardly fit for her to hear."

Their eyes locked, and Elizabeth Bennett nodded, stiffly. "Georgiana, please, leave my room."

" 'T-tis m-my h-house!" the girl said, petulantly.

"Well," Anne said. "I have a sudden urge to take a walk in the gardens, Miss Elizabeth. Do you suppose you might accompany me?"

"Oh, f-fine," Georgiana said resentfully. "B-be th-that w-w-w-way, the t-two of you. B-but you ought to n-know that I-I-I a-am m-mortally offended!"

"We shall be sure to take note of that, Georgie," Anne said, as she followed Georgiana to the door and locked it behind her. She then beckoned to Elizabeth to follow her to the window.

"She will hardly eavesdrop," Elizabeth said, smiling. "She is much too good of a child for that."

"Ah, well," Anne said with a little dismissive shrug. "She is my cousin and if I know myself-"

"Yes." Elizabeth followed Anne to the window seat, and the two women sat there, facing each other. "I can see that. I suppose that if you may go through other people's belongings, you might as well eavesdrop."

Anne smirked. "Only rarely," she said, as he gaze grew pointed and her eyes-serious. "Tell me, Elizabeth, are you to wear that blue dress tonight? The one in the box?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I fail to see what business it is of yours."

"If I promised you secrecy, would you tell me?"

"I should hardly believe you, after this little display!"

"Very well, then, do not answer my question," Anne said. She was smarting a little from the putdown. She really did like the woman and did not wish to see her humiliated or compromised. Somehow, she did not believe that this lively, clever girl was her cousin's mistress; and she wanted, in all sincerity, to help her avoid the appearance of impropriety where there was no actual impropriety to speak of. "But know that Miss Caroline Bingley knows about the contents in this box. She has practically informed everyone in the household that you, Miss Bennett, will wear the dress tonight. Her maid has told my maid. This sort of news spreads rather quickly. Most of the guests tonight will expect you to wear the dress and Darcy's diamonds."

Elizabeth's face was whiter than the pristine lace on her dress.

"Thank you," she whispered. Suddenly, it seemed important to her that this woman think well of her. "Miss de Bourgh," she said. "Anne! Please believe me, I should never-Dear Lord! I have only accepted the invitation to the ball because I wished to be grateful to him-my sister-"

"No need to explain yourself, Elizabeth," Anne said softly. She rose from the window seat. "I trust you will do what is in your best interests."

Turning by the door, she smirked and said. "Teach him a lesson, Elizabeth. He is in dire need of one."

With this, she left. Elizabeth was sorely tempted to gather the dress and take it to the man herself, and then fling it in his face, diamonds and all. She had thought something was amiss when she had found the box open yesterday morning, but she could not imagine... Miss Bingley, of all people! She felt hot, shameful red flood her cheeks. How dare he compromise her so! Thoughtless, cruel, selfish man! But she, she-what could she have done-how could she have resisted him without making it obvious for the entire household? She had returned the box faithfully each time, making it clear for him that she did not want it, hoping that he would desist... Clearly, the word "desist" was not in his vocabulary... perhaps, she thought, Anne de Bourgh was right; it was, indeed, time to teach it to him.

The formal Pemberley ballroom was lit, softly, by a myriad candles. The sound of strings emanated, softly, to the parlor, where Darcy and Georgiana stood, arm-in-arm, welcoming the arriving guests. Not yet officially out, Georgiana could still serve as the hostess of the ball under he brother chaperonage, provided she did not dance and retired at a reasonable hour.

Darcy almost hummed with excitement. She had not come down yet, and he felt taught and throbbing with desire at the thought of what she would look like in his dress; his diamonds. It would not only be a delectable sight, it would also be a capitulation; the sign that he could, finally, make her his.

Anne, on Fitzwilliam's arm, floated past him. He thought her smile was a bit too catlike, but he paid her no mind. Georgiana, on her part, drew herself up and looked away, at which Anne verily tittered, throwing back her head.

"Come, come, Georgie," she said. "No need to be so mortally offended!" she teased, then reached up and kissed Georgiana's cheek. Darcy felt absolutely lost; but then, he always felt a little lost when Anne was around. One thing was a consolation: the Colonel, usually in on all Anne's ugly little jokes, seemed just as befuddled by the look that had passed between her and Georgiana.

"Clearly, Darcy, this was not meant to include us men," he said in his usual good-natured manner.

The Bingleys came down. Caroline, wearing a rather tall, feathered turban of a most unnatural-and unflattering-yellow color, surveyed the parlor, and the ballroom behind it, with a curious expression. She looks as if she is seeking someone out, Darcy thought.

"Oh!" Georgiana cried softly. "Elizabeth!"

Darcy, who had been speaking to Bingley-who also, rather curiously, looked somewhat unbalanced-pivoted and saw her.

Dressed in that simple old dress of hers. No indigo silk. No diamonds.

She held up her head and stared him down, as if challenging him to say something to her.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, and then, formally, to Georgiana, "Miss Darcy. What a lovely ball."

Darcy could barely speak for want of air. He was not so much angry, as he was bitterly disappointed; that she had lied to him, had disregarded his wish so explicitly, so brazenly, could meet only one thing: she would not have him. He almost choked on bitter bile.

"Miss Bennett," he said, unable to take his eyes from her near-naked neck, its only decoration-a homely small garnet cross. "How lovely you look tonight. Perchance," he added, finally raising his eyes to hers and seeing fire in anger in them, real fire, bitter affront, "Perchance, I might have the honor of a dance later tonight?"

"Yes, sir." She curtsied, gave Georgiana a warm smile and went past him into the ballroom. Darcy's jaw locked; he did not know how he managed to smile at and welcome the next pair of guests. Next to him, Georgiana, softly, touched his hand.

"B-brother," she whispered. "A-a-are you unwell?"

He only shook his head; then, feeling someone's intense gaze upon his form, turned around to see Anne peering at him, smiling in a most offensive manner. Damn her, he thought, and damn me if she had nothing to do with this!

All through the ball, Elizabeth fumed silently. She reserved a dance for Mr. Darcy, but still, he would not come. Here and there, she saw his dark, tall form-taller almost than most of the gentlemen in the ballroom-dancing with this woman or that (she had to admit that he was a rather superb dancer).

She pondered his reasons behind his insistence that she wear the blasted gown. Before, she had simply swept it aside, thinking of it as a rich man's fancy. But perhaps, she thought, perhaps I have been disingenuous with myself. Perhaps I ought to tell myself the truth. Why would he have a fancy like that, unless he was interested in Elizabeth herself? On the one hand, to be wanted by a man like him, to whom hardly any woman dared say no, almost turned her head. Unfortunately, on the other hand, she was confused by what it was he wanted from her. Clearly, there was a great societal gap between the two of them, and she could hardly hope for an offer of marriage. But somewhere deep inside of her, something refused to believe that a man she had come to like so much could be so dishonorable as to make her an offer of an entirely different kind. As to take advantage of her. The very thought was insufferable. Mr. Darcy was a man of honor and no little kindness; he could never-indeed, she thought, sweeping the awful thought away, indeed it must only be a fancy-a notion to see the woman he liked in a dress he had chosen for her.

What a pity she was unable to humor him.

She resolved to enjoy herself and the intoxicating night. She danced-a few dances with Mr. Darcy's various neighbors, one with Mr. Bingley, who was every thing wonderful, and three with the Colonel. As she danced, she felt people's eyes on her; Anne de Bourgh had spoken the truth, she thought. They had expected me to wear that dress, she thought, the dress Caroline had described for them, the blue silk with the exquisite diamonds. She laughed inside at their disappointment, that of a parasite, who had been denied its entertainment at its victim's expense. She laughed, openly, at Caroline's expression, her long face looking longer, sallow and horse-like under the improbable turban.

"How well you look tonight, Miss Eliza," she hissed, hardly able to contain her malice. "This gown you wearing, I recall seeing one like this on Lady Strathmore-when was it, Louisa, three or four years ago?"

"Four, I believe," Mrs. Hurst replied.

Elizabeth laughed again.

"Three, actually, Miss Bingley," she said. "I had it made for my coming-out three years back. I find it still remains quite a favorite. I should hardly wear anything else tonight."

She caught Anne de Bourgh's eyes across the crowded room and waved; Anne, who was dancing with the dashing Colonel, waved back. Elizabeth was truly thankful to this young woman. She had realized the impropriety of Mr. Darcy's sending her the dress, and would hardly have worn it at any rate, but she had not known, could not have imagined that Miss Bingley would sink quite so low as to look into the box.

"Miss Bennett!"

She turned, only to see his dark countenance looming above her.

"I believe I was promised a dance."

She smiled and curtsied. "Sir."

"Shall we, then?"

Elizabeth looked down and saw his hand, extended palm up. She put her hand in his.

Darcy yearned to speak with Elizabeth, and, as they stood across from each other, and he bowed and she dropped a graceful curtsy, he could not help sounding plaintive and accusative when he said:

"You lied to me."

"You forced me to it." She went past him, smiling at the man on her right, and he was forced to take the hand of another woman, all the while staring at Elizabeth.

A moment, and she was back before him, and he said, as they did a do-si-do:

"Why did you not-"

Both of them moved back and to the right. "You would have me a joke in everyone's eyes," she said, bitterly.

Another change, and he was staring in someone else's smiling face; he lowered his gaze and simply went through motions of the dance, eager to be before her again.

"I simply wanted you to wear that dress," he lied, surly, as the two of them held hands and did a little circle, while their neighbors watched. She lowered her eyes; her fingers felt warm in his. Then, her hand slipped out of his; both of them were forced to step back from each other, watching the couples on their left and right repeat their movement.

"Miss Bennett," he said, over their heads.

Once again, they linked hands. "I thought you would look divine in it," he whispered. "I am still certain you would."

She was like a shadow, light and tempting, and impossible to hold on to. "Perhaps," she said, smiling. "We shall never know, shall we?"

And once again, she slipped away from him.

Later that night, Elizabeth, still wearing her ball gown, poked her head through the doors of the library. She had been told that the Master was in the library, reading, alone. Her one intention was to give him back the dress and the diamonds; she already felt compromised and dared not trust the box to a servant; after all, she thought, a servant had already left this damnable box by her doors, exposing its contents to Caroline Bingley's prying eyes.

She would thrust the box at him, thank him as quickly as possible and then turn and go. That was all there was to it.

But when she saw him, the way he was in that chair-him sitting in his shirtsleeves, brooding, the brandy snifter on the table next to him-she instantly regretted coming. Turning, she almost fled, but then, she told herself, this was rather ridiculous. If anything, he was a gentleman, and she could trust him not to throw himself at her.

Quietly, she knocked on the partly open door, calling his attention.

"Mr. Darcy," she whispered.

He started and squinted, rather myopically, into the shadows by the door. He could not be called sober, she thought, not by the loosest of standards.

"Miss Bennett," he said, hoarsely. She had never heard him like that-his voice rasping so, as if his throat was singed-

"I have brought back your gift-loan-thank you so very much-" she set the box near the brandy snifter and turned to go.

"Miss Bennett!" he called, harshly. "Where are you going?"

"To my rooms," she answered, in rather a small voice. He looked so wild, she had to reconsider her earlier determination that under no circumstances was he likely to throw himself at her.

"Stay a while," he said, and pointed to a chair in front of him. "You know not how lonely it is here-all alone."

"Forgive me," she murmured. "You have had too much to drink-"

"I know that," he said and laughed-a strange, ghostly, mirthless laugh. "You coward!"

If nothing else, she was not that. That she knew about herself, with absolute certainty. She turned and came before him. Her cheeks felt hot, and her knees trembled uncharacteristically.

"Ah, I see I now have a reaction out of you," he said, laughing. "All right, all right. You look as if you are about to toss something heavy at me. I take my words back."

"I am not a coward, sir," she said, trying to make her voice as frigid as possible. "I am sorry you are lonely here. Perchance you ought to retire. Loneliness is hardly as keen when one is in his own bed."

"You speak like a preacher," he said. He laughed again, and took a sip of his brandy. "Elizabeth."

She shrank back from the sound of her name; the impropriety of it was nothing, compared to the liquid fire that flooded her insides at hearing her name fall from his lips.

"You must not speak so, Mr. Darcy," she said, taking a step back. "You are drunk. Good night..."

He rose from his chair, and suddenly, suddenly, she was afraid. He was so tall, so dark; she was so alone here, with him, so small, so regretful she had come, both to the library and to his damnable house. He towered over her, looking at her with eyes that were no longer a dark, warm brown, but nearly black, black from his pupils distended, black from drink and lust burning in them.

She stepped back, tripped, almost fell. Felt something behind her, her shoulders resting against a mantel, nowhere else to go. Trapped, she thought, I am trapped. She dared not scream, or call for help, for fear of being compromised even further. He leaned towards her, put both hands on the two sides of her, preventing her escape, pinning her to the marble. His face ever was so close now, so close, she could feel alcohol on his breath, could feel her own knees turning to cotton with fright and-oh Lord-with wanting of something, something-

"Elizabeth," he said, again, and there was longing in his voice.

"This is wrong," she heard herself say. "Wrong, wrong. Please, let me go," she begged.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "When you look at me like that-there is such passion in your eyes-God, Elizabeth-what have you done to me?"

"Sir," she begged. "Please, sir, you are a gentleman-let me go-"

"No," he said, rasping. "No, Elizabeth. Not a gentleman. Not with you."

And with that, he put both hands on her shoulders and yanked her forth. Elizabeth fought and squeaked, but he pulled her against him-dear Lord, she thought, dear Lord, how hard his body was, how hot, verily burning, an instrument in its own right-and crushed his mouth to hers.

She thought she was going to expire. Half-dead with fright, she still shared in his incredible magnetism, feeling him with every inch of her skin-his body, like a furnace, his mouth on her, hot and peppery and tasting of bitter alcohol, his tongue in her mouth, his body harder and leaner there, below his waist, as he pressed himself, deliberately, against her-

Oh, God! Suddenly, somewhere, she managed to find strength to push him away. He grasped her wrists in his and murmured, pleadingly, "Elizabeth, please, please, do not leave me."

"Let me go!" She mumbled the words, like a talking automaton, intent on pulling her hands out of his grip.

"Elizabeth," he said. He sounded desperate, pathetic. "Elizabeth, please. I need you-I think I am in love with you-please, Elizabeth-"

"Unhand me!" Blindly, she tried to fight out, but then he took her chin in one hand, still gripping her wrists in another, took her chin as if she were a disobedient child, and looked her in the eye, deeply, darkly.

"Elizabeth," he said, pleadingly. "Do not reject me-please-I am in love with you."

"Then you ought to have a care for my honor," she said, nearly hysterical.

"I no longer have a care for anything," he said, and his voice sounded broken. "I have struggled with myself, Elizabeth, have fought this-but it was all in vain-it has been weeks that I have succumbed to you-to your beauty-your spirit-God, if only you knew how I desire you!"

She pushed against him, but could not even make him release her chin. He kept looking into her eyes, seemingly intent on nothing but catching a glimpse of her soul.

"Please, Elizabeth," he said. "It will not do like that. I shall go mad without you."

"Eep," she said, aiming to bite his hand. He laughed, again, and his laughter had no longer any warmth in it.

"Elizabeth," he said. "I cannot help it. My feelings for you will not be repressed. I am a rich man, Elizabeth, and I can make it so that you want for nothing-nothing at all, ever-that no-one in your family does-if only you love me-"

"How little you respect me," she said, putting all the upheaval she felt at the moment in her words. "And imagine, I have thought you a man of honor! How I have deceived myself! Lord, you are just like your friend Mr. Wickham!"

He fell back, his face twisting as if in pain, his arms limp suddenly at his sides. Suddenly free, she dashed towards the doors and was gone, running down the hallway, disbelieving of her fortune. She reached her room, thinking all the while that he would catch up with her any minute, slipped behind the door and, falling upon the key, locked the door.

And it was only when she knew herself to be in relative safety from him-for she did not believe he would attempt to break down her door, three doors down from his sister's room-and as to him getting the key to her bedchamber, the ring of all the keys in the house was in Mrs. Reynolds' possession-that she fell on the floor and wept, hysterically.

She chided herself for her naïveté, for thinking that his admiration of her was anything at all innocent; that he might like her for her, as he would a woman of his circle. She was bitterly angry, hurt, and disappointed; by him, of course, but also, by her own stupidity in trusting him, in thinking him a gentleman, and especially, by her own reaction to his kiss. For, if she were to be at all honest with herself, there clearly was a reaction on her part, the sudden singeing, the powerful surge within her when she felt his mouth on hers. True, she had never been kissed before; but somewhere deep inside, Elizabeth knew, with terrifying certainty, that it was not simply the shock of a first kiss, but rather, the power and passion of his lips, his arms, his very burning, searing self.

Yes, she was amiss, sorely, and would have to pay. Having cried her fill, Elizabeth sat up and looked around. Beyond the tragedy of tonight, there was also the debacle of tomorrow. She could not fathom coming to breakfast in the morning, when, if she ran her tongue inside her lower lip, she could still feel the imprint of his teeth there; could not imagine having to look him in the eye, to be polite, to be deferential, when all she wanted was to throw something heavy and ceramic at his head. She could no longer stay at Pemberley, not when it entailed seeing him every day. She would have to leave.

Therefore, when she found she could no longer cry, Elizabeth slowly pulled herself up to her feet. The pale silk of her dress looked grimy after sitting on the floor, and all of her seemed to smell of him-of his brandy, his cigars, his overwhelming maleness. She hated him for it, hated that whenever she went, his scent would follow her, making it impossible for her to forget.

Her eyes dry and feverish, she tossed her things into her trunk, not bothering to fold her dresses, driven by her need to quit Pemberley immediately; having changed her dress for traveling clothes, she was forthwith presented with the question of getting to the nearest post. It was dark outside, the very middle of the night. She could have asked a servant to take her, but everyone would remain asleep for the next few hours; in addition, telling a servant involved a certain amount of indignity and she was uncertain if she could bear any more indignity tonight.

She dwelt upon it for some time, her thoughts disoriented; then, it dawned on her. She rang for a servant and when, some quarter of an hour later, a sleepy maid appeared, begged her to send for the only person in the house she now thought she could trust.

Anne was awakened by a scratching at the doors. For some time, she lay immobile, listening, thinking she had dreamt it. But when she heard a quiet voice calling her name outside the door, she threw her legs over the edge of her bed (they dangled most pathetically, hardly reaching the floor), and slid to the floor.

A young maid, huddling in a shawl over her nightgown, informed her, with apologies, that Miss Elizabeth Bennett begged her, Miss de Bourgh, to come to her room, soon as may be. Anne, still hazy from sleep, stared at the girl for a second. Then, she nodded and went to get her shawl.

Inside her room, Elizabeth Bennett paced, dressed, though somewhat haphazardly, in her traveling clothes. Anne took one look at her, at her packed trunk, and then sat down, as heavily as her diminutive weight would allow, upon the edge of Elizabeth's made-up bed.

"Dear God, Elizabeth," she said. "What's happened to you?"

The girl wagged her head and said nothing. Then, she took a long, deep breath, and said (her voice sounded breakable, as if she might cry at any minute):

"Help me, Anne. I beg of you, help me."

At first, Anne refused absolutely. She could not imagine the responsibility it entailed-that she should have her carriage take a single woman, in the middle of the night, to the post stop and leave her there! She agreed, grudgingly, after Elizabeth threatened to walk to the stop.

"You can have the carriage, Elizabeth, to take you wherever you need to go."

Visibly, the girl gulped down her tears.

"You have been a friend to me," she said, "and so I shall tell you the truth. I really do not have anywhere to go-and even I did, I should not tell you, for fear that you might divulge where your carriage took me."

"You are in such a hurry to disappear," Anne whispered, thoughtfully.

"Believe me, Anne, I have committed no wrong. I have taken nothing from Pemberley, except the wages paid to me-"

Anne blushed with embarrassment-an ability she had not known she possessed.

"I did not mean for it to sound like that," she said. "But do understand, Elizabeth, it is all most singular-"

"Will you help me?" Elizabeth asked, her voice tottering on the brink of hysterics.

"Allow me to wake the Colonel-we could take you together-"

"Absolutely not," Elizabeth said. In her mind, she remembered the Colonel's dashing smile as a leer. Just like his cousin, she thought. They are all the same, quick to prey on the ones who cannot protect themselves- "Pray, Anne! Either you help me, or please, return to your bed and forget about me forever..."

"Very well," Anne whispered, studying Elizabeth's face. "But on one condition. My man will stay with you until you board your post-"

Elizabeth inclined her head. "Thank you," she said. "I am forever in your debt."

Already dressed for the road, she slipped into Georgiana's room and stood over the girl, who slept like a child, one leg sticking from under the blanket, lanky and awkward. She felt tears-bitter, stinging tears. She leaned and touched the girl's forehead with her lips.

Anne came up behind her.

"She is sure to ask about you come morning," she whispered.

"I shall write her a letter, at the first opportunity," Elizabeth replied, ignoring a painful stab at her heart.

"Come, then," Anne whispered. Elizabeth nodded, took a deep breath, and the two women disappeared into the dark of the hallway.

In the morning, Darcy woke with a feeling of having committed a terrible, terrible mistake. He was in the library, wracked in a chair that was too small for him; his mouth felt rather like something had died in it. Next to him, a brandy bottle and a snifter explained the headache, the sickness, the general malaise. He pulled himself out of the chair and stumbled, feeling increasingly ill, to his own apartments. Once there, he thought, he might remember; and then, the awful heavy feeling would disappear.

But he could not remember, and the sense of having done some awful, incurable wrong persisted. It exacerbated his headache, his sickness; it throbbed in his mind as he was taking his bath. I have done something wrong, he thought, so wrong. At breakfast, he did not eat, but downed two cups of coffee; his only companions were Bingley and Georgiana; he did not expect anyone else, thinking that his guests were sleeping off their nighttime revels. Georgie seemed dazed and tired, and Darcy wondered about the wisdom of letting her host the ball with him. She was, after all, but a child. Right now, she amused herself by spearing, absent-mindedly, the omelet on her plate with her fork, as if it was some small animal, and then releasing it again. The yellow mass on her plate had long lost any resemblance to omelet, or to eggs in general. Darcy found his patience unusually short this morning.

"Georgie," he said, irritably, "do stop toying with your food."

"Right," Bingley added, biting down a smile, "Miss Darcy, you should know that there are countless orphans starving in London, even as we speak."

"Ah," Georgiana said and covered her mouth delicately as she yawned. "A-a-and i-if I stop t-toying w-w-w-with m-my f-food they w-will stop s-s-starving?"

Darcy did not know what to say to such unprecedented audacity on her part. Moreover, any, no doubt scathing, reply he might have was prevented by him having bit through his cheek and seeing, in front of him, innumerable interconnecting circles of blue and purple. Bingley, baying with laughter, hardly helped the situation.

My God, what did I do?

A sound of chair being moved, and he found himself staring into a pair of gray, angry, burning eyes.

"Good morning, Anne," he said. "Good morning, Fitzwilliam."

"Good morning, Darcy, Bingley, Georgie," the Colonel replied genially.

Anne said nothing, cutting her food furiously; so furiously, in fact, that a bit of egg-and-bacon flew off and hit Bingley in the nose, making him flinch.

"Anne," Georgiana said, suddenly. "I h-had the st-strangest d-dream l-last n-night..."

"I know nothing of dreams," Anne said curtly, keeping her eyes on her plate. Fitzwilliam at her side threw her a curious glance, his own manners impeccable.

"Yes, b-but you w-w-were in it," Georgiana went on, oblivious to the fact that Anne clearly did not wish to speak of it.

"How curious, Georgie," Fitzwilliam said, grinning. Anne flashed her nearly-white eyes at her cousin.

Anne slammed her silverware down on the table.

"Stop that, both of you! I was not in any dream!"

"Curioser and curioser," Fitzwilliam said. "Is it not, Darcy?"

"Hmph," said Darcy.

"Georgie, I shall have you know that I make it a point to never be in anyone's dreams-it is exceedingly common and vulgar!"

"Oh, b-but you w-w-w-were in m-mine," Georgiana said softly. "Y-you a-and Elizabeth. The t-two of you w-w-w-were s-standing ov-ver my b-bed... and then Elizabeth l-leaned and k-kissed me, and you s-said s-something ab-bout me asking f-for h-her w-w-w-when I w-w-w-woke..."

With a clang and thud of her chair, Anne flew to her feet.

"I shall go now," she said, shaking off Fitzwilliam's calming hand. "Indeed, I shall return to mama. She is infinitely preferable to this pandemonium."

"Oh," Fitzwilliam said. "Now, that is a proclamation to make." "

You!" Anne clamored. "All of you, with your diamonds, and your governesses, and your blasted dreams!"

"Close your mouth, Bingley," Fitzwilliam advised, light-heartedly.

Anne strode out of the dining room, as small and delicate as a figurine, as furious as a particularly ill-disposed harpy.

A second later, all three of her cousins ran after her into the hallway.

"Anne, return immediately!"

"Whatever do you mean, I insist on knowing!"

"C-cousin A-anne, it w-w-was not really a d-dream, then?"

Without breaking her stride, Anne pointed her finger at Darcy's chest.

"You," she said curtly. "A word. Alone."

"B-but A-anne-"

"Fitzwilliam, would you take her away, please?"

"Georgie-"

"L-let m-me b-be-ah! C-cousin F-fitz-p-put m-me d-down!"

Georgiana Darcy was a tall girl, a very tall one, indeed; but all her height was hardly a match for her cousin's military brawn. Therefore, when the good Colonel flipped her over the shoulder and strode back towards the dining room, all the fight she put up was absolutely for naught.

Darcy and Anne reached the doors of the library in grim silence. It was clear to him that she was furious, and if he knew his cousin, she was never furious without a good reason to be (indeed, one could be sure that, having lived her entire life with her mother, Anne de Bourgh had learned to differentiate between the truly grave problems-like her mother-and the rest of them; if she were furious, most people would be aghast, livid, or worse). Silently, Darcy opened the door to the library and let her go inside. Sliding in after her, he closed the door firmly behind him and locked it. Somehow, he felt, whatever Anne had to tell him was better said behind locked doors.

Then, he turned around, leaning against the door.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Anne snapped.

"You wished to have a word with me, alone. We are alone. Say what you must."

Anne folded her arms on her chest. "Perhaps I ought to have you offer an explanation for your beastly behavior last night."

Darcy grew paler.

"My beastly behavior?" he murmured, hoping, despite himself, that it was all some jest. But he knew that it was rather unlike Anne to engage in such stupid, cruel jokes; and what was worse, deep inside, he knew that it was no joke. He had done something wrong, terribly, terribly wrong...

Anne pursed her lips and held up her chin. Then, she cocked one eyebrow and narrowed her eyes, a miniature, but scathing enough, picture of disapprobation.

"I suppose it must have been quite horrid, judging by the look on Miss Bennett's face."

Darcy felt ill; very ill, in fact. Snippets of conversation flared up in his memory-her voice, terrified, begging, this is wrong, so wrong, please let me go, you are a gentleman, sir-and his own, possessed, bewildered, covetous. I am in love with you, Elizabeth, he had said. Darcy sat down, slowly, in the nearest chair, rested his elbows on his knees, his forehead on his folded hands.

He could not bear to look Anne in the eye.

Anne was merciless.

"I see that I am correct, then," she said icily. "It was you who frightened her so-but what did you do, Darcy?"

His throat was parched, he did not think he could get a single word out.

"I-I had too much to drink-I fear I might have forgotten myself-"

"Darcy!" Shocked by what she was discovering-more than she had bargained for, perhaps-Anne held one hand to her mouth, instinctively, covering up a gasp. Thereupon, she repeated her question. "Dear God, man, what did you do?!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying his hardest to reconstruct, through the haze of a vicious headache, exactly what had happened. But it was all in vain; all he managed to remember was a mélange of images, dreamlike, nightmarish. Elizabeth standing there, holding out a box-a blue box with a lace bow-her hand, white against the dark-blue cardboard-his own hands on her, too dark, too large over the demure pale silk of her gown-greedy hands, grasping her, digging in rapaciously-and the feeling, as divine then as it was terrifying now, the feeling he would hardly ever forget, the maddening sensation of her body pressed against his.

He shook his head.

"Annie," he said. "I know I have done her some wrong. I cannot speak of it with you-cannot tell you everything-"

She shrugged, in visible distaste. "Darcy," she said, seemingly fighting to speak in that tight, controlled voice of hers. "My tender morals are none of your concern. I like that girl, cousin. I demand to know what happened."

He threw her a surprised glance-at that moment, she reminded him of her mother at her most imperious. The resemblance was too close for comfort, and he shivered. Reluctantly, he said:

"I know I have behaved ungentlemanly-but I am not certain whether-"

Whether I have forced myself upon her. He could not bear say that, but fortunately, Anne understood.

"When I saw her," she said, her gaze softening, "when I saw her-she had sent for me-when I saw her, Darcy, she looked-" she paused, looking for a word "-distraught and a bit disheveled."

Darcy let out an inarticulate groan.

"-but she did not look-" Anne paused again, then said, quickly, with a loud rush of breath, "-she did not look violated."

Thank God, he thought. He could not bear to think that he had lost himself so completely-for he had thought himself a man of honor, a gentleman-he could not bear to know that he had fallen so low, drink or no drink.

And then he remembered, remembered what had stopped him. Not the notion of honor, but rather, the words she had thrown at him. Lord, you are just like your friend Mr. Wickham! Even then, with lust driving him and alcohol dulling his conscience and judgment, even then he knew to be aghast at this comparison, and, what was far worse, at the truth of her words. He had behaved like Wickham-had she not stopped him, had she not said these words, God knows what he would have done (he knew, with certainty, what Wickham would have done, and he did not wish to be anything like him)-

"Annie," he said, raising his eyes at her, "I trust in your discretion-"

"You need not worry about that," she said, lips curving derisively. "I should not care a tuppence for your reputation, you awful, terrible cad-but I should never betray her confidence."

He flew to his feet, spurred to activity. "Oh, Annie! How shall I make it up to her? No wonder she has not come down for breakfast! I must go-must speak with her- "

Anne stopped him, laying a hand on his arm. "Darcy," she said.

"-can you ask her to see me-I am certain she would not otherwise-"

"Darcy," Anne repeated, and something in the way she was looking at him stopped him in his tracks.

"What?" he asked, irritably.

"She is gone," Anne said. It took him all of his willpower to remain standing.

"Gone?"

"I had my man take her to the nearest post stop-"

"Anne! How could you?" At this moment he wished, fervently, that his dainty cousin had been born a man; then, he could have throttled her... him. As it was, he caught himself staring in her dispassionate, silver-gray eyes.

"She begged me for help," she said, scathingly. "Certainly, I could not refuse her!"

He turned on one heel, in desperation, in his need to run somewhere, do something. He had not imagined, ever, what it would be like to lose her. It felt empty, more than anything, and a terrible calamity, in the face of which he felt absolutely helpless. Where to go, where to look for her-and he took it for granted that he must look for her-that he must find her, must explain himself-but even as he thought so, he realized how futile such an undertaking would be. She could have taken that post anywhere at all-and even if he did find her, he found himself thinking, what could he possibly say to her, to erase the memory of the night before, of the one time when his cruel, selfish lust had sent her running, like a frightened doe, away from Pemberley. In the middle of the night, he thought, bitterly. How frightened, how mortified she must have been! He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands-for it was burning with shame.

Then, he turned towards Anne and was at her, grasping her shoulders tightly, raising her off the floor. Her feet dangled in the air, but her eyes were light, derisive, laughing at him.

"Where did your man take her?" he demanded, rasping.

"I do not know," Anne said, coldly. "I never thought to ask."

"As the day is bright, Anne, you are lying to me!"

"Damnation, will you let me go!" she hissed. "Do you suppose I should tell you, even if I knew?! Do you think I should do anything to help you?!"

"She might be in danger-"

"Methinks she is in greater danger here!" Anne snapped, all the while trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Darcy, you put me down, you great big boor, or I shall call for help! No doubt she took off running, you are an absolute lout!"

Darcy saw it was high time to change strategy. He lowered Anne, rather gently, then tried his best to look like a housebroken dog.

"Anne," he said. "Please. I must find her."

She regarded him with suspicion. "Why? So that you might renew your addresses to her?"

"No, Anne-I do not know-" he shook his head in bewilderment and then repeated, softly. "I do not know. To beg her forgiveness, I suppose."

"I do not believe you," she said. Darcy hung his head, penitent. The truth was, he could hardly believe himself. The news of Elizabeth's escape undid him so utterly, he would have renounced his birthright, if it helped undo the hurt he had caused her... The only thing he knew was that he must find Elizabeth, must bring her back, must make it up to her-or else, he thought, with dismal certainty, my life is done for.

"Please, Anne."

"To think only," she said, bitterly. "I had not known you were even familiar with the word..."

But, in spite of all her bile, she was softening, he could see-and so, he renewed his assault.

"Anne," he said. "Ask what you want of me-"

"I want nothing of you," she said ruefully. "Only an assurance that you would do her no more harm."

"You have it," he said, quickly. He was desperate. He knew that Anne's man would not talk without her permission; those who served his little cousin were devoted to her. "Please, Annie, 'tis no ploy. I am not trying to find her only to try seducing her once again-"

"I know that," Anne said angrily. "I am not certain, however, that you can trust yourself not to."

A long pause ensued during which the cousins studied each other-Anne still angry, Darcy now deeply despaired to ever find Elizabeth. Then, he rose and strode, swiftly, towards the doors.

"Where are you going?" Anne asked quickly.

"To search for her," he said, not looking at her.

"How will you-"

"I do not know," Darcy said, dryly, "I only know that I must." With this, he strode out. Anne sighed, rubbed her hand against her eyes. Then, she shot to her feet and ran after her cousin.

"Darcy! Darcy, wait!"

Only an hour passed, but Darcy was already in the courtyard, dressed for the road, leaning down from Lucifer's saddle to kiss Georgiana good-bye. The house was in a state of great upheaval, but the only thing everyone knew was that Miss Elizabeth Bennett had absconded during the night and the Master-now, that was shocking!-was going to fetch her. Only Darcy himself and Anne knew the truth; and, if Darcy knew his cousin at all, he could count on her to keep an utterly sepulchral silence on the subject.

Leaning down from horseback, Darcy placed his lips against Georgiana's cheek. It felt cool; Georgiana herself seemed to be in a state of utter shock. Her friend had disappeared; and now it was her brother who looked ready to go. Everyone's abandonment pained her; she sighed, unhappily. Anne wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders, and the Colonel patted her cheek gently. Clearly, he, too, knew nothing, and whatever he did know, came out shrewd guesswork; the Colonel, after all, was a very clever man.

"Georgie," Darcy said, forcing her to look up at him. "Miss Bennett and I shall be back before you know it."

She gave him a tortured smile.

"You d-do that," she whispered.

Reaching down from the saddle, Darcy pressed Anne's small hand.

"I am so sorry, Annie," he said. She nodded.

"I am tied between wishing you luck and hoping that you fail direly in your endeavor."

"Wish me luck," he said.

Anne said nothing, but sighed in a way that made the smiling Colonel study her thoughtfully.

As to the rest of the household, bewilderment was the most prominent emotion. Bingley rubbed the back of his head, looking absolutely nonplussed. Unlike the Colonel, he was not quite so clever as to guess at what had happened; dimly, he wondered whether his friend's harried departure had anything to do with the box Caroline had opened in the hallway two days back. As to Caroline herself, she fumed silently, for she felt, once again, that something was happening, going quite over her head, something to which everyone was privy but her; something which was going to make it well-nigh impossible for her to get Darcy. That Eliza Bennett was gone did not bother her in the least; on the contrary, she would have been perfectly content to have the little chit out of Pemberley and Darcy's proximity. But that he looked so miserable setting out to search for her-in fact, that he even bothered to search for her, her being simple hired help-did not bode well for Caroline's matrimonial interests. She would have given her eye-teeth to know what on Lord's earth had happened the night before. She eyed her brother with disdain: for all that he was Darcy's best friend, he knew remarkably little of the man's private life. And if he knew, she thought bitterly, if he knew, he would hardly tell her.

Therefore, when later that day, she wondered into the library (mind you, the library was hardly her usual haunting place, for she read rarely, if at all; but today, she was looking for Charles, who seemed to have disappeared) and found, fallen on the floor below a low tea table, the ubiquitous blue box, she did not hesitate in opening it. After all, she thought, if nobody will help you, you must help yourself. In truth, she did not have to open the box to know what was in it; and still, she pulled on the lacy ribbon, only to be dazzled, once again, by the glimmer of its contents. The dress she did not like-too dark, she surmised-but the diamonds... you could buy a small estate with a necklace like this! The temptation to take the necklace out and hold it to her chest was strong, but she escaped it; after all, she thought, the necklace itself hardly mattered. One who married Mr. Darcy would have no want of necklaces and other such finery; but the question remained, who it would be...

But what was this box doing in the lib-And why, on Lord's eyes, was it tossed so carelessly under the table? Indeed, it is as if a hurricane had torn through the library: a chair was clearly out of place; a few books and a London paper lay scattered on the carpet. Caroline looked about herself, and then, when the revelation struck her, almost cried out in indignation. That harlot!

Furiously, she thought about all the possibilities that finding this necklace entailed; the most solid one lay, of course, in the utter ruination of Eliza Bennett's reputation, no doubt already measly. Make her cower and run in shame, Caroline thought, eyes narrowed, so that she never dare set foot in Pemberley again. Send her to her appropriate oblivion. Make her-

"Miss Bingley!"

Caroline's tarry was her undoing. She pivoted and saw, to her dismay, that gray little mouse, Miss de Bourgh, hands planted firmly on non-existent hips. Now, Caroline liked the little Anne as much as she could like another female, for she could see, plainly, that her mother pronouncements notwithstanding, Mr. Darcy would never marry her. But now, the little thing was clearly in her way-physically as well as metaphorically. Cautiously, she moved the box behind her with one foot.

"Miss Bingley, I believe you have something in your possession that does not belong to you," Anne said flatly.

Caroline smiled her most engaging smile, but it seemed to have a negligible effect on the young woman.

"I believe you know what it is," she said, barely raising her voice.

"Why, I know not what you speak of," Caroline murmured. But she was loathe to go and leave the box on the floor, where they could find it and-

Anne sighed, in visible exasperation, rolled her eyes, and pointed. " 'Tis on the floor. You moved it behind you when I walked in. Shall I walk around you and take it?"

Caroline sputtered. She could not believe the little thing would gainsay her so openly. Pushing past Anne, she hissed, through her teeth:

"Out of my way!" -and almost bumped into the Colonel, who was smiling solicitously, but whose eyes, Caroline could see, were cold as the steel of his sword.

After Caroline had swept down the hallway, Colonel Fitzwilliam joined Anne in the library. She was kneeling next to the box, tying the bow quickly. The Colonel peeked over her shoulder, only to see something blue and sparkling inside, but a second later, the bow was tied securely and the contents of the mysterious box were eclipsed from his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, curiously. Looking up from her kneeling position, Anne gave him a teasing smile.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she murmured. He was towering over her, a very big man, with fair golden curls, a beautiful smile, and eyes that sparkled with mischief like Darcy's diamonds; Anne's heart gave a slight lurch, which she fought valiantly. The Colonel, being, very unfortunately, a second son, was hardly a presentable match. Mother would have a fit, she thought; but then, the very idea of Mother having a fit amused her so much that she giggled.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," Anne murmured.

"Anne, you never laugh at nothing. Come, tell me."

He came to kneel next to her, and suddenly, caught up in her laughter, that spilled, gently and musically, like a bubbling spring, did what had to be the rashest thing in all his thirty years.

He kissed her. He dipped his head, and he slipped one finger under her chin, tilting it, and he found her lips with his and he kissed her.

At first, it was shock that kept her in place-for all her posturing before Darcy earlier, she had never been kissed before, for no man of her acquaintance was courageous enough to brave Lady Catherine's displeasure-and then, genuine, heartfelt delight. His arms were around her, very tightly, pressing her to him, so that her breasts rubbed, through her corset and gown, against the thick fabric of his dark civilian coat.

The Colonel hardly knew what had moved him to kiss Anne, whom he had known for over twenty years, and whom he noticed only when he was forced to visit his aunt at Rosings; and even then, she was a friend more than anything, a pale girl, unattractive enough for both of them to feel remarkably at ease. He did not know why he kissed her-perhaps, it was her joyous, girlish laughter-or perhaps, it was the strange ambiance of longing and desire that seemed to pervade Pemberley this visit. He did not know what moved him; but, once he started kissing her, it felt like the most natural and proper thing in the world. It was as if all young ladies of her circle were kissed, regularly-and thoroughly-by their older male cousins, and, in the process of kissing, made delicious little catlike sounds.

Finally, they parted for lack of air. Anne sighed and shivered pleasurably, then closed her eyes.

"Anne," he said, softly.

"Please, no," she whispered. "Say nothing, nothing at all, so that I might believe this was in earnest, Fitzwilliam..."

The impossibility of any future happiness struck her. If she were to fall in love with him-and, skeptical as she was, Anne also saw how beautiful he was, how kind; saw herself tumbling madly in love with him-they would be left penniless. She sighed again, but kept her eyes closed, for she could not bear to open them to reality.

"Fitzwilliam," she said, longingly.

"Richard," he whispered back.

"Pardon?" she asked in her usual brisk manner, the one that bespoke her impatience or unwillingness to waste her time on various little follies. But Fitzwilliam, a military man, knew a losing battle when he saw one; and so, still kneeling next to her, he pressed his lips against his cousin's warm cheek.

"My name is Richard," he said.

"I know that." She opened one eye, then the other; he had not run, shaken by the idiocy of what they had done. On the contrary, he was smiling at her, rather from above, smiling at her, and touching her cheek, gently, with the back of his hand. Anne felt it was prudent to warn him.

"I'll have you know, sir," she said, seriously, "that my mother will never allow us to marry."

"I know that," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

"She wants me to marry Darcy, to join our fortunes, and if I tell her I wish to marry you, why, then she is sure to disown me-I shall be left penniless. So think about that before you decide whether you wish me to address you by your Christian name."

Her words seemed to strike at him like painful lashes; skin-splitting, blood-letting. But of course, he thought; of course. He was the younger son, destined to al