Prologue
I wonder, should I go, or should I stay?
The strains of the penultimate song reached his ears, and Ben Gardiner sighed deeply. Perhaps, just perhaps, Nina had been mistaken -- it wouldn't be the first time. Even if That Woman had attended, he could scarcely walk up the Viscountess Fitzwilliam and demand to examine her niece.
Eliza, where are you when I need you?
He was on the verge of stalking away, leaving the attendees to their ill-gained pleasures. That the profits from the annual Meryton Charity Ball were funnelled directly into the war effort was little comfort; he felt misplaced, awkward, and had no desire to ever participate in such an event again. But he would, again, and again, until he found her. She was not here -- there was no reason to remain --
In the very act of slipping away, he was stalled by a conversation between two young débutantes, which bizarrely intrigued him. "You must dance," one was saying.
"I certainly shall not," the other replied softly. "You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner."
Mildly curious, Ben turned his head to glance at them. The first was a pretty girl, who he recognised after a bewildered moment as Emma, John Knightley's younger sister. The other, taller and older-looking, he had never set eyes on before -- hers was not a face one would forget. He was frankly astonished she had managed to evade notice this long, even by cowering in a dimly-lit corner -- perhaps she didn't have much in the way of sex appeal, but she was still devastatingly lovely, if more reminiscent of the Pietà or Nefertiti than Margaret Lockwood or Phyllis Calvert.
Something about her caught his eye, but it was only when she turned her face away from her friend that he was able to perceive her expression. There was fierce intelligence as well as flawless beauty in that face, and almost unconsciously he took a step closer. Her eyes were a gentle, brilliant green, very large in her narrow face.
"No, Emma, I shan't do it, I can't, please don't make me," she said, her voice rising shrilly. Then her tone altered from anxiety to arrogance, her expression closed, her lashes dropped -- "At a gathering such as this? It would be insupportable."
"I would not be as fastidious as you are for a kingdom," Emma laughed. "Didn't you see -- "
"I don't care who you saw," the other girl said stoutly. "There are a few here that are tolerable, to be sure -- but none handsome enough to tempt me."
Ben could not but be amused at her rapid vacillation between pride and timidity -- until he realised why her eyes had caught him. No, he did not know her, but he knew those eyes. They were Aunt Chris's eyes, and more importantly, Marianne's --
He loathed hypocrisy, but he knew who she must be, knew what he had to do, and so he stepped forward, bowing smartly to Emma. "Miss Knightley?"
Emma beamed. "Oh, Ben, it is a pleasure to see you here. Darling -- " she turned to her friend, "Mr Gardiner is an old friend of John's -- Janine Carleton is his sister."
He looked into the young woman's face, pale and frightened beneath the mask of hauteur, and smiled charmingly. The poor thing obviously needed to be saved from herself.
"Good evening," he said politely, and she returned his smile rather shyly.
"Good evening, Mr Gardiner."
"Ben," Emma went on happily, "this is my dearest friend in the world, Daria Fitzwilliam -- we went to school together. She and her brother and Carl were thick as thieves -- still are, as far as I know."
Fitzwilliam. So he had been right. "Any friend of Janine and Carl's is a friend of mine," said Ben.
"Thank you," murmured Daria.
He quashed his rebelling scruples, and bowed. "Miss Fitzwilliam, will you dance the last waltz with me?"
She blushed deeply. "Thank you, sir, I would be honoured."
As he led her onto the dance floor, absently admiring the way a few wayward dark curls fell against the long white slope of her neck, he could not keep himself from leaning over and whispering, "Should I be honoured, Miss Fitzwilliam?"
She turned to face him as the music began, her eyes wide. "What do you mean, sir?"
"Why, that I am handsome enough to tempt you!"
Daria looked horrified, but only said defiantly, "I did not know anyone was listening."
"Let us not quarrel over what you should not have said, nor I heard, Miss Fitzwilliam -- the waltz is beginning." He pulled her into his arms, determined not to look too deeply into her lonely eyes -- there danger lay. Already he was certain of it, could feel his peril. I cannot be in love -- I only just met her -- it's only a dance. For heavens' sake, she's a Fitzwilliam -- and if she knew the truth -- I don't even want to think of it.
So he did not think of it, he did not think of anything at all; instead he allowed the light and bright and sparkling mood to envelope him; he danced the last waltz with Daria Fitzwilliam, as the orchestra played.