A masquerade ball. A second chance at love. Darcy's determination that Elizabeth will be his. . .
Elizabeth yearns for forgiveness. In her heart she knows she unfairly judged Darcy, but has no hope of ever seeing him again. Even were they to meet. . .his good opinion once lost, is gone forever. In real life, there are no second chances at love and happy marriage.
Darcy knows Elizabeth's heart is within his reach when he catches her whispering a sweet plea for forgiveness in front of his portrait. His entire body clenches, and he vows that this time he will not let her go. Instead, he will turn the full force of his will on convincing her that their passion is worth giving way a measure of pride. . .
Despite her best intentions, a sensual night at a masquerade ball places Elizabeth entirely at Darcy's mercy. She trusts him to be an honorable man. . .but only the next morning will truly tell. Has she misjudged his intentions a second time?
Masquerade is a Pride and Prejudice sensual variation novella to be read in one steamy sitting. Featuring a slightly more intense Darcy, a passionate scene and, of course, a HEA. This variation explores what might have happened had ODC succumbed to passion at Pemberley. Currently published on all major ebook retailers.
Elizabeth attempted to ignore the knot in her middle as they drove up the lane of Pemberley Park. I should not have come, she thought. I should have pled some illness and stayed behind and allowed my aunt and uncle the pleasure without me.
The knowledge that she had misjudged Mr. Darcy weighed on Elizabeth's mind. She had arrogantly thought her opinion of him to be final, as if no man was capable of change and she incapable of misunderstanding. She wrestled with herself, with the conflicting desire to both avoid him and to offer him an apology as well as gratitude for his part in reuniting Jane with Mr. Bingley.
"The most astonishing thing has occurred, Lizzy," Jane had said months ago. "I have received a letter from Mr. Darcy, and you would not credit the confession it contains."
A confession followed by a call from Mr. Bingley, explaining he had also received such a letter and that Mr. Darcy had admitted to regrettable interference in their courtship, and urged Bingley to renew his sentiments to the lady, for Mr. Darcy believed his suit would be most welcome.
Jane and Charles wed by special license not a week later, choosing an intimate ceremony and small family breakfast for their celebration. Mr. Darcy had been unable to attend due to an illness in the family, but wished the couple sincere happiness. It was then Elizabeth had truly begun to realize that though Darcy had made a mistake, so had she. Only she could not correct hers by simply sending a letter. If she did, it could be misconstrued as an attempt to earn her way back into his affections, and she knew better. Mr. Darcy's good opinion, after all, once lost was lost forever.
She took some small comfort in the beauty and elegance of the grounds of Pemberley. A masterful eye was in charge, she could tell, for nature had been allowed to take its course without tasteless interference from man.
"When he marries," her aunt murmured, "his wife will surely be happy to be mistress of all this."
Elizabeth smiled weakly. The mistress might, through some quirk of fate were she a less stubborn and tempestuous person, have been her. She would never admit it, however, not only because it would appear to be bragging, but because of her sense of humiliation over her behavior. And if she admitted to the proposal and her refusal, she would be obliged to tell the entire tale.
She had learned her lesson. Her lips were sealed forever.
The housekeeper admitted Elizabeth and the Gardiners to the grand home, seeming to take pride in escorting them through the public areas until they came to the gallery.
"Such a handsome estate," her uncle exclaimed. "So well-appointed. And the master is not often at home?"
"I daresay more than most masters," the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, replied. "Though I would wish he was home more often. Tomorrow we shall have the pleasure of his company once more, however."
Elizabeth faltered for a half step, then forced herself to continue walking.
"Ah!" her aunt said. "That is why I detected such happy bustle about the house."
Mrs. Reynolds smiled and lowered her voice as if imparting a confidence. "He is to bring a large party of friends with him and has given the order to prepare for a ball. That is why there is more activity than usual, we must ensure Master Darcy finds no fault in our preparations."
"Your attention to duty does you and your master much credit," her aunt replied. As they toured the room, a small portrait took Mrs. Gardiner's attention. "Elizabeth! Look, I believe it is Mr. Wickham."
"Indeed it is," the housekeeper said, eyebrow rising. "You are acquainted?"
Elizabeth drew closer out of morbid curiosity, though gazing upon even a still likeness of him made her stomach curdle. She had nearly been taken in by his charming, deceitful countenance, only to learn he had thrown over their burgeoning understanding for a lady with greater prospects. Then to learn of his dastardly behavior with Mr. Darcy's sister, of an age with her own. The urge to protect and avenge a beloved sister, Elizabeth well understood. She also understood being forced to disclose such an incident in a letter in order to clear his own name would have infuriated Mr. Darcy.
How foolish she had been, so rash to rush to Wickham's defense and refuse Mr. Darcy, only to then learn the truth. Only to then realize that her feelings ran deeper and were more complicated than she had first supposed. She might have been Mrs. Darcy. She might have been his beloved wife.
"My niece is acquainted," her aunt was saying. "And I believe she also made the acquaintance of Mr. Darcy while he spent some time near her home."
The housekeeper seemed surprised, then looked upon Elizabeth with a small measure more of respect. Not that her manners had been unpleasant before but there was a new gravity in the woman's eyes, as if Elizabeth was now worthy of more honor simply by knowing Mr. Darcy.
"I know him a little," Elizabeth said. "I cannot claim any great friendship."
"And did you not find him to be an affable, handsome man, miss?"
What could she say to that inquiry? Yes, of course, though the truth was so much more complicated. "Yes, very handsome."
Mrs. Reynolds led them to another portrait, and Elizabeth stared, breath caught. His eyes looked directly at her, clear and frank, his bearing dignified without the air of coldness he had shown from the beginning at Meryton.
"This is he, Aunt," Elizabeth said. "Mr. Darcy."
"Well! He is, indeed, a fine looking fellow. And he has a sister, I recall?"
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Reynolds said. "An accomplished, lovely young lady she is, too. Such a gentle disposition. Mr. Darcy adores her and with good cause. He would do anything to make her happy."
"A veritable St. George," Elizabeth muttered, then winced, imagining herself as the dragon at the wrong end of Mr. Darcy's very sharp sword.
She listened with discomfort through the tour of the house as the housekeeper sang her master's praises. Indeed, as they passed servants clad in somber but elegant livery, going about their work with a cheerful countenance, Elizabeth grew to realize that her understanding of Mr. Darcy's character was not only limited but likely very wrong. But then, she had already accepted her wrong in believing him unpleasant and disdainful. His letter, while formal, had been that of a man laying bare his heart. He could have lashed out but he had not. Instead, he had demonstrated a kind of quiet, dignified humility. Elizabeth simply had not realized how deep her ignorance ran.
Had she truly expected a man of his consequence to be like Mr. Bingley? Effusive, open, warm as a sunny day? No, Mr. Darcy's feelings ran as deep as an underground lake, the surface still and mysterious. Was not that sort of quiet dignity to be preferred? She had often thought Mr. Bingley's chatter would drive her to distraction if she were his wife, though Jane's gentle, patient nature was a perfect foil for it.
Mrs. Reynolds and her aunt were engaged in a lively discussion, Mr. Gardiner trailing along being them with his hands clasped at his back. Elizabeth lingered for a moment as they left, having forgotten her, and stared at the portrait. An ache bloomed in her heart, born of what-ifs and a year's worth of frustrated thoughts regarding her mistakes. The desire to alternately forget him, or to renew the acquaintance and beg his pardon to start anew, plagued her. Girlish, childish fantasies.
Her hand lifted and she touched the edge of the picture frame with a sigh.
"Oh, Darcy. What a mess I have made of everything. Can you ever forgive me?"
She brought her fingers to her lips, pressed a kiss on her own tips, and gently touched the painting. How bitter was the taste of regret. At least it was a gentle bitterness, as time passed the sting healed.
"Forgiveness is always attainable, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth froze, the deep, dark voice washing over her. Had she imagined it? But that was a foolish thought. She was standing here, in his home, in front of his portrait. She waited until she was certain the first blush of red had faded from her cheeks before she slowly turned to face him.