Pride, Prejudice and the Art of Deals

Summary: It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that every widower with a good fortune and a horrendous temper must be in the market for an opinionated, willful wife with no fortune of her own.

"Miss Belle?" Belle heard the slight, telltale footfalls of Mr. Hopper outside her room and stuffed her book under her pillow, grabbing her embroidery up from its sitting place. Emma looked over at her wryly, having abandoned her own embroidery hours ago and had occupied herself playing with some yarn, whilst thoughtfully looking out the window.

Mr. Hopper knocked, and Belle startled, needling herself in the finger.

"Miss Belle? Your father is asking for you. If Miss Emma is with you, tell her to come as well." The footsteps faded down the hallway.

Belle pressed her finger against her gown, smiling wryly at the girl they had found shivering on their doorstep 12 years ago. "He may have finally solved the problem of our singularity." Emma smirked, getting up and brushing down the wrinkles on her dress.

"The problem of our singularity?" Emma raised an eyebrow mockingly. "I thought you rather enjoyed it." She reached for the door and held it open for Belle, and closed it behind her. It was a habit Emma had picked up when she had come to live here; holding doors open and acting as if she too, was part of the staff. It was a habit that Belle time and time again had berated her for, because she knew it stemmed from guilt that they had to support and feed her. It was unfounded guilt, and while Belle would normally tell her off for it, she was too preoccupied with thoughts of what her father would say to them. She knew that her father's business in agriculture was suffering, and that money was tight - which meant one thing, for a girl of little fortune - marriage.

"I do..." Belle sighed. "It's just that time's have been hard for Papa and I fear our singleness is not helping things."

"A rich husband would." Emma said with a bitter quirk to her lips.

"Exactly." Belle said. "A nice, rich husband would be wonderful, but I suppose in times like this, it cannot be helped, even if we end up with an old coot."

They entered the sitting room where Moe French was waiting, pacing up and down as he mumbled to himself.

"Ahhh, the two most beautiful ladies in Hertfordshire." He grinned at them, but Belle could see clearly the worry that knitted under his brow. "Now girls, sit. There's news."

Belle and Emma sat, both sending each other worried looks from their respective chairs. "As you know, Netherfield Park has remained vacant since last winter. Now, however, there is a new gentleman that has let it. A gentleman of very wealthy means, I have heard." He smiled encouragingly.

"And you want us to ensnare him with our seductive ways?" Emma smiled, cocking an eyebrow at Moe, who went red.

"Seduce him with our womanly charms?" Belle cut in, but regretted it when she saw the sorrow on her father's face.

"I am sorry, my dears." He said. "But we need the money. It would be very good if you could..." He waved a hand at them, not wanting to put it to words. "If you could aim for marriage."

Belle played with her skirts, Emma too remaining silent, which was unusual.

"There will be three gentlemen along soon." Her father continued. "A Mr. Gold, a widower, his son, Neal, a bachelor with five thousand pounds a year to his name, and his friend, Sir David Nolan, a retired young soldier with a small fortune to his name as well, though decidedly less. Still,a very good match." He said, spreading his arms wide and trying to smile somewhat hopefully, but he knew it was a poor attempt from the looks on their faces.

He smiled sadly at the silent girls that sat in front of him. He knew they were - perhaps a little different from what most expected a woman to be in this age and time, but he loved them dearly and was hard-pressed to ask this of them - especially his Belle, who had entertained notions of true love all her life. He blamed her mother for it, the romantic heart that she was.

Romance had no place in this society and it was wrong to instill such hope in their daughter. They had been lucky, but not all were and it was wrong to assume Belle was just going to fall into as happy a union.

He missed his wife.

He tilted Belle's chin up and smiled down at her. "But I'm sure whomever you marry, they will be every bit as smart as you, my dear. And every bit as kind."

Belle gave him a watery smile and he turned to Emma, giving the blonde-haired wit a stern look.

"And you Emma," he drawled, "your husband will be just as much of a headache."

Emma quirked her lips at him, but it wasn't as convincingly mischievous as it should have been.

"When are they making their debut?" Belle asked, breaking the silence.

"Tonight, dear. At the ball." Belle sucked in a breath.

"Well, I think then that we should start the preparations." Belle stood, and gave him a smile she did not yet feel.

Mr. Gold detested balls. They were the bane of his life, polite society and all be damned. The only reason he bothered with them was his son, and the boy of 25 years loved them with all his heart, and insisted his father to accompany him.

He smiled coldly at the butler who took his coat, and waded through the pool of women that were circling his son, staring down each of them distastefully. Vultures, all of them. Thank god he was past the marrying age.

He grabbed a drink and breathed into it, carefully making his way toward the far side of the room, where he was certain he could be left in peace.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" His eyes were drawn to the far left of the room; a little girl, obviously of less than well-means, had brushed against one of the gentleman. She was holding a plate of food, eyes wide and terrified as she stared at the man's coat, where there was no more than a spec of sauce. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face that was common and that Gold immediately disliked.

"Foolish child!" The man exclaimed, pushing the child roughly backward as he inspected the coats the child had brushed against. "You've dirtied my suit." He sneered, his handsome face wrinkling in an ugly fashion. "How do you expect to pay me back for this? This costs more than your carriage!" He called to an old man across the room. The man's face had gone a pale white, brow furrowing worriedly as he came to claim his whimpering child.

"Gaston." The flat voice came from across the room, and Gold's gaze was immediately drawn to the lady standing at the entrance, coat half off, and hair mussed quite unfashionably from the wind. No doubt a faulty carriage, he thought, sipping at his drink interestedly as he watched her. She was dressed in a way that alluded to her fortune much more than he thought she probably realized, her gown no doubt from a few seasons ago, but still held her chin high. No doubt a puffed up self-esteem, he thought to himself acerbically, from a doting father who fed his child with kind words rather than food.

"Does it so please you to feed off the money of the poor?" She asked, the malice in her voice palpable and Gold's eyebrows raised. It was scandalous for a lady to speak so freely and bitingly with her tongue in public, especially to a man, nevertheless a man with fortune probably twice her own.

"Lady Belle -" Sir Gaston seemed to have forgotten where he put his tongue as he stared at her, eyes running over her figure like a thief sizing up a jewel. Gold smirked, and went back to nursing his drink, attention drifting as his eyes fluttered around the ballroom to his son, who seemed to have turned his attentions to a particular girl - very pretty, he himself had to admit.

He had almost forgotten about the sharp tongued girl when his son came bounding along with her in toe a while later, eyes brighter than he'd seen them in a while, and the girl dragged along, her eyes downcast and teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Papa, this is Lady Belle French." He said, breathless and eager at the same time. Gold merely raised an eyebrow, but took the proffered girls hand and kissed it, not wanting to embarrass his son with a lack of manners.

"This is Emma's sister," he continued, gesturing to the blonde-haired girl he'd seemed quite smitten with before, "and she says she won't dance with me if Belle does not dance as well. Would you, papa? Just this once, I know you don't like - "

"Of course, Bae." He said warmly, and bowed to Belle as courteously as he could, biting back a scowl. He could deny his son nothing, but he decided he would make no attempt to be civil to the girl during the dance. She was probably the same as all the other girls of her age were - shallow and bolstered – even if she did have that mouth on her. No doubt dancing with a man as old as him, and by obligation as well, was a great blow to a blown up self-esteem, he thought, somewhat mollified by the thought.

The dance started not long after, he and - Belle, stood awkwardly opposite each other, neither one quite knowing what to do. He caught Bae's pleading gaze and sighed, proffering his hand to the girl. She took it hesitantly, and he let his other hand fall to her waist, wincing slightly at the pain in his leg.

On occasions such as balls, when the need be that he may be obligated to dance (though this was hardly), he left his cane at home. His leg would kill him the next day, but it was worth it to see his son so happy.

"What is your name?" He stared down at the girl, who had lifted her eyes to his. Big, blue and curious, he couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable.

"I believe I promised you a dance, dearie." He said, focussedly not looking at her. "Not an interrogation."

"I didn't think asking a name was as to an intrusion." She said blandly, though her eyes sparked with fire.

"Names have power, dearie." He smiled, showing his teeth. "And I really wouldn't like to think you and your sister were associating with me and my son because of our good fortune, now would I?"

Belle frowned at him, but then nodded, to his surprise, instead of acting highly offended like most ladies would have. Milah, of course, had - but being the fool he was then, he had believed her. "I suppose," she said, "but that's a rather cynical view of the world."

"A realistic view." He corrected, lip curling. "Especially in this society. Gold diggers and tramps." He gauged her reaction, but she didn't seem cowed. She seemed rather at ease, meeting his eyes with little difficulty.

"You are rather assuming," she said lightly, "especially when you haven't bothered to know anyone. I already know of your fortune, Mr. Gold," She said, chin upturned. "and I still do not care much to associate with you. " She pursed her lips, and met his eyes again, and he then could fully see how angry she was.

"So judgmental, so proud." She bit her lip, apparently attempting to squash her bad-feeling, but it was too much apparently, for her to keep in. "I despise men like you, who think so lowly of others when they themselves never stop to look at anything under their feet, seeing nothing but ill-feeling and blaming everyone except themselves. How," she asked, eyes narrowed, "can anyone show you anything good of themselves, if one is so hostile to any slight kindness anyone pays them?"

"Are you suggesting you are doing me kindness by deigning to dance with me, Miss French?" His jaw was clenched with anger at the implication, and she shook her head, the set of her own jaw suggesting equal ire.

"Well, it certainly wasn't from ill-will," she snapped. "And what I was suggesting, Mr. Gold, was that you should not judge a book so quickly by it's poor cover, or society so quickly by a few desperate women." She pulled herself from him, curtsying stiffly. "I believe we have come to the end of our dance, Mr. Gold. Thank you for the honor." She muttered, before turning and busying herself with other women.

He stood for a minute, massaging his chin as he watched the shrew mingle with the other ladies. She was at ease in the crowd, smiling and laughing. No trace of the scathing wench she had been just moments before.

He snorted, turning his back on her and the party as he strode out of the room.

"Get my carriage, man." He ordered the staff brusquely as he slipped on his coat. He waited less than patiently until Dove rode up.

"Sir?" The towering man asked, looking slightly confused.

"Take me back to the house, Dove. And then come back and wait for my son. I've had enough of society for one night."

xxxxxxx

"They look like they're having fun." Mary Margaret Blanchard tilted her chin at Emma and her companion and Belle would have to agree. Theydid look like they were having fun. In fact, Belle didn't think she'd ever seen Emma smile so brightly at anyone before. It was nice.

"I have to agree." Belle said with a firm nod as she took a sip from her glass of bubbly water. "I've never seen her so enraptured, to be certain. And the man looks quite," she bit back a giggle as the man who'd introduced himself as Neal Gold spun Emma around and laughed at something she said, "quite taken with her too. All in all it looks like a very lucky match." She grinned at Mary Margaret and took another sip out of her glass before adding thoughtfully. "It's a pity his father isn't quite so agreeable." She pulled a face. "Proud, beastly, disagreeable man." She murmured, taking a sip of her wine.

Mary Margaret gave a mock gasp. "Careful now," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. "You wouldn't want to sound like you have an opinion."

Belle was about to reply, or quip, when there was a soft cough from over her shoulder.

"Would you care to dance?"

It was Sir David, the other man who had come to stay at Hertfordshire. The retired soldier. She nodded, too scared to say a word.

He proffered her a hand and she took it.

xxxxxxxx

Emma had lived a long life away from boys, and it was not without reason. She didn't trust situations where she wasn't in charge, and in this society, men were always in charge.

Neal seemed different, though - he didn't seem to care about social queues or if she wanted to lead the dance - he'd lether lead, and he had humor in a way she had not ever encountered before and he had a brain. It was more than a girl could ask for, really.

"So you're telling me..." Emma said, frowning, "that you've never ridden a horse - by yourself?" She quirked a brow at him.

Neal ran a hand through his hair, sighing dramatically. "I fear the life I've been living has been terribly inadequate. I do hope you won't hold it against me, though."

Emma smiled, snorting. "No, I shan't hold it against you..." Her eyes began to twinkle madly, and anyone who had known her for any length of time could have told Neal that he was in trouble. "I might, however, teach you to ride a horse."

xxxxxxxxx

Gold stared at the old grandfather clock and listened to it tick. Back and forth, back and forth.

Somewhere around half-past twelve he heard Bae and David stumble in. He snorted under his breath, a half-smile rising. His eyes flicked to the portrait on the wall. Him, Bae and Milah. His lips curled as he took a sip of Scotch.

She had been beautiful and carefree when they'd met. He remembered meeting her in that tavern somewhere off Dublin. He remembered seeing her throwing back her head and laughing at a quip he'd made about the owner. He remembered kissing her, how she tasted like wine and something stronger. He remembered thinking, 'this is love'.

And he remembered everything that came after that. 'This is love' indeed.

As he sat back, drinking, his mind ran over the night. That girl - whatever her name was - had been amusing. It had been a while since anyone had thought to speak to him that way. It was almost refreshing – he hadn't seen that brand of stupidity in a long while.

He sighed, and turned his attention back to the letter at hand.

My dear Rum, she had wrote, and he could practically hear that fake southern purr in her voice and his lips curled in disgust. I hope you and darling Baelfire are well. My daughter has been asking after his health. It is a wonderful relationship they have.

I will be arriving in Hertfordshire a fortnight from now. I know I will see you. It would be such a regret if we didn't meet, would it not?

Cora.

He ripped the letter in half and threw it to the flames, watching as the paper slowly burned to a crisp.

AN: I had to do the thing. It was imperative for my Rumbelle needs.