As Charles Bingley paced agitatedly the length of the room, Fitzwilliam Darcy felt his heart constrict with dread. He could hear the words waiting to come out of Bingley's mouth: words of accusation, words of disappointment, words of reproach.

He, who had always spoken so disapprovingly of Miss Benetin, had now been caught engaging in improper activity with the lady. He, who had attempted to keep Bingley from her, was the one to have succumbed to her charms.

What must Charles think of him now?

"Darcy, I know what I am about to say will cause you pain. But I cannot hold it any longer."

'There we go.' And closing his eyes, Darcy braced himself for the worst.

The words that came next were not what he expected:

"I can bare this no longer. I must – I will – propose to Miss Benetin!"

Darcy's head shut up. "What?"

"You heard me," Bingley replied with irritation. "I have made up my mind, and nothing will dissuade me." Seeing the confused look on Darcy's face and mistaking it for disapprobation, he continued hurriedly: "I am in love with her, Darcy! I have been for some weeks now, and it will not go away. God, can't you see? She's an angel, Darcy! Have you not heard her recite that poem?!" And he sighed dreamily. "Have you ever heard anything more wonderful?"

"I have not," Fitzwilliam said before he had a chance to prevent these words from tumbling out of his treacherous mouth.

"There you go!" Charles exclaimed triumphantly. "Then you must approve – or at least you must understand!"

"Charles, just because she can play and recite prettily does not mean she will make you a good wife," his friend replied somewhat bitterly.

"And why ever would she not make me a splendid wife, Darcy?" Bingley asked defensively.

"There is more to a woman than poetry."

"And what, pray tell, is lacking in Miss Benetin?"

Silence.

"Is she not beautiful?"

"She certainly is, but –"

"Intelligent?"

"Yes, but –"

"She comports herself with utmost decorum."

"Charles, she –"

"She is clearly accomplished – well versed in music, languages, poetry –"

"She is not what she seems," Darcy stated plainly.

"And what is she, then, if you're such an expert?"

"She's… well…"

"Do you have anything particular to accuse her of?"

"You hardly know her."

"You did not answer my question. Can you find a single specific fault with the lady, Darcy?"

Momentary hesitation, then, quietly yet determinedly: "No."

"Well then –"

"Charles, what I am saying is that you know next to nothing about her. How can you be so certain that she is entirely a lady?"

Charles let out an exasperated groan. "If this is about her dong business with the shop owner, Darcy, then I wish to hear nothing about it. It's preposterous that you found that to be so offensive! I, for one, disagree with you completely. In fact, I find it endearing. Yes, endearing! I think it's lovely that she can take care of herself, and cares enough to see to her affairs." Then he let out a nervous half-laugh. "And knowing me, Darcy, wouldn't you think that it would be good for my wife to have a little sense in business? Seeing as I have none…"

"Charles, it's not merely that…" Darcy's voice became soft and uncertain. He was becoming hopeless: how could he convince his friend of Miss Benetin's unsuitability without revealing personal information about the lady that would irrevocably ruin her reputation?

"Then what is it, Darcy?!" Bingley was nearly shouting. His friend's weak yet stubborn arguments against Miss Benetin were beginning to exasperate him.

Darcy was silent, a grave expression on his face. Inside, his mind was reeling. Feverishly contemplating whether he should reveal the single fact that would determine his friend's future.

On the one hand, he felt obliged by his societal position, as well as by his close friendship with Bingley, to save his friend from this shameless opportunist masquerading as a lady. For that was what she truly was in the eyes of society. That was what she should have been in his eyes as well.

But she was not. And that was the problem. Try as he may, Darcy could not think of Miss Benetin as a worthless trollop. He could not bring himself to do his aristocratic duty and reveal her secret – thereby forever shutting her out of genteel society. For it was her secret. And the gentleman within him – the one with personal, human honor, and not the one that deserved the title merely by birth – could not bring himself to treat her in such a manner.

At the end, he did not have a choice. He could never tell Charles Bingley that Elizaveta Benetin was not a maiden. He could never save his friend from entering an engagement, which, on Bingley's wedding night, would inevitably bring him disappointment and shame.

"I'm asking you one last time, Darcy: is there anything particular of which you can accuse Miss Benetin? Because if not, then I no longer care to hear your nonsensical arguments against her! I am resolved to marry the lady." Charles paused to catch his breath. "Do you have anything further to say, my friend?"

Darcy shook his head and hung it in sadness. He felt so utterly hopeless. So sad for Bingley. For Liza.

For himself.

With a soft click, he heard the door close. Charles was gone.

The following minutes spent in the empty library were filled with images of Liza and Charles married, then Liza in Charles's bed, then Charles's agony at discovering her condition, then Liza's misery at being married to a man who would forever resent her. And parallel to this tragic story, an even more tragic one: his own, that of the outsider watching her marry his best friend, unable to partake in either her happiness or her despair.

When at last he rose from the armchair and left the now oppressive room, he wondered aimlessly through the hall, as if in a daze. He heard faint voices from the sitting room, and stumbled in.

Inside, he saw Miss Benetin seated on a low settee and Mr. Bingley pacing nervously in front of her. Unseen, Darcy stood still and watched. What masochistic tendency made him wish to behold such a painful scene, he knew not. But he could not look away.

"Miss Benetin, may I tell you how much I have come to admire you…" Charles was saying in a shaking, anxious voice.

"Mr. Bingley, please –"

"Over the past few weeks, I have developed a preference for your company that goes beyond –"

"Mr. Bingley, please," She repeated more assertively. And the harshness of her tone caused Charles to stop momentarily, and to falter.

"Miss Benetin, I have never done this before, I am very nervous. Please, let me finish uninterrupted," He pleaded with her.

"Mr. Bingley, – Charles," She spoke softly, as if to a child. "Please, don't finish. No, please, stop now – before you have even begun."

"Miss Benetin, are you… do you mean… you're…"

"No," She shook her head softly, ruefully. "I am not rejecting you, Charles. I am merely preventing you from doing something that you would later regret."

"Miss Benetin, how can you say such a thing?! If you knew my feelings, you would –"

"Mr. Bingley, while you may be the wiser when it comes to your feelings, I am afraid you don't know me."

"But I do! You are beautiful, intelligent, graceful, and passionate. You're perfect, Miss Benetin," He said breathlessly.

She shook her head and let out a light laugh.

"Oh no, Mr. Bingley. I am far from perfect. In fact, I am not a maiden."

Charles Bingley gasped, and seated himself on the settee so recently vacated by Miss Benetin. He could not trust himself to remain on his feet.

"Miss Benetin, surely, you do not mean –"

"I do."

"Oh."

That was all he said – "oh."

Liza had to hold back a laughter.

Yet she knew this was not a time to laugh.

She knew that what she had done was dangerous – very dangerous. She had now told her of her loss of virginity to two people. And in this strange Jane Austen world, that was completely unfathomable – that much she had learned from Mr. Darcy's reaction to her revelation. She knew that by going ahead and also telling Charles she was placing herself in even greater danger of being widely shunned. But at this point, when the proposal was at the very tip of Charles's tongue, it was the only thing she could do to make him desist. The only other option would have been to let him propose and to reject him with no explanation. But she did not wish to hurt his feelings in such a manner. After all, he had been nothing but kind to her, and apparently she had thoughtlessly led him on.

"I… I…" Charles Bingley did not know what to say. "Thank you," He managed at last. "Thank you for telling me."

Liza smiled. "You are welcome. It was the least I could do. I did not want you to make a mistake that you would regret for the rest of your life. So now you see why it is best that you never proposed to me."

"Y-yes," He replied softly. And felt an overwhelming sadness. "Oh Miss Benetin, how I wish… how I wish things could have been different!"

"Me too," She lied. "But… they are not."

They looked at each other and smiled sadly.

'How cheesy,' she thought. 'And how very shallow.' It almost hurt her that Bingley's love was so superficial that her lack of virginity immediately extinguished all possibility of a future together. She had never desired his affection, granted, but this shallowness was still… saddening.

"I hope we shall remain friends," Binlgey mumbled pathetically, standing up form the settee and attempting to regain his footing.

"I hope we shall," Liza replied, and extended her hand.

Overcoming his surprise at such an unladylike gesture, Bingley shook it. Then he excused himself and left the room.

Liza let out a deep sigh that she did not know she had been holding. And for the first time since she had found herself on Charlotte's doorstep, she realized just how much she did not fit in. And just how much she yearned – no, needed – to go home.

In the corner, obscured by a shadow, Fitzwilliam Darcy heard her sigh and accompanied it with one of his own. But his was much lighter – it was a sigh of relief, and something else.

When he had resolved not to share Miss Benetin's secret with Bingley, the notion that she might do so herself did not even cross his mind. No, he had fully resigned himself to the inevitable fact that the engagement of Mr. Binlgey and Miss Benetin would be announced that very afternoon. After all, that would be the only reasonable conclusion.

A reasonable woman would have accepted Charles's offer of marriage without a second thought. Especially in Miss Benetin's position.

Yet Miss Benetin seemed so very adamant not only about saving Charles from a disappointing marriage, but also about sparing him the humiliation of rejection. She in every way protected Charles from inconvenience – and at what expense? At the expense of her own future.

Darcy marveled at the selflessness, the true goodness of Miss Benetin's actions. And as he let out that sigh at the end of their exchange, his chest expanded with a new feeling of admiration. Of respect.

Yes, Miss Benetin would forever remain outside of his social sphere. Yes, in the common view of society she was most certainly not a lady.

But to him, there was nothing more noble, more dignified, more worthy of being called a lady than that fallen woman's behavior that afternoon. And he thought with some melancholic sort of satisfaction that although he would never have any sort of relationship with her, he would forever retain that drop of respect for her human goodness.

Some half an hour later, Fitzwilliam Darcy looked up from his book and raised a quizzical brow. Charles Bingley, having stormed into the room and slumped onto the couch, let out a loud noise, halfway between a sigh and a moan.

"Oh Darcy!" He groaned dramatically.

"What is the matter, Charles? What tremendous uproar has brought you into my bedchamber?"

"Miss Benetin… oh God!"

"Oh yes, Miss Benetin," Mr. Darcy smiled, pretending to be completely oblivious to what had transpired between his friend and the lovely lady in the dressing room. "I should offer you my congratulations, I presume?"

"Do not mock me!"

"Mock you? Charles, what is the matter?" Of course, he was fully aware of what the matter was; but he would never admit to the ungentlemanly way he had eavesdropped on Charles and Liza.

"She… oh God, she… Darcy, I cannot marry her."

"Whyever not? Did she refuse you, Charles?"

"No, no, she was all sweetness and kindness. You don't understand. I cannot marry her."

"You mean that she is unsuitable for you?"

"Precisely."

Darcy let out a bitter laugh. "I thought I had spent hours attempting to convince you of that, but you were determined to have her. Pray tell me, what has changed your mind so swiftly?"

"She… she… Darcy, she is not a maiden." And Charles dropped his head, shaking it sadly.

Fitzwilliam was surprised at the amount of anger and indignation that Charles's comment raised within him. He remembered the way he had mulled over the grave decision whether or not to tell Charles of Miss Benetin's condition. And although his dear friend was in danger of entering a most disappointing marriage, Darcy had chosen not to reveal Miss Benetin's secret. Because it was her secret, not his to share.

And Charles? He just spat out such grievous piece of information about a lady who had been nothing but kind towards him. What was worse: Charles had absolutely no compelling reason to disclose such information. He did not need to protect a friend.

"That is a very grave accusation," Darcy said finally, after moments of silence. He spoke the words slowly, in a measured tone that did not betray the full extent of his dissatisfaction.

"But it is true!" Charles exclaimed. "She told me so herself."

"Why did she tell you?" Darcy directed patiently.

"Well… she… she thought it would be best I know… so that… I wouldn't… you know, so that I wouldn't do something I might regret."

"A very kind gesture on her part."

"Oh yes! I am tremendously grateful!"

"And is it this tremendous gratitude that led you to disclose this information to others?" Darcy surprised even himself with the amount of venom he had put into that sentence.

Charles paled.

"Darcy, no, that's not… you know, I only told you… because… well, because you're my friend, and you asked, and you had warned me about her. So I thought you might want to know that you were correct. I won't tell another soul, I promise."

"I sincerely hope you keep your word," Darcy responded coldly, with a dismissive shake of his head.

"Please, Darcy, don't be like that. I was in shock, I –"

"Frankly, I don't care, Charles." And then, after a brief moment, he could not help but say what he truly thought: "You know, I may amend my earlier belief. Perhaps it is you who is not worthy of her."

Bingley was startled by such an ungenerous statement form a friend who had always cared for him as a brother. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Darcy's tired voice cut him off.

"Please, Charles, leave me alone."

A few uncertain steps and the soft sound of a door closing signified Bingley's departure.

Darcy signed and looked out of the window. His thoughts were confused and chaotic. His eyes wondered aimlessly over the trees and bushes outside. Until they landed on the most alluring sight any man could behold.

There, right outside his bedroom window, sat Miss Benetin, her golden curls falling freely over her sumptuous shoulders, revealed by a slim purple dress. No, not even a dress – a mere undergarment. Darcy's heart raced erratically as he beheld her exposed arms, shoulders, neck, legs…

The smallest slither of that goddess's naked skin was enough to drive him to distraction. To see so much at once was utterly overwhelming, and brought back with unprecedented vibrancy all the fantasies he had been so embarrassed to entertain over the past few weeks.

The gentleman within him rebelled at the preposterous idea of thus spying on a lady, and of so shamelessly deriving pleasure from it. But the man within him rejoiced. His hand traveled down of its own accord, and hesitantly released his aching need from the constricting breeches.

As he touched himself softly, uncertainly, his eyes remained trained on Liza. He remembered the heavenly feeling of her mouth against his lips, and then let himself imagine the way other parts of her would feel against those needy lips. How very sweet it would be to travel down her neck, then her arm, then her bosom, planting small, tender kisses along the way, nuzzling, worshipping every inch of her skin…

The release he reached was the most deliciously pleasant he had ever experienced. And the sense of disappointment and shame that followed was correspondingly all the more acute.

He glanced with disgust at his now soiled hand, and then turned his eyes back to the culprit. He beheld her now with sadness, not quite anger, but a silent lament. As if beseeching her to see the miserable state to which she had reduced him. And to release him form her hold. To let him be free.

But now that his vision was no longer obscured by his frustrated sexual need, he noticed some things in Liza that he had failed to see only moments before.

Her head was turned slightly away from him, resting softly on her knees, which she hugged tightly to her torso. She was curled up in a ball, and her shoulders shook ever so slightly. With mortification, Darcy realized that while he had pleasured himself to such dirty fantasies of her bare flesh, Miss Elizaveta Benetin had been crying.

And with that realization, his heart ached even more. Not for him, though the shame he felt at his own behavior was devastating. But for her.

For her silent sobs, for her invisible tears, for her unknown sorrow.

How he wanted to know what troubled her. How he yearned to traverse the mere meters of distance between them, and engulf her in his arms – protect her, comfort her, love her. But that was as forbidden to him as her luscious body. And that hurt more.

On the other side of the glass, Liza lifted her head and shook it lightly. Then she gathered herself and stood up. Quietly, she crept back into the house, back into her chamber, unseen.

As she stood before a large mirror and traced with her hand the slim streaks of mascara below her red, swollen eyes, Liza mentally cursed herself for her silliness. Her sentimental nonsense.

What had she been thinking – putting on that modern sundress, leaving her hair undone, and going out into the garden?!

The answer was simple enough: she was tired, she was lonely, she was hurt. She yearned and needed to go back home. And in one overwhelming bout of melancholy, she did everything she could to at least feel as if she were at home.

She put on the little purple sundress. As if its brightness would somehow cure her own dark mood.

She released her golden curls. As if seeing them fall freely would somehow set her free as well.

She went outside in such a state. As if defying the stuffy rules of this impossible society would somehow make them go away.

Suffice it to say, it did not work. She realized how silly she had been the moment she stepped out into the garden. Unable and unwilling to do anything at all, she merely curled up into a ball and began to cry. Letting out all the frustration she had felt since she mysteriously appeared in Lucas Lodge, and – worst of all – since she arrived at Netherfield Park.

Liza wondered what had brought about this mental breakdown. What was the breaking point?

Was it the way Charles had abandoned her so easily and hypocritically as soon as he heard that she was not a maiden? But no, that could not be: she did not want to marry him.

Was it the way Fitzwilliam avoided her so stubbornly ever since she kissed him and confided in him? But no, she did not even like him.

While the reason for her sudden malaise was not entirely clear, one thing was evident: she could not remain in Netherfield Park any longer.

The next morning, Liza Benetin declared her firm intention to return to the Lucas Lodge immediately.

No one made an effort to protest. Caroline was all too glad to part with this inconvenient guest, who, in her opinion, had already stayed far longer than was necessary. Charles was happy to rid himself of the awkwardness that now surrounded his interactions with Liza. Louisa and Gerald never cared to begin with. And Fitzwilliam was too busy feeling conflicted and being angry with himself. He yearned to keep Liza near. He knew that it would be better, more prudent, to let her go. At the end, he said nothing, and did not even notice the slight sadness in her eyes at what she perceived to be his willful ostracism.

But once her things had been loaded onto the carriage, and Liza was about to step on, Darcy found himself right next to her. Of its own volition, his hand lightly touched her, and without thinking he handed her into the carriage.

The gesture seemed to strike them both.

Liza was perplexed for the duration of her journey. And only when she arrived at Lucas Lodge did she firmly order herself to erase Fitzwilliam Darcy completely from her mind.

Fitzwilliam could still feel the soft texture of her luminous skin against his hand for what felt like hours later. When he attempted to analyze what prompted him to touch her, to assist her, he concluded that the reason was two-fold. There was the physical attraction towards this woman, which he was beginning to find increasingly impossible to fight. And then there was something else. A desire, perhaps, to show her that he did not scorn her, and that he was immensely grateful for the way she had spared Charles. That he respected her.