"Charlotte, please, I don't want to go," Liza pleaded.
"But… it would… it would be most ungracious. You stayed with them for a week; you are as closely acquainted with them as any of us. Surely, you cannot refuse to attend their ball!"
"I can and I do."
Charlotte was silent for a moment, then asked, tentatively: "Liza, what happened at Netherfield Park?"
Liza glanced at her briefly, then looked away in a hurry. But it was enough for Charlotte to detect a glimmer of panic in her friend's eyes.
"Nothing."
"I just don't understand," Charlotte said slowly. "You and Mr. Bingley had gotten on so well, then you hurt your foot and stayed at Netherfield for a week. But after you came back, you have been acting as complete strangers! You, I have noticed, have been avoiding the Netherfield party most assiduously. And Mr. Bingley, for his part, has not been seeking out your company either. Something must have happened, Liza."
"Nothing happened of any import, I assure you," Liza answered quietly. "Please, Charlotte, speak no more of it: I shall not go to the Netherfield Ball, and that is final."
"It will be seen as a slight." Charlotte pointed out matter-of-factly.
"I doubt they would much care for my attendance." And Charlotte was puzzled to hear a tint of resentment in Liza's reply.
"You name is on the invitation. Refusing to attend without good cause would be seen as snubbing." After a short pause, she continued: "I insist that you come, Elizaveta."
Still, Liza said nothing. Charlotte sighed, and spoke softer:
"No, I ask you to come with me. Please."
That, Liza could not deny. She smiled and acquiesced.
And two days later, as she stepped out of the carriage and walked into Netherfield once again, she was easily the most resplendent lady in attendance.
The sight of her, in a deep burgundy gown with a provocatively low décolleté and her slender waist accentuated by a thick golden ribbon, made Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy momentarily forget to breath, and then choke on his drink.
He noticed her, of course, the moment she stepped into the ballroom. Even after a full week of not seeing that face, his eyes seemed to search only for her.
'A full week. Has it really been that long?'
He felt as if it was only yesterday that he handed her into a carriage and watched as a pair of black horses took her swiftly away from Netherfield, and from him.
And yet it had been a full week. A torturous, pleasureless week. A week during which he had tried, with all his might, to forget her. But her image remained as fresh in his mind as it had been when her precious lips touched his own.
He had ignored her fastidiously during her last few days at Netherfield Park. Yet now that she was gone, he yearned for her presence so much that – on occasion – he would ride out early in the morning merely in hope of catching her on one of her walks. Alas, he was never so lucky.
And now, he beheld her again. In a burgundy gown that reminded him of a different dress – a small purple slip of a thing that revealed even more than her present risqué neckline. Darcy blushed in shame at that memory: at the insensitive way he had pleasured himself with the sight of her body, while his Liza was in distress.
His Liza?
She was not his. Never would she be his. That much was clear.
No matter how much he desired her, he would never again touch those full scarlet lips.
Tomorrow, the day after perhaps, he would leave Hertfordshire and never come back. He was weak, not himself, in her presence. So he had no choice but to leave. And then eventually he would either forget her or learn to live with the unsatisfied longing. But never would he have her.
She was not for him.
Thus determined, Darcy decided to afford himself one last guilty pleasure before forever withdrawing himself from this seductress. He approached her and bowed curtly. Elizaveta's curtsy was equally frosty.
"Miss Benetin," he addressed her, wincing at his own overly formal tone. But he had learned by now that it was the only tone he could adopt with her without allowing his unwanted feelings to gush forth. "May I have the fourth dance?" He knew exactly which one was the waltz.
"I am sorry, Mr. Darcy," She responded coolly. "My card is full." Then curtsied once more, and walked away.
Liza hated herself for feeling frustrated. 'Why do I even care that Mr. Darcy did not deign to ask me to dance until my card was already full? Why should I mind that he was the last man to approach me, except Mr. Bingley, of course? I should be rejoicing! I have always hated that man – and now I do not have to suffer a dance with him!'
Liza hated herself for the fact that rather than remembering all the reasons she had for disliking Mr. Darcy through their acquaintance, she was remembering the way his inexperienced lips felt against hers. So soft, so tentative, so uncertain. And yet so eager, so accepting, so pleasurable.
Liza huffed. 'It was nothing more than a kiss!' She had kissed plenty of men before. Why should it affect her? After a momentary deliberation, Liza decided that it was all because of her forced celibacy. That stupid thing with Mr. Darcy was the only kiss she had in a month. And that was not right. How she hated the stifling society she now found herself in!
Her mood was somewhat brightened when she beheld, on the other side of the room, Mr. Bingley chatting animatedly with a shy, demure Jane Bennet. She had heard from Charlotte that Bingley had recently dined at Longbourn, and had subsequently begun paying some attention to Jane.
'At least something is going right,' Liza thought with some relief. She had felt guilty for drawing Bingley away from Jane, and was glad that at least that part of Pride and Prejudice sorted itself out. Now, if only she could also be replaced by Elizabeth Bennet and go home…
"Elizaveta!"
Liza smiled and turned towards Mary Bennet, giving her a light embrace.
"Mary! It is a pleasure to see you."
"Indeed. It has been some days now since you have last dined at Longbourn. So tell me: how are you enjoying the ball?"
Liza laughed. "It has barely started. The dancing has not yet begun, and so I have yet to determine how unpleasant my partners will be. Ask me at dinnertime, and I may be able to supply a more satisfactory answer."
Mary laughed with her; then the two proceeded to chat animatedly for some time.
Once the orchestra was ready to begin to play, however, the girls were approached by a short, chubby man.
"Misssss Beeennet," he greeted, drawing out the name in a saccharine, sleazy way. "I believe the time has come to begin the dance." And he bowed so low that Liza wondered he did not fall.
Liza shuddered. 'Is this…? Oh no! But certainly, it cannot be. No, he cannot be this bad!'
Her cheeks flashing red, Mary mumbled:
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Collins, my cousin. Mr. Collins, this is my friend Elizaveta Benetin."
"Deeeliiiighted." Again: that sleazy elongation and that ludicrous bow.
"Likewise, I'm sure," Liza gave a brisk curtsy. "Pray forgive me, Mr. Collins, for detaining your partner a moment longer. I would like to speak to her a few words in confidence. It will be very brief, I assure you, and I will return her to you before the dance begins."
Without giving the strange man a chance to reply, Liza swiftly led Mary away.
"Mary, just one word: please tell me you would never seriously consider that man! Please, just say it now!"
Mary blushed again, and shifted uncomfortably. And then threw herself into Liza's arms. "Oh Liza! It is so awful! Mama wants to marry me off to him, but there is no way… no, never… I could never accept such a man."
"Promise me," Liza demanded sternly.
"I promise."
"Good." And Liza embraced her fondly. "Don't worry, everything will be alright. I see that Jane is getting close to Mr. Bingley; perhaps there could be something there. Somehow, you will all manage. There is no need to sacrifice yourself for your family, Mary. At least not yet. And not to such a man."
Mary smiled. "Thank you." Somewhat more encouraged, she then managed to brave a set with Mr. Collins without dying of embarrassment.
Between the third and fourth dance, Elizaveta was approached by Charlotte, who whispered conspiratorially:
"I know your secret now."
Liza involuntarily shuddered. "W-what secret?"
"Why you and Mr. Bingley don't get along anymore."
"A-and w-why is t-that?" She managed to stutter out, mortified. Had the news of her lack of virginity spread through the entire neighborhood?
"Because of Mr. Darcy, of course!"
"What?!" Now that was not what Liza had expected to hear.
"Oh, come on! Don't play coy here, Liza. No one could fail to notice the way he had been staring at you the entire evening. Clearly, you've managed to attract both men and inspire some kind of jealousy between the two. At the end, Mr. Darcy must have won out, and Mr. Bingley withdrew his suit. I'm not surprised, really. Mr. Darcy is the better looking of the two – such a tall, stately man. And he is richer – ten thousand a year is what I heard. You have done well, Elizaveta. You have done very well indeed."
Involuntarily, Liza glanced to the corner where the tall man stood. It was true: his eyes met hers.
But she was sure that Charlotte was misinterpreting his stare. After all, he had made it abundantly clear that he wanted to have nothing to do with her. Had he not steadfastly avoided her company at Netherfield Park ever since she confided in him?
So why was he staring at her now? Liza knew it was not out of any sort of admiration. They had never really gotten along; and she was sure he positively hated her now. Perhaps he was watching out for her to make sure she did not attempt to entrap any of the neighborhood gentlemen, now that his own friend Mr. Bingley was safe. Liza sighed.
"You are mistaken, Charlotte. There is nothing between me and Mr. Darcy. If anything, we rather dislike each other than anything else."
And she was saved from any further argument on that score by the beginning of the next dance.
It was the waltz. The waltz that he had wanted. Fitzwilliam scowled as he watched Liza twirl in the arms of a young, handsome officer.
He had spent an entire evening doing nothing but watching her.
He had seen the way her smiles – radiant as always – were not as genuine as the ones he had witnessed before. She chatted, and laughed, and smiled. But he, who had absorbed her with such an unhealthy devotion, could see that she was not entirely content. He wondered why.
He had seen the way her burgundy gown clung to her curves, and the way the golden ribbon tied into a bow that fell over her sumptuous bottom. And he smiled at the memory of that heavenly bottom rubbing against his desire when he carried her, despite her vehement protests, to Netherfield Park. How happy, how carefree he had been back then! How full of hope, of possibilities!
He had seen the way her golden curls were even more brilliant, more resplendent, than the gold of the ribbon. And he wondered how it was possible that she seemed even more beautiful to him now than ever before.
And now he felt, once again, the bittersweet torture of seeing her waltz with another man. She was magnificent. Divine.
Irresistible.
Even before the music came to a full stop, he was moving in long strides across the ballroom.
Towards her. As she curtsied politely to her partner, he was already mere steps away.
Liza was glad that the dance had ended. She had never enjoyed a waltz less. Her partner, she found, was as dull and insipid as the rest of the militia she had danced with that night. Every dance – filled with the same conversation. Every step – accompanied by the same platitudes.
Inane jokes, clichéd compliments. How tired she was of this whole masquerade.
In an attempt to distract herself from such somber musings, Liza glanced at her card. Tried to remember who was this Mr. Parker who had claimed the next quadrille. But for the life of her, the name did not ring a bell. He would be, she was sure, just like the rest. She desperately needed a drink.
If Liza were truly, entirely honest with herself, she would have perhaps admitted the true reason behind her predisposition to be so dissatisfied with her dancing partners that night: not one of them matched the intensity of feeling provoked within her by a certain Mr. Darcy. But she was far from honest with herself on that front. And such an unfathomable thought did not even cross her mind.
She gulped down the glass of water, and turned now to get some wine.
But her slender hand did not have time to reach the decanter with the desired burgundy liquid, before she felt herself grasped. Strong, forceful fingers dug themselves into her shoulders, and she was forcibly turned. Liza let out a barely audible gasp. It almost hurt.
She raised her eyes anxiously and beheld her aggressor. Before her stood Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in all his glory albeit slightly disheveled. But the minor disturbance of his rich dark brown curls was nothing compared to the storm Liza saw in his eyes. Those eyes filled with so much emotion, that she could not even name the full range. But a single feeling dominated all others and shone urgently from those eyes: desperation.
"Dance with me," He breathed out. And Liza trembled as she felt that breath caress the side of her right cheek, the tip of her upturned nose. He was far too close for propriety. He was far too close for her comfort. He was simply far too close.
"Dance with me." He was begging.
"Mr. D-Darcy," She stammered out. And he winced, a glimpse of pain momentarily distorting his handsome face. He detected confusion in her tone – but that was all. No excitement, no desire, no passion.
He was brought back to reason by her words. Those confused words. Puzzled words. Strange words. He dropped his arms from her shoulders as if they had been burned.
And he ran away from her even faster than he had come.
Liza shrugged her shoulders, as if dismissing the confusing man's antics. And then she shook them vigorously, as if shaking off the feeling of his strong hands.
She danced the quadrille with Mr. Parker. A neighboring landowner of about thirty or thirty-five.
He spoke blandly of the weather and his harvest. He praised her dancing skill, her dress, her complexion, in the same words as her previous partners. He was, to put it shortly – the same as everyone else. And for the life of her, she could not remember ever having encountered Mr. Parker before.
Fitzwilliam Darcy watched the dance from a distance, leaning languidly against a pillar. The change in Liza Benetin's dancing was so slight that it would be imperceptible to anyone who had not been observing her for weeks with minutest detail. But he saw it at once: she was different after their short conversation, more tense. 'Is that because of me?' And he scolded himself mentally for rejoicing in her discomfort.
But really, what else could he do? He wished so desperately that he could affect her as much as she did him.
Darcy let out a heavy sigh.
Had he honestly thought, only an hour before, that he could simply leave her and walk away?
