At the ball, Mr. Darcy's mood had taken an exponential nosedive. First, he had been subject to all sorts of mercenary mamas (who did not know or care that he was Inked). Even those who weren't seemingly out to get him were annoying, at best.

At one point in the night, a rather pretty young woman had gasped loudly for no apparent reason, drawing Mr. Darcy's attention. He had already noticed her before (she was.. not… bad.. to look at), and then her fine eyes had been fixed on him with such.. such FEELING that it made Darcy want to… to... he didn't know what. He got tongue-tied just looking at her. Which may have been the reason he had not taken part in any conversation after he saw her.

Only after he saw the young miss staring at him from behind a column did Darcy remember he had taken off his gloves beforehand. He wilted inside. She was just reacting to his Inked status. She was probably trying to see if he liked her, if she could win any favors.

Darcy had looked away and harshly berated himself. THIS was what you get when you start to fancy someone other than your Soulmate. Whoever this temptress was, she could mean nothing good for Darcy. However fine her eyes.

Trying to distract himself, he had vented his feelings to the one person he knew he could trust. He grew increasingly frustrated however, when Elizabeth continually encouraged him to dance. He didn't want to dance with anyone but her, blast it!

Stewing in his own misery, Mr. Darcy had disparaged the young woman to prove (more to himself than anyone) that she felt nothing for him, and he felt less than nothing in return. He needed to remind Elizabeth (and himself) that he would never love anyone but her. That green-eyed temptress meant nothing. Nothing!

He had been ejected out of his thoughts by a resounding pandemonium that erupted in the ballroom. Bingley, the lucky bastard, had found his Soulmate. A Miss Jane Bennet. Miss Bennet had a serene, untroubled countenance that would have made Darcy doubt her affection, had the proof of her attachment not been LITERALLY written in ink.

Soulmates were a tricky business, in Darcy's world. He and Elizabeth had had their fair share of… disagreements over the years. He would try and convince her that he was right, and she would dig in her heels. In a moment of weakness, after one of Elizabeth's scathingly valid arguments against a core belief, Darcy may or may not have made a comment about her family's possible breeding and woken up to the word 'R U D E' written in ginormous lettering across his forehead for an entire day.

It was torture to see how easily it all to Bingley.

Charles had found his Soulmate, swept the young lady off her feet, and obtained her hand in marriage (and stolen a chaste kiss on the cheek) all in one night.

As Darcy came to reiterate through the night, lucky bastard.

Darcy's own Soulmate hadn't responded to his messages for the rest of the night, which was unlike her. He had legitimately gotten worried (what if her health was failing her? What if he couldn't do anything to help?) when, just as he was about to blow out the candles, a message appeared on the inside of his arm.

'How was the rest of the ball?'

Darcy raised an eyebrow. Surely Elizabeth must be exhausted— he had been very clear in how he felt about the ball. Giving grace however, he wrote back,

'It got worse, I'm afraid.'

There was a pause. When her handwriting returned, Darcy noticed (with pleasure) it was a lot neater than usual.

'I'm sorry to hear that. Was there any particular event that occurred?'

Darcy debated telling Elizabeth about his friend's bonding. Eventually, he decided against it. That information would only raise her obvious hopes of meeting him. He didn't want to disappoint her. So he told a white lie, just to spare her feelings (not his own).

'Nothing of consequence.'

Changing the subject, he asked, 'What of you, my dear? We haven't had the chance to speak much recently. Has anything excited occurred on your end of the world? :-)'

He added the smiling face, hoping it would sufficiently distract from his ham-fisted topic change. It took her a while to respond.

'We have some new faces in our neighborhood. Other than that, no.'

'What, new neighbors? How nice!' Darcy wrote, grateful for the safer subject.

'One would think so,' Elizabeth responded cryptically.

'What do you mean? Are they unpleasant?'

'Not all of them. The landowner himself is very cheerful and kind, and seems to take a great interest in our family. Unfortunately however, the rest of his party is not so amiable.'

'Oh no. Are they brutish? Is there anyone's ears that need boxing? If so, I will procure a stallion and ride to you post haste!' Darcy joked.

Elizabeth's response (which he had expected to be teasing, or at the very least, witty) was, 'I may take you up on that offer, Fitzwilliam.'

'Has someone offended you, my dear?'

'You could say that.'

'Pray tell, what happened?'

There was a pause.

'Nothing so egregious. A man of the party, whom I at first took to be very handsome and thought of fondly, turned out to be a haughty, hateful man who never liked me in the first place. However, he did not mean for this information to fall to my ears, and treated me with cold civility (if nothing else) afterwards. How shall I respond? Oh, and let me be clear, he insulted not only my character, but my friends, family, intelligence, and overall breeding. All in one swift blow. Yet he was not being cruel; that was his legitimate option, however hateful! I know not how to think.'

Mr. Darcy frowned down at his arm. First, Elizabeth had been taken with another man, which already made Darcy's blood boil just to think about. Then, he had insulted her? What, was he a simpleton? Elizabeth was undoubtedly the most agreeable woman he had ever spoken with— anyone who thought otherwise must be thick in the head.

'Elizabeth— whether or not a comment is well-meant is virtually irrelevant. What MATTERS is how it is received. If this man caused you to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable in any way, you should not pretend otherwise. Treat him with as little grace as you see fit, I trust your judgement. Besides, if he insulted YOU, he is most likely blind, deaf, and an idiot to boot.'

Elizabeth's response was short.

'Thank you. That was.. most enlightening, Fitzwilliam. But I am afraid I have to go.'

'Goodbye,' Darcy wrote, feeling cheated that their conversation had been of such short duration.

He then wiped his arm clean, undressed, and flung himself into bed, hoping it would hasten his dreams. It worked, but the cost was almost unbearable. The whole night through, Mr. Darcy was tormented by self-flagellation and fine eyes. After midnight, he roused himself, drenched in sweat and.. roused in more than the mind, re-lit a candle and sorted through papers on his desk.

He would not be disloyal. He would not. He loved Elizabeth, and would never do anything to hurt her. He must have written her a dozen times during the night, all proclamations of love, where he most imprudently shared his birth name, address, and practically begged her to love him. He managed to erase them all before his mind ran away from him.

Darcy didn't know what to do. How was it possible to miss someone you had never met? In the end, he fell into a troubled sleep at his desk, his foot in his mouth and his heart on his sleeve.