Disclaimer: No, they don't belong to me. *sob* The pain.
Claimer: Annette, Lily, Gregory, Thomas, Polly, Jenny, etc., are mine. If you want 'em, ask me. I'll most likely give 'em up.
Author's note: *waves white flag* Wow ... it's been months. No one reading this, are they? *pout*


Christian stood out on the verandah after dinner. It had been good. Long, but good. Long, boring chats with girls that had no brain to speak of. Sympathetic looks from Annette, on the other side of the table, but nothing too earth-shattering.

He did notice, however, that two places were empty. He later found out from his mother that his father and 'the gentleman' were having dinner in the study.

He inhaled a deep breath of the night air. Music wafted out of the house. Dancers were in there, and he knew would soon flood out here and into the gardens, so he treasured this time alone.

He heard a rustle behind him, so he knew his time was over. He turned to face the person who dared to intrude on his solitude.

"Well, hello, mademoiselle artiste."

Polly grinned. "I don't know what you said, but keep talking. Sounds pretty."

"It's French." Christian said.

Polly shrugged. "Never took it. I learned Latin. Et tu, Brute?"

Christian held his hands in surrender. "We're even then." He paused. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Polly smiled. "Then imagine my surprise."

"I just... I didn't think that the revolution had reached London yet." he stuttered.

That's it. Real slick, Christian. That's the way to get the girl.

Christian didn't know if it was himself thinking or Satine invading his mind.

Polly laughed softly. "I have heard of this revolution. Bohemian, yes?" Christian nodded. "I thought so. It's written across your face as plain as day."

"You knew?" Christian added incredulously. How did Polly know he was a Bohemian Revolutionary if his mother's lie has so flawlessly glossed everything over?

She shrugged lightly. "I guessed. The wisp-o'-the-will Christian up and disappears one day and then it turns out he just went on the world tour? Seriously doubtful, Christian. But, of course, no one dared to question Lily Andrews' word, so it doesn't matter if anyone bothered to think about anything other than perfume."

Christian laughed. "You're funny, Miss Polly."

She laughed and leaned back against the banister. "Please, just call me Polly. Oh, and glad to know you appreciate my humor. Hardly anyone does."

The music abruptly stopped, and Christian heard a gong be rung.

"What was that?" asked Polly, standing on tiptoe.

Christian had a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. "I don't know," he said uneasily. He offered his arm, which Polly took, and sped to the house, from which his father's voice sounded.

"...And I am happy to announce the engagement of my daughter, Annette, to the Duke of Worshire!"

There was thunderous applause.

It all came to Christian in bits and pieces:

Annette smiling.

"Maybe his breath smells."

"And you don't care?"

More applause.

His father's voice, echoing 'Engaged... engaged... engaged...'

A grin... a nasal voice... a rat-like face...

Satine's voice sounding "He could ruin everything."

The Duke.



Christian felt sick.

It isn't enough that he ruined my life, Christian thought dimly. He has to come here and destroy me again. It'll never end, will it?

In the vague recesses of his mind, he felt Polly shaking his arm.

"Christian? Are you alright? Christian?"

He shook out of it, and with effort, removed the mental block from his view.

And was faced with the image of his smiling, sweet, sixteen-year-old sister... on the Duke's arm.

"Ah, there's the lad now." Jeremy was coming towards him. Christian tried to back away, but his feet refused to cooperate. Jeremy caught hold of him, dragging him to where Annette laughed gaily.

The Duke turned in slow motion.

The shock was apparent on his face.

Christian felt nauseous. I couldn't stand him before... and now he's going to be "one of the family"?

Not if I can help it.


The Duke just stared, as did Christian.

Jeremy and Annette looked at one another, as if to say 'What?', the looked at both Christian and Duke.

The Duke extended his hand with extreme caution and deliberation.

Christian resisted the urge to a) spit at him or b) burst into hysterics. He knew neither would be accepted by anyone at this party.

So he simply turned and fled.

The whole party was abuzz the instant he moved. Dear, sweet Christian refused to accept his darling sister's fiancé? How scandalous!

Christian stoically continued through his house, his memories threatening to choke him. He could feel them bubbling, straining to come to the surface. He fought them with all he had.

He blindly stumbled up the stairs, clutching the banister for dear life.

Can't ... no ... mustn't think ... about ... it ... no ... must get to my room ... yes, that's it ... safety...

Christian managed to get into his room, continuing with his drunken steps to flop on to his bed. He clutched the cool pillow to his face, which felt as if it were on fire. He released a sob, but no tears came.

His memories spilt out without further warning. He heard a snatch of Satine's laughter. A stolen kiss behind a curtain, hiding behind a door. Always for fear of the DUKE! It was always him! It was HIM who kept him from escaping with his beloved.

Christian could not free the thought's grip on his soul. If only he had persuaded her to leave more forcefully. If only he had never let her leave. Maybe then, they could've left.

The seed of doubt was planted. And Christian could not escape the smothering grasp of guilt, the vise that clenched his heart.

Another sound came from the depths of his mind.

A gasp.

A cough, and gasping. Those terrible, rasping breaths.

The image came all too clearly, not a detail omitted.

The pain and fear in Satine's beautiful eyes; her already lily-white skin several shades paler; and that awful, chilling thread of crimson.

Christian fought to suppress the image, attempting to regain control.

Long after the image was erased from his memory he could still here those coughs.

The door had been pounded upon for quite some time, a sound diluted by the noise inside Christian's mind.

"Christian? Christian, let me in."

A voice. Whose voice?

"Christian?"

Without waiting for an answering, Polly barged on in.

Christian looked up at her, a tormented look on his face.

Polly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Hi." she said, flouncing down onto the bed next to him. "How are you?"

Christian glared at her.

"Not too good? Me neither. That Duke fellow-" Polly shuddered. "He certainly is a character. A scary one. Fabulously rich, though. The only thing that stopped him from going after me or- " a glare. "Jenny, was the fact that he knew he had no chance. No offense towards your family, Christian. Not much to look at, is he? I would never DREAM of being married to him. He's frightfully bad-looking. But, honestly, dear, wasn't it rather beastly of you to run from his horrid face? Remember, the ugly have feelings, too."

Christian looked up at her with evil eyes. "Not him. He has no feeling." Polly raised her eyebrows again and gave him a look. Christian continued, unperturbed. "And who are you? What are you doing in my room? Not even my mother comes in my room. And you, I've known for three days, and that gives you permission to come into my room?"

Polly raised her head, her dignity injured. "Your mother fainted from your impropriety, Annette is sobbing hysterically and refuses to be calmed, and your father is out for your blood." Polly tilted her head. "Oddly enough, the one who should be the most insulted finds the whole thing eminently hilarious."

Christian scowled. "He would."

"So ... why on earth did you flee like that? I only speak the truth when I say that that was not in the best of tastes, dear."

"You wouldn't understand, Polly."

"Try me." she dared, looking at him.

Christian looked into those icy blue eyes. Looking into the intense orbs calmed him in an odd way.

"I can't." he admitted.

She looked at him oddly.

"Maybe someday." he said, sounding a bit hopeless.

Polly nodded in agreement. "Someday." She sighed. "All right. Well, whether or not I know the reason for your flight, it matters a frightfully small bit if anything at all. You have to get downstairs."

Christian looked at her with shock. "I can't go back out there."

"You can't not go back out there." Polly said forcefully. "If you don't go back out there now, you'll never be able to hold your head up again."

"I don't care."

"You do too. Now, come along. Give me your hand, that's a good boy."

Christian studied her. "You're not like most girls."

Polly tossed her head. "Am I that obvious? Oh well, may the truth be told, you're not like most gentlemen. Now, come on, I'm sure everyone's gossiping horribly."

As the went down the stairs, a thought made it's presence known to Polly. "Christian, you do realize what your actions mean, do you not?"

Christian rolled his eyes. "That I've soiled my family's good name?"

"No- that you'll have to duel with the Duke."

Christian's jaw dropped. "What?!" he exclaimed.

Polly's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid so. You shamed him, and everyone knows with the consent of the oldest brother no respectable family marries off their daughter. The only way to redeem your sister's name and show why you're protecting her is to have a duel."

"Will you please excuse me? I'm going to go jump out the window."

Polly gripped his arm. "This is no time to act like a coward, Christian. Not only Annette's name is at stake here, but yours, and both brother's. And if you ever want to be hold your head high in any respectable social circles with the name 'Christian Andrews' for the remainder of your life, you will have a duel!" Polly suddenly looked irritated. "And now look what you've gone and done. I sound like my mother."

~*~

Annette sat daintily on a settee, a lacy handkerchief dabbing at her eyes. Her shoulders heaved with sobs, hiccupping.

All her friends surrounded her, offering words of comfort, to bring her a little cake, some peppermint ice cream, a fresh hankie?

The Duke stood to one side, shaking his head. Women. So prone to tears.

He couldn't stand tears. Why waste the energy crying when you can change it? And if you can't change it the nice way, you change it the dirty way.

Which was any way you can.

With either procedure, you get your way. And that was all that was important.

The Duke pondered over his misfortune. As much as he hated to admit it, having that simpering Christian around was going to impede on this whole procedure.

The Duke needed a wife.

Not that he would give up his fun- his visits to whorehouses were far from over. Best marry and leave her at home.

But, the Duke knew that Jeremy Andrews was not a man who would allow his daughter to marry a man who let it be public knowledge that he visited nightclubs. God knew that Jeremy visited them, but he didn't advertise it, and the only people who knew where his male friends who accompanied him and his wife.

Of course, thought the Duke with a smirk, it would take an awful lot of talking to explain exactly how simpleton knew that he went there, but he had a bad feeling that Christian was beyond caring what happened to him.

It was an unsettling thought. Would Christian be gentlemanly enough to leave it in the past? Of course not. What kind of a stupid question is that?

The Duke knew, with a deep, heavy feeling the pit of his stomach, that Christian would sacrifice everything he had to destroy him.

~*~

"I can't do it, Polly. He'll kill me." Christian sputtered nervously. He heard a sharp voice in his mind.

Baby.

"Nonsense." Polly said, waving her hand. "You're younger and quicker than that old geezer is."

Christian snorted. "You think he'll fight? Oh, no, Polly. He'll make someone else fight for him."

"At pistols? Not if he's a gentleman. Everyone knows the one challenged must fight."

"He thinks he's above the rules."

"Then you must bring him down to earth."

Somehow, during her speaking, she had led him down the stairs. Now, he was just outside the parlor.

In the parlor, Annette looked up with glistening eyes. "Christie?" she whimpered pitifully, before dissolving into tears once again. Jenny Hartsdale patted her back and embraced her.

Polly made her escape quietly.

The Duke rolled his eyes and left the parlor, preferring the verandah to the vapors of his fiancée.

Christian knelt by his sister. Everyone around them crept closer to listen. "Dearest, I have my reasons. I am not being cruel to you, Annette darling, I'm doing this because I love you."

"How could you be so hateful?" Annette sobbed.

"I'm not doing this out of spite of you, I swear. It's because- oh, Annette, please stop crying. I'll tell you everything later." The crowd stepped back in disappointment.

A cry sounded through the hall, and a sobbing Polly ran in, straight into her mother's arms. "Mama!" she cried. "Mama, Mama, something terrible's happened!"

"What is it, darling?"

Jenny was up in an instant. "Dearest, what happened? Oh, tell me!"

"That horrid, horrid man took advantage of me in the hall!"

Like a rat, the Duke came at the commotion. Polly let out a shriek. "Him! That ghastly creature over there!"

Jenny turned on him. "You wicked thing! How could you?" Jenny took her cousin into her arms. "How could you do such a thing, you- you-"

The Duke rolled his eyes. "Miss Hartsdale, I assure you, I did nothing of the sort-"

Lawrence Hartsdale stepped forward menacingly. "Sir, are you calling my sister a liar?"

A ripple of shock went through the crowd.

"Do you, sir, presume to call not only my sister and cousin a liar, but to say a woman is telling tales?"

The Duke looked slightly flustered.

Polly looked right at Christian with shining eyes. She winked at him, and motioned with her head.

Challenge him, came the voice.

Christian stood up in outrage. "You, sir, are not a gentleman and do not deserve my sister's hand. I challenge you, for the good name of my sister, Miss Hartsdale, and Miss Wintershine, to pistols."

Everyone, from little Susie Jenkins, the youngest girl at the party, to old Mrs. Lincolnshire, gasped. Pistols?

The Duke looked shocked, but gathered his composure rather quickly.

"Pistols," he sniveled, "at dawn."


Author's note: Does anyone know/ remember what the Duke was the duke of? I sure don't. So, I put Worshire, but if it's something else can you put in the review or email it to me at Albanygrace@aol.com or something? I'd hate to repeatedly make the same mistake over and over again. :-) gracias,
-Sugar