This one took me a long time, and I don't even have the excuse of it being super long or anything like that. It's pretty medium in terms of length. But I took a while figuring out exactly what I wanted to do with it, so finally, I typed it up and I'm quite pleased. This fic may NEVER end, because I keep thinking up new ideas and trying to weave in the old stuff and blah blah blah. So I hope you like it!
The Middleton's Christmas Ball is all I expected and more. The ballroom is filled with laughter, chatter, and dancing. There are tables piled high with drink and food, which the ladies conscientiously avoid, while the older gentlemen tuck away merrily. Every guest is dressed in their finest – rich silks and brilliant gems on full display. I feel particularly well-dressed in my jade green silk gown, cut daringly low on the bosom, but not nearly so daring as Felicity's gown. My corset presses my breasts up, pleasant half-moon swells, with a decorous lace trim and cap sleeves to keep me within the realm of decency. I chose a jade-green silk, with gathered skirts and emerald petticoats and trim. Yesterday, Kartik said that the gown matched my eyes…
But I can't think of him now. I must think of my dance partner. I mustn't look disinterested or dull or careless in any way. Though I hardly play by the rules of society, I must keep up the pretense, for the sake of my family. Even if my partner is inexplicably dull. He is a barrister, and won't shut up about it. I want to tell him I haven't the slightest interest in his bloody cases, but that would hardly be ladylike behavior.
When the dance finally ends, I refrain from sighing my relief, and curtsy to my partner.
"Perhaps I might have another dance with you, Miss Doyle?" he asks before I can scurry away.
"I am very flattered, Mr. Hewitt, but I must decline. You see, my dance card has been filled for the evening," I lie easily.
Mr. Hewitt doesn't appear too terribly put out. "Of course. Then I bid you enjoy your evening."
"Thank you, sir." I curtsy once more, then hurry off on the pretense of trying to locate my next dance partner. My card hasn't been filled, so I'll have to coerce my father into a dance. He's not terribly fond of dancing – he prefers to entertain with his endless stories – but if I make my eyes big enough, he'll humor me.
As I weave through the throngs of people, I catch sight of Felicity, accepting an invitation to dance from none other than the delightful Mr. Hewitt. I try to give her a warning glance, but she doesn't see me. She takes his hand, and he ushers her to the dance floor.
I suppress a smile, and move on. Father should be somewhere around the food, with the other gentlemen.
"Miss Doyle. May I have this dance?" Simon cuts me off, bowing neatly. I can't very well refuse him in this crowd without drawing notice. Tightlipped and wary, I nod my acceptance. He takes my hand, drawing my rigid arm away from my side, and leads me onto the floor just as the orchestra takes up the next tune. With practiced ease, Simon takes my hand, settling his other hand securely at my waist. We glide into the steps of the waltz with ease, the familiar routine falling into the background of my mind as I consider the level of danger I'm in.
"Mr. Middleton," I say calmly, forcing a confidence that I don't feel. "How nice to see you. Our last meeting ended… rather abruptly." I let a small smile curl the corners of my mouth. I won't taunt him outright, but I have to let him think that I don't fear him.
Simon smiles ruefully. "Yes," he agrees, surprising me with his congeniality. "It was a rather unpleasant way to leave, but the circumstances required I go hastily."
I nod sympathetically, though I am anything but. His sudden friendliness is disconcerting – what does he know that I don't? And why has it put him such a genial mood? It can't be good news for me, whatever it is. I pause before answering him, picking my words carefully. Our conversation has to vague enough that nobody else understands, but specific enough that the two of us know the meaning.
"I thought you might regard me with a less than pleasant demeanor, considering the unfortunate circumstances of our last meeting," I hint.
Simon nods. "You would have, had things not changed. There is something important that I need to discuss with you."
"Oh?"
Simon dips his head forward, and murmurs, his voice low, "It concerns a friend of yours."
I know he doesn't mean Felicity, for he would have mentioned her name directly. "Ann?" I whisper, confused?
Simon shakes his head. "That fraud that Felicity was touting around last year? No."
I narrow my eyes at his insult, but say nothing.
"I'm talking about Miss Cross."
My eyes go wide, and I can hardly think of what to say. I misstep and Simon's foot comes down on mine. I want to yelp with pain, but I bite it back. "You're mistaken," I sputter, too loudly.
Simon gives me a warning glance as we recover our footing. "No, I don't think I am," he says breezily.
"You are," I insist tensely, my voice a whisper. "Pippa's dead."
Simon shrugs. "In a manner of speaking."
He knows! First Emily, now Simon. Who else shall find out about Pippa? Perhaps I should just go tell all my family and be done with it. "What do you mean?" I ask, playing dumb.
"You know what I mean, Gemma." Simon rolls his eyes, and suddenly he's the young man I met last Christmas. When he meets my gaze again, the hardness has returned to his features, and he is the new, cold Simon again. The Simon of the Rakshana.
"Alright, suppose I do? What do you want from me?"
"That is what I need to discuss with you privately."
"Fine. But I won't go anywhere where my screams can't be heard."
Simon smiles, satisfied. "As you wish."
We are only halfway through the dance, and I have nothing more to say. My history with Simon is complicated at best, and small-talk is really beyond us. He courted me, I rejected his proposal, and he now belongs to an organization that is apparently hell-bent on my demise. Hardly the material for friendly banter. I try to observe the couples around us as we twirl mechanically through the steps, but Simon's steely gaze is riveted on me. My eyes are repeatedly drawn to his, but he never speaks, so I look away quickly.
Finally, Simons says quietly, "I meant what I said to you – when I first visited. Do you remember what I said?"
"You told me to be careful," I answer levelly, not meeting his eyes.
"Ah yes, I meant that as well. But I'm talking about the more genteel part of our conversation. When we talked about… secrets."
"Well, obviously you knew my secret."
"I wanted to help you. I wanted to save you. But you wouldn't let me – you're too stubborn, unreachable."
"I am not," I deny hotly.
Simon laughs ruefully. "No – I suppose you let the Indian boy help you all he wants." He gives the word "help" a malicious twist, a rude insinuation that is more true than he probably realizes.
"How dare you," I growl, a furious blush making me unpleasantly warm. Before I can defend myself – and Kartik – the music comes to an end, and the dance is over. Simon escorts me silently from the floor.
"Let's go to the study. Your screams will easily be heard there," he assures me patronizingly.
I draw away from him sharply, drawing stares. "I have already committed to the next dance, Mr. Middleton," I say smoothly. If there is going to be any gossip about me, let it be that I spent the evening rebuffing Simon Middleton's over-eager attempts at courtship. Simon scowls at my rather ingenious refusal. "I will find you when I'm not otherwise engaged," I inform him in a smug whisper as I brush by.
He grabs me discreetly by the arm, interrupting my regal departure. "Meet me in the study when this dance is over." His stern tone brooks no argument. And he leaves, giving me no choice but to comply. I have to find out what he knows about Pippa.
The next dance is actually promised to Tom, which could easily be avoided, but I don't want to give Simon the satisfaction of being able to boss me around like a half-wit. Kartik easily ordered me around in the early days, when I knew little of what was happening to me. Now, I still know very little, but I've learned to grasp onto any control I might have over a situation, and never let go.
I dance with Tom, wondering over the fact that he hasn't teased me at all about finding him a wealthy wife amongst my acquaintances.
"No lady here is wealthy enough for you?" I ask him.
Tom looks confused. "What?"
"You haven't asked me to find a wife," I say, exasperated.
Tom doesn't even look sheepish – he looks distracted. "Oh, yes. Do continue searching." His words are half-hearted and dismissive. I eye him suspiciously, but he carries on through the steps of the dance, oblivious to my scrutiny.
When the dance comes to an end, I curtsy to Tom and go to the study, as Simon said. I have to slip away sneakily, waiting until I am certain that nobody sees. As I dart into the study, I find Simon seated in a plush chair. I push the door shut quietly, watching him carefully. He rises languidly, and walks towards me, coming closer and closer... too close. He slows, but continues to draw up to me, until our noses are nearly touching and my back is pressed against the door. Simon's lips are close to mine, and his eyes drift down to them slowly. I inhale sharply as his arm slides around me, ready to scream bloody murder. I realize though, that there is nowhere in the house that my screams would be heard, except for within the ball itself. The thick study door will easily muffle the sound, and any residual noise will be blanketed by the orchestra.
His hand slides up my back and I shiver, drawing away from his hand, and effectively pressing myself against his body. Simon smiles wolfishly, his eyes gleaming. His hand stops its suggestive progress, and I hear a click behind me. He's locked the door. His smile curls, and he steps away from me.
I exhale softly, trying to keep the relief from my features.
"Now what's this all about?" I demand.
"You smell like roses," Simon says softly.
"I won't – pardon?"
"Like roses," he repeats. The wolfish gleam never leaves his eyes, no matter how soft his voice is. "When we first met, at Victoria station, I noticed it. You still smell like roses – sweet, intoxicating." Simon's words roll through the air like velvet, confusing and frightening me.
"You wanted to – to, um, talk about Pippa?" I stammer.
Simon nods, and takes a step closer, coming back to me. I flatten myself against the door, eyeing him nervously. How could I have been so stupid, to have allowed myself to be drawn away from safety by a member of a the Rakshana! I had an entire ballroom full of witnesses to protect me, and I willingly agreed to leave with him, like a sheep dancing into the slaughterhouse.
And then there is only a hair's breadth between us, and the space is filled with a raw electricity, a magnetism, the begs me to close the distance between us. Slowly, as if in a trance, Simon raises his hand, softly tracing the contour of my jaw. A wicked shiver runs through me, and I know this is wrong – he's Rakshana! He wants to kill me! And what about… what about… Kartik?
His name is lost as Simon's mouth descends on mine, and I find I have thrown my arms around his neck, pulling him to me desperately. His kiss is demanding, angry, passionate in a way that frightens me. But I answer his passion with my own, heedless of my surroundings, my morals, my pride. Simon's hands are on my waist, holding me tight against him, and slowly rising. His breath is sweet with whiskey, and the smell reminds me of a time when I was even wilder than now.
The memory is of a time when Pippa was alive and her beauty was unmarred by dark spirits and vengeance. The thought of her name is like a dousing of cold water. I pull away from Simon, breaking our kiss with a gasp. His eyes are hooded, bright with passion.
"No," I sigh, breathless. "We have to talk about Pippa."
Simon blinks and runs a hand through his hair, regaining his composure. "Alright," he says, sounding just as breathless. He settles into a chair and regards me levelly, feigning nonchalance. "You can tell me why she's decided to kill me."
Yes, I realize I am pure evil. I really just love nothing more than cutting the story off right at a pivotal moment. And then I rub my hands together and laugh devilishly. Okay, maybe not. Anyways, please don't kill me for the Gemma-Simon thing. I've got a theory behind it. Remember the whole Rakshana-Order-Lovers thing and the Cave of Sighs and all that business? Okay, that's my hint. I'm sure you'll figure it mostly out. Give me reviews and I will give you cookies!