A/NItalics in this part are used to represent past events, but this is a particularly violent and painful chapter, I think the words 'emotional sadist' were used at one point when I posted this elsewhere. But if you haven't been put off by that, I hope you enjoy!

Part 11- 'Lord Hartfield's revenge…'

For those moments Lizzy was kissing and being kissed by Sir Richard, the years folded back, and suddenly they were back to a time four years ago, when she was making this very same mistake.

She remembered the first time she had seen him, Lord Hartfield had introduced them her first season in London, she had been young and afraid. And she had thought it a little strange at first, that her husband should describe a man so much older as his closest friend.

She was newly married, had newly had the title of Lady Hartfield thrust upon her, and the London ton regarded her with a suspicion matched only by their derision. They had convinced themselves that somehow the young country chit had worked her way into old Lord Hartfield's affections, and persuaded his hand to pen the most ridiculous will ever heard of.

Only Sir Richard was kind, and Lizzy could not forget how her heart had fluttered, when he had kissed her gloved hand in greeting. He was tall and handsome, dark haired with a broad smile. His smiling eyes had set her at ease then, and for the next two years became as close a friend to her has he was with her husband.

'No…' Lizzy pulled away, she pushed him back and tried to hold him at arm's length, but he had a strength she had forgotten. He pulled her close and held her next to his chest, his heart beating as impossibly fast as hers.

He brought up her arms and wrapped them about his shoulders. Their foreheads pressed together, he brought his hand up to touch her cheek. 'Why you didn't you come with me…?' he whispered in her ear. She considered his question and their strange history.

The London ton gradually came to accept Lizzy, for aside from her questionable lineage, they really could have no objections. Her beauty none could have really withstood and her coldness did nothing to abate their attentions. Lady Hartfield was no doubt as likely to ignore an invitation to a ball, but it was fashionable to pen one to her all the same.

The only man she could tolerate was Sir Richard Purvis, who apart from his unfortunate habit of gambling was by far the only one whose company she remotely enjoyed. It was a mixture of charm, and warm wit and something of security, a sense that he had seen more than her and done much more. And he was older, nearly old enough to be her father.

Once more conscious of her surroundings she pushed him away forcefully then, and pressed a hand to her mouth in bitter reproach. 'Stop it, stop…' She hissed at him in anger.

'Why?' He likewise grew angry, and reached for her still, 'you did not always find my touch so repulsive, nor my presence as objectionable as Philip's.' He stood in her way once again as she attempted an escape.

'It was a mistake, a horrid, wretched mistake, for which I have suffered…' As she reached up and pressed a cooling heand to her aching temple, he noticed the cuts on her hands.

Smiling grimly, he proceeded to remove the glove from his own left hand, 'For which you have suffered? He nearly killed me…' As he held up his hand before her face, Lizzy noted the deep, ugly scar that covered both the top and the palm of his hand.

Even now she remembered the first time he had kissed her, truly kissed her. It had been at a dance, one of the few to which her husband had insisted they attend. She did not doubt that Philip had his eye on one fair young maiden or other. She was enough acquainted with Lord Hartfield's character after two years of marriage, to know he did nothing in life if it did not afford him some pleasure, or measure of benefit; one or the other, forever passion with a purpose, and expert calculation.

But at least Richard would be there, and thatthere was something to look forward to. She would dance, and smile, and talk of books with him. And find something of that enjoyment so cruelly denied to a young girl, tied to a man she detested at barely fifteen years of age.

And they had danced, and smiled and talked of books. Sir Richard had amused her by his numerous impressions of the latest ladies fashions and their preference now for overly large, ridiculous plumes. He made the most laughable expressions, imitating them as they grappled with the inevitable when their feathers wilted under the heat of the room. She laughed heartily and in doing so unwittingly drew the attention of the whole room. At just seventeen years of age , Lizzy was still yet innocent to be ignorant of the talk that surrounded her. For if the London ton liked anything more than their taste in ridiculously foppish headwear, it was the promise of scandal. Lady Hartfield it seemed in those days was spending a significant amount of time in the company of Sir Richard.

Now as she stared at his hand and wondered how she had not thought to question the presence of the scar before. She had seen it of course, but had long presumed it had been the result of some accident or other. But Philip had done that?

He met her haunted gaze with petulance, 'It seems we share even the scars…'

'No…' she shook her head, 'He had nearly killed you, but what he did to me. I have long since wished to be dead... the horror, the baseness of his cruelty you could not begin to understand…'

Lizzy had been startled at first, the sensation of his lips pressed tightly, passionately against hers, his whiskers tickling her cheek. He broke away from her at last, and looked deeply at her for some response, he was not disappointed. Once over the initial shock, she reached out and kissed him again.

The heat in the ballroom had affected her as well as the feathers of the ladies headdresses; she found the air stifling and the atmosphere, the raucous laughter and the insipid talk rancid. She had made her escape through an open door from the side of the house, and had slipped out unnoticed. She had been leaning against the wall, in the darkened area under a balcony, far away from prying eyes. It was there that he had happened upon her, and not by accident, he had followed her.

Sir Richard studied her awhile, as if seeking resolve; taking her hand he planted a gentle kiss on her palm, and another on her wrist, and another higher still. He worked his way gently along the length of her bare inner arm, clearly delighting in the little sighs that escaped her every time his lips met her tender flesh.

And then he had kissed her, not in the polite way, the way of friends, a chaste brush of lips on a gloved hand. No, he kissed her as a lover, an all-consuming and hungry crush of lips, and not at least in the honourable manner of a married woman and single man.

And then Lizzy had kissed him, feeling here it was at last, knowing what it was to kiss and be kissed. Here was true affection at last, a man who clearly adored her, unafraid and unashamed, kind and gentle. Above all else, gentle. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, and his hands braced themselves at either side of her on the wall, his body pressed against hers. He bestowed gentle kisses along her neck, and as he did so Lizzy for the first time in her life heard a man tell her that he loved her. Philip had never said it, more to the point she had not and would not ever want him to. Her body stiffened at the words, but she didn't reply in kind, didn't state that she loved him as well. She could not say it, because it was not true. She did not love him, oh she was fond of him, and not entirely indifferent, but it was not love.

Her heart had become used to more practical sentiments and feelings; her judgement was not clouded by feverish passion. She could think and feel clearly enough, and her heart, sadly cold even then, instead of seeing a man hopelessly devoted and remarkably tender, saw an escape, a means to an end. She wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, and stared distantly into the cool night air.

'This was not meant to be my life.' Lizzy broke through the current heavy silence that hung between them. She looked at him and shook her head sadly, her eyes glistening with tears she fought to contain. 'All my dreams, the hopes, all those expectations in my youth…not once could I have suspected there was an existence to be had yet so wretched.' Sir Richard had replaced his glove and reached out to take her hands once more. She held them out of his reach, and chose instead to make clenched fists of them, held tightly by her side.

She studied the ground as she spoke, 'You cannot know what it is to be...' her voice faltered ever so slightly, 'to be trapped like this. To be part of an arrangement, a condition…a decree in a law.' She began to pace now, a few feet one way and then the other. 'Even now, I cannot comprehend how it is I have come to be part of an inheritance…' She hurried up to Sir Richard now, her hands held protectively over chest, 'I hate him…' she cried out impassionedly, 'H-he is dead, and I know I ought not to, but I cannot help it, h-how could he do this to me, why would he condemn me to this, this wretched, miserable excuse for a life…?'

She seemed to be begging him for an answer, but he did not know what to say. What was there of comfort to be offered by him? 'Lizzy, I cannot know how to answer you, but…Oh, if only old Lord Hartfield had left such a prize for me. My dear girl I would cherish you…'

Even as he reached out and held up her chin, she angrily slapped his hand away. 'I knew you would not understand.'

No he did not understand, 'I am in earnest, if you had been destined to be my wife I would have worked hard to earn your affection. Philip cannot know how fortunate he is, had such a happy lot fallen my way…'

She smiled at him bitterly, 'I doubt you would have remained in such a happy state for very long sir, I assure I would have come to resent you as much as I do him.'

He had little suspected the evening would turn out so horrifically wrong, Lady Hartfield had summoned him to the estate with a note, a dispatch that had arrived at his place in London only the day before. It was a plea for some assistance advice and he the blind, trusting fool that he was, had answered. He would be at the Hartfield residence late that same night.

Sir Richard had been busy, making preparations for Lady Hartfield's escape, it had taken precious little to convince him they ought to flee the country, in fact it had been merely a flutter of those thick eyelashes, that mischievous smile and a breathless kiss and he was away, settling his finances and securing passages and funds for their journey. It had been a fortnight since he had come away, since he had kissed her under a balcony. Two whole weeks without seeing her, but the image of her arms about his shoulders, and the heavenly scent of her as he traced the contours of her neck with his fingers and then his lips was a sensation imprinted on his mind as clearly as if she were in his arms now.

Her note, consisting of a set of initials, E.H. and a few simple words, 'I must see you at once, something something most unexpected has happened. Come quickly', had sent him into a flurry of action. Perhaps their opportunity for flight had come earlier than expected; if that was the case he was ready to sweep her out of the house that very night.

But it was not to be, Lord Hartfield himself was waiting on the steps when he arrived, all other lights in the grand house were extinguished save the one in his study and a room in the uppermost corner of the building. Philip smiled at him as he alighted from the carriage, and as he shook his hand warmly Richard thought quickly and offered the excuse that he had been on his way to a matter of business in the North, when he had thought to call on the Hartfields. He apologised profusely for the late hour, and was all acquiescence and remorse, but he was certain Philip believed him.

They had of course been careful; nothing that could impart or give the impression of anything more than friendly partiality towards Lady Hartfield escaped him those two weeks before he had departed. He could not have suspected that Philip had any knowledge of it at all.

Philip's smiles as he ushered him into his study, served to reassure him all the more. So much so, he had not thought to question the fact that Lord Hartfield had been stood on the steps as he had arrived, waiting, expecting almost. Nor did it strike him as odd that almost no-one else was about, even at this late hour, his Lordship's valet ought to have been on hand at least to attend to him. But there was no one, no other sign of life save that light at the top of the house. Stranger still, a decanter of wine and two glasses awaited him; he noted their presence along with a newly opened pile of correspondence. Lord Hartfield gestured him towards the empty chair.

He poured the wine, and handing him a glass sat down opposite him. 'We've been worried about you Richard…' he began in the strangest voice.

Sir Richard looked up from his glass, understandably puzzled, 'I can't understand who you mean Philip, why would you be worried about me?'

Lord Hartfield smiled and laughed slightly, 'your behaviour of late, you've seemed distracted. You left in such a hurry last fortnight that we were sure you had taken ill.' He placed particular emphasis on that word. 'But other notions have since come to light, you are ill are you not?' he didn't wait for him to answer. 'But not the sort of illness a doctor can cure…, you are lovesick! Aren't you old friend?'

Richard barely knew what to say, he gathered the little composure he had and attempted to laugh the accusation off. But Lord Hartfield was adamant. 'No…no, this will not do, I have known you too long Richard. There is a woman who has brought about these changes in you, surely you cannot deny it. Sir Richard Purvis, the celebrated gamester has had little stomach for cards, has been distracted, pining away almost…all the symptoms of a man in love.'

Lord Hartfield paused and leaned forward, 'Yes, a man hopelessly in love, consumed with a foolish passion…' and suddenly his expression changed, '…a man in love with MY WIFE!' And then it happened, before Richard had even time to blink, Lord Hartfield had used the letter opener to stake his hand to the table.

Sir Richard could at first only stare numbly at the knife that appeared to be impaled in the back of his hand, could only watch in open mouthed wonderment as it shook slightly, an effect of the force with which Philip had plunged it downwards. The blade held him there, its beautiful ivory handle glinting in the candlelight, taunting him almost.

And then the pain had come, and he screamed in agony and abject horror. And there sat Lord Hartfield calm, collected and… smiling almost. Sir Richard gasped in pain, and reached out gingerly to remove the implement. Philip fingers folded around the handle before he had even stretched midway, he held the blade there, twisted it ever so slightly, and then in one clean jerk pulled it free. Sir Richard screamed once more.

Now holding the blade upwards, Lord Hartfield stared at it, morbidly fascinated, watching the blood as it found its way down the cold steel and stained the hilt, red running into white…

'I trusted you Richard, I trusted you with her…' he got up and walked around the table to wear Sir Richard sat. He regarded him disdainfully as he sat whimpering and clutching his hand. Philip knelt beside him, he held the knife before Richard's face, and then proceeded to wipe the blade clean on the injured man's cheek and coat. Richard felt the warm sticky liquid smeared on his face and fought valiantly against the blackness overwhelming him. His wound was oozing, blood poured out despite his best efforts; his shirt into which he pressed his hand was beginning to be soaked.

'She doesn't love you,' he managed to rasp at last. His voice, his teeth shook as the shock and pain of so sudden and violent an attack was rendering him cold. Lord Hartfield tilted his head to one side and eyed him curiously before laughing, laughing out loud.

'Do you think me a fool? Of course she does not love me, she would not have attempted so desperate, so dangerous a measure at escape had she felt anything, even something approaching indifference.' Lord Hartfield stopped smiling and regarded him with sudden understanding.

'Oh, you think she loves you?' he shook his head, 'Poor Richard, my God, you really are a fool. She has used you, dear friend; she used you to secure her release. You are nothing more than a means to an end…'

'N-No…' Richard disagreed feebly. Lord Hartfield's words cut as deep as the knife, 'Yes. I know her better than anyone, whatever she may have said to you, all her pretty words and ways, it was all as the situation, as need demanded, she does not care for you. She has grown too much like me, expertly calculating, planning, and never passion without a purpose…'

He shuddered in pain even at the memory, 'I loved you, why didn't you come with me?' Sir Richard had one hand on her arm still.

'You did not love me, you loved the fact that I was young, that I was married, and that I ought to have been unattainable.' She pulled her arm free from his grasp. There was little emotion now, her impassioned plea for understanding was forgotten, and she was Lady Hartfield once more. 'You always were fond of gambling, Sir Richard.'

And there it was, the conformation of every suspicion Sir Richard had tried these past four years to put aside. Philip's words on that night had haunted him, could he truly have been so blind as to not see that a seventeen year old girl had been using him for her own ends? Was it her age that had prevented him from seeing it and her in the truest light? Or, was it that he truly had been hopelessly in love with her?

Could he face knowing, would it not be more advantageous to his sanity and health if he chose to remain in ignorance? But no, as she had said, he dearly loved a gamble. 'Philip was speaking truthfully then, you were using me? If you had come, would you have stayed with me?'

She looked at him, he thought he saw the slightest flinch, no; she only shook her head and looked away. 'No… I would not have stayed, forgive me...' her voice shook slightly before steadying once more. 'Forgive me but I do not wish to be importuned any further on this matter.'

Sir Richard leaned heavily on Philip as the latter helped him to struggle towards the carriage waiting outside. The coachman climbed down and regarded Sir Richard's clear distress with some suspicion. The older man was disturbingly pale; the blood seemed to have drained from his face. His unnatural paleness was a stark contrast to the dark night.

'Sir Richard has had an accident; he will find a doctor awaiting him at the Bulberry Inn at Meryton. Mention my name at the door; they will have a room secured for him.' Lord Hartfield offered no further details and the coachman found he was not inclined to press for them. Lord Hartfield pushed Sir Richard roughly into the carriage, and before closing the door climbed in after him. He propped him up against the opposite side of the carriage, and pressed a hand against Sir Richard's chest where he nursed his injury. Sir Richard groaned in agony, his ghostly pale face grew taut and his jaw tightened.

'Now listen to me… old friend, if you ever so much as think of looking at my wife in that way again, I will gladly tie you to the wheels of this carriage and drive you the length and breadth of the country in that manner. Do you understand?'

It seemed ridiculous to think Sir Richard had even heard let alone understood him, the man was fading fast. Philip reached up and taking a hold of Sir Richard's thick hair moved his head up and down in agreement for him. 'Good!' he exclaimed cheerily, before stepping out of the carriage and facing the bemused expressions of the livery.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' he barked the order, and within half a second the carriage was gone. Philip turned back to the house and the single solitary light in the upper window. He smiled grimly.

Yet for all Philip had said that evening it had taken until this moment for Sir Richard to understand the full impact of his words.

'No!' Sir Richard followed her as she walked quickly away; taking her forcefully by the arm he turned her around to face him. 'I can't, please Lizzy; I can't believe you didn't care for me at all…'

She smiled slightly, 'You're a sweet man Richard, and I wanted to. Believe me, lying to you was the hardest part…' she touched his cheek and smiled oddly, 'How I must disappoint you…'

He stepped back from her in utter disgust, with her, and himself for being such a fool. 'Philip was right; you are too much like him, all that I knew about you has proven itself …false, what a simpleton I have been. You do not require a rescue from him; I do not believe you ever did.' He spoke with bitterness; Lizzy shook her head fervently denying it as she recalled what happened once Philip had had turned his attentions to her.

She had sat quiet and still at the foot of the bed, her head ached acutely and she rested it against one of the carved heavy oak bedposts. She closed her eyes, and only opened them again at a sound at the door.

She watched as Philip stepped inside the room and made his way to the basin of water. He poured the water carefully into the bowl and proceeded to wash his hands, his shirt and his hands were covered in blood. Still resting her head against the post and with eyes half closed she asked. 'What have you done?'

He carried on washing, carefully attending to one hand, and then the other. Scrubbing, carefully removing the last of it, under the nails and in between the fingers, scrubbing, washing away.

He answered her at last, 'What I was well within my rights to do,' he turned to face her then, his hands dripping, 'don't worry I didn't kill him, though I ought to have done.' He approached her slowly, 'Poor Richard, he was quite distraught when I told him how I'd discovered your little plan, he had thought he'd been quite cunning, of course seeing you together that night under the balcony…'

It was Philip's hand that had forced her to pen that letter, to lure Richard. He had stood over her and dictated the few words. Just as he had bided his time, and waited to reveal his knowledge of her unfaithfulness, waited until she had begun to feel safe. The last few days had been awful, the suspense torturous, waiting and not knowing what Lord Hartfield would do next.

It had become clear tonight, or at least Richard's part of it had, she had stood at the window and watched her husband place Richard in the carriage, had stood at the window still when Lord Hartfield looked up and met her gaze.

He knelt in front of her, much in the same way he had knelt by Sir Richard. Only there was no menace in his voice. 'Poor Richard, he thinks you love him…' here he rested his chin in her lap and took both her hands in his, 'but we know better don't we.'

She pulled her hands out of his grasp, he made no attempt to hold onto her, 'It must be an absolute sort of hate, for you to risk such scandal…do you truly hate me that much?' He had taken his chin off her lap but still knelt in front of her, he took to playing with the hem of her nightdress.

'No…' she whispered, 'I hate you more.' She spoke the words as matter of fact, and their sharpness caused Philip to look up quickly. He appeared on the verge of replying in kind, but he smiled instead and rose from the floor to sit next to her.

He stroked her cheek, and pushed her loose hair back from her face, she turned her head aside in disgust. 'To risk such scandal, my dear Lizzy, consider what your poor mother would have said, the heartache and sorrow of a fallen daughter, and having only newly lost her beloved Mr Bennet. Two years is not any length of time…'

Lizzy turned to him with a scowl, at the thought that he could dare to mention so reverent a creature as her father. He smiled yet further, 'You're very beautiful when you are angry.' She raised her hand up to strike him, but he caught it in his own, and pressed it tightly, crushing the delicate fingers in his own. 'Haven't I been patient with you? And it is a patience you are sorely beginning to try.'

He pressed his lips to her hand, 'It would be very hard on Mrs Bennet to lose her daughter as well as her home.' She started at his words; her panic-stricken gaze met his, she shook her head, her voice unsteady, 'you wouldn't…'

He regarded her with a triumphant smile, 'Yes I would, you perhaps forget I hold the deeds to Longbourn, so understand this, if you leave…, they leave…' She pulled her hand forcefully from him and brought it up to her mouth, and closed her eyes tightly.

'Duty binds you once more Lizzy, to me and to this place.' Philip reached out and placing his hands on either side of her face, turned her towards face him, 'but it need not be such an unpleasant thing.' His voice bespoke a strange attempt at tenderness, the sentiment may perhaps have even been genuine, but Lizzy was beyond reconciliation. She pushed his hands down and away. 'Duty and nothing more, there will never be anything more.'

And there was the light once more, the luminosity and challenge in her eyes that at once thrilled and frightened him. Philip responded in the only manner he knew, taking both her arms tightly above the wrist he pinned them behind her back. His strength she could never haved hoped to match, and in what proved a short struggle indeed she was soon lying back on the bed with Philip straddling her. His other hand he held over her neck and as he pushed her downwards, she struggled to breathe.

She managed to free one of her hands at last, and bringing it up with all the force she could muster she slapped him squarely in the face. The surprise of the contact brought him somewhat to his senses at last, he released the pressure on her neck and Lizzy took deep, gulping breaths in blessed relief.

Still sat atop of her, his gaze became affixed by the marks he had caused on her neck, the soreness, the tender red of pained flesh appealed to him. He lowered his hand to her nightgown, tracing a line with his fingers down the length of her leg and slipped his hand inside and underneath the cloth…

That night was the first time he forced himself on her, and she fought him long and hard throughout it all. Every bruise, every scratch and every mark he gave her she repaid in kind, until they both lay battered and bruised. But inevitably he healed faster and as much as he had been hurting her a mere half hour before, Lizzy found him then applying cool water to her cuts and washing the blood away from where he had forced himself on her. And she was at once all too tired, hurt and spent to fight him anymore.

And that was how it went on for the best part of a week. That room became her prison; Philip forbade the servants or anyone else from attending to her. Only he entered the room, bringing barely enough food to sustain her and nothing more. And he would force himself on her, and though each time Lizzy fought less, until by the end she did not fight at all, in her heart it always felt a violation, it always felt like rape.

He would hurt her and then heal her, at once her antagonist and her saviour. It was all as he had planned, by the end of the week she was dependant entirely upon him. And Lord Hartfield was triumphant, for however short a duration it proved that defiant light in Lady Hartfield's eyes had dimmed.

Lizzy had required a rescue, but the likes of Sir Richard Purvis were not capable of providing it. 'I am sorry, it was never my intention to have you believe you were in love.'

Sir Richard scowled at her, 'As if such a thing could very well be helped, it was exactly your intention, and you sorely underestimate your talents Lady Hartfield.'

She grew impatient with him, 'As I recall you were not so very heartbroken, you married Miss Anne Leland within the year.'

Sir Richard shook his head sadly, 'what choice was there, I had debts and expenses, besides there seemed little hope that I would see you again.'

Lord Hartfield had only recently rekindled their friendship; the Hartfields had of course seen the Purvis' in London, societies habit of generally moving in the same circles meant the circumstance could not be avoided, but it was only this year that Lord Hartfield had extended an invite for Sir Richard to accompany him back to Hartfield.

Lizzy smiled callously at him, 'choices?' she repeated with some incredulity, 'the Sir Richard's and the Lord Hartfield's of this world have all the choices, it is the Elizabeth Bennet's that are cruelly denied them. I did not and I do not love you, I made do as needs dictated, but believe me I have paid for my mistake, and I have learnt to accept my lot and… not to hope.'

And with that final word she walked away from him, without looking back, without so much as shedding a tear.