A/N: My utmost gratitude goes to my beautiful ladies. Ciaobella27 inspires me to write things that make her smile and swoon. TwiDi whips it up with her red marker and lets me know if the love letters are actually love letters. Mrs Boyscout uses her red pen and supports me like no other. And Phoenixhunter47 makes me sound so witty by adding beautiful words and commas I hardly think of.

Without them I'm nothing.

Still dedicated to my friend, Pree.

DISCLAIMER: I stole the foundation for this, and also the characters, but the rest of it, that remains, is mine.

The Deception of Love

Love is a benign deception that motivates us to do the work we would not normally do. It helps us acquire a companion. It deceives us by promising one thing – eternal bliss, but gives us something entirely different.

Eros shoots us with his arrow and blinds us from seeking pleasures for ourselves, removes selfishness and makes us chase the desires of our loved ones. Falling in love makes us bow to someone else's will; to achieve happiness for that person, even though it may cause us pain.

"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." – Friedrich Nietzsche

November, 1900.

Jasper Henry Whitlock watched the fire lick at the wood and consume it in its flames as it warmed up the drawing room of the Manor. The uncomfortable silence made the ticking of the grandfather clock pierce the room, causing his heart to accelerate in his chest, as his father held his figure under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Jasper." William called his name with tenderness, the effect diminishing his son's fear.

But his tone was not able to drown the anxiety that Jasper felt at the mere knowledge that his father was aware of his relationship with Alice. What if he had found out? With this ominous thought running around in his head, he answered. "Yes, father."

William poured scotch into two glasses and leaned back into his chair. "Have a drink."

Jasper stood up from where he had been sitting and walked up to his father's side. He picked up the lowball glass and returned to his chair, which was situated some distance away from his father.

"Do you know why I have called you here today, son?" William's intimidating voice raised the tiny hairs standing on Jasper's neck to attention.

Jasper was not a coward. In fact, he never really cared much for his father's opinion. However, when it came to Alice, the matter was a tender issue. If his father had discovered that his son was engaged with a common maid – one of the servants of his friend's daughter – he would have been disappointed. Jasper was not able to deduce the type of danger Alice could be put in.

"No, I do not." Jasper swirled his scotch and watched the pale gold liquid dance around the glass.

"I have every reason to believe that," – in one fluid moment, Jasper braced himself for the impending doom and threw the scotch down his throat, almost hissing at the harshness of it on his tongue –"you have no interest in women."

He almost spat out the liquid at the irrationality of his father's statement. Had he heard right? He quickly swallowed hard to save himself the embarrassment of ejecting the scotch from his esophagus. His father would not have regarded that as behavior befitting a gentleman.

"What could possibly make you believe so?" Jasper asked, wishing he did not have to walk across the room just to get another glass of scotch. With the way their conversation was heading to, he believed he would need it.

"There is proof all around me. You have not been with a girl for as long as I can remember. I am afraid that you are of the homosexual persuasion." William's words were injected with humor, but his eyes reflected seriousness.

"Father, you must be…" Jasper's words trailed off, looking into his father's eyes. "You cannot be serious! That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard."

"That you are or are not homosexual?" William asked, crossing his hands against his chest.

"That you would even consider..." Jasper said in exasperation. His father was making him angrier by the minute. "That is absolutely preposterous."

"Name the last girl you have been with," William countered.

"A–," he quickly stopped, realizing that he was about to mention his lover's name. It was so natural of him to say it as he called it almost every night when she was in bed with him.

William saw this hesitation and his thick brow raised skeptically, challenging him to argue.

Jasper swallowed before slouching back into his chair in defeat. He hadn't been seen with any woman because the one who had captured his heart could not be seen with him. In society's eye, their relationship was not acceptable. A relationship that existed between a superior and a subordinate was usually discreetly, but forcefully dissolved, once both parties were discovered.

"I believe you are right," Jasper said begrudgingly. For now, he would accept whatever his father was about to tell him, in order to protect Alice.

"Jasper, you are my only son and when I die, you will be the one to inherit my estate. I cannot give that to you without knowing that you have someone with whom you could raise a family." William rubbed his hands together. "You must find a girl who captures your interest and settle down soon. You are already turning one and twenty this year; you can ill afford to wait much longer before selecting a wife. You must accept your role in society and act like the man I raised you up to be."

~!&!~

December, 1900. Winter ball at Court: celebration of the last year in the 19th century before the Common Era.

Rosalie placed her fan over her face and tried to suppress her giggles under the leaves of its swan feathers. Isabella smacked her with her lace fan and shot her an admonishing look. She tried to control her laughter, but with the evil glares coming from Lady Stanley, Rosalie could no longer help it. She hid her face in Isabella's neck and silently convulsed while the audience members, who were pretending to be enthralled by Jessica's singing, turned to Rosalie in confusion.

"Miss Hale, would you enlighten us with what has amused you?" Lady Stanley asked, with irritation lacing her tone. Rosalie could almost swear that she saw steam erupting out of the matron's ears, and that did not help the second round of laughter that burst through her.

"I'm afraid your ladyship," Isabella cut in politely, "that my friend may be ill and for that I sincerely apologize for the interruption. Pray, do carry on with your singing Jessica, you do it so beautifully." Isabella smiled.

When Jessica had finished singing, the audience gave a round of applause while Rosalie stood up and walked to the refreshment section. She poured wine from the decanter and took a long sip. Her eyes swept over the enormous ballroom until they found what they were looking for – her cousin, Mark. She deposited her glass on the table and walked straight toward him, ignoring the silent whispers of mothers criticizing her previous behavior. Her head sat high on her shoulders while her chin jutted out, the quintessential high status lady, and once she had reached her destination, she graced Mark's cheek with a kiss.

"Darling cousin, that's an interesting way of deflecting attention to yourself," Mark smiled, glancing around the room.

"Oh, for the life of my poor ears, that girl cannot sing. I hardly comprehend why we must be subjected to it at all. Clearly, all the gentlemen present must be on the same page as I," Rosalie said. "Faye only insists she do it in the hope that she will find a good suitor, and in turn send her away from court. Except with that voice, any likely suitor will run in the other direction. No one wants someone who sings like a dying cat."

"I do agree, but I would like to think she sounds better in bed," Mark smiled. "Perhaps James Whistler would do us all a favor and court her," he added. "If only he was not attracted to you."

"Speaking of courting, did you hear the on-dit this week?" Rosalie asked. "Rumor has it that the families of Whitlock and Swan are considering the idea of a betrothal. One could assume that I win the wager, as it is unlikely that you will be able to follow up on your plan before she is betrothed."

"I was not aware of such news. Besides, I doubt Jasper would consider it, and neither would Isabella," Mark countered.

"Yes, but in retrospect, it is the family's own wishes that fuelled the gossip. I believe Lord Whitlock is concerned about his son's single status, as your father would be, if it weren't for the fact that you were hammering every potential bride in Forks."

Mark flashed Rosalie a smug smile. "The deal is not over. As a matter of fact, Isabella and I will be spending some time together soon." Just as soon as he could find her, he thought.

"Yes, Mark, poison her with your charm. I'll be over there," Rosalie nudged her head toward James' direction, "dancing with the young Whistler. I wish you luck because you are definitely going to need it," she winked and her lips curved upward into a crescent, before leaving him.

Mark spotted Isabella at the other end of the ballroom, wearing a modest cream dress. He noticed that the satin covered almost every inch of skin on her body. However, he found delight in the way it clung to her like a second skin, defining her curvaceous body, and leaving him with only his imagination of what lay underneath it. He was surprised that a lady being fully clothed, without exposing any part of her body could enhance her attraction. He had always thought it was the other way round.

She was a tease and she did not even know it.

Isabella poured herself some lemonade from the crystal pitcher, and then turned to watch her friend commanding the attention of the ballroom. Rose sank into a curtsy while James inclined himself in a bow. The audience circled around them as James wrapped his hands around Rosalie's waist, pulling her closer to him, before they began to waltz elegantly across the room. All eyes were on both of them, watching the couple cavort under the glittering chandelier lights.

"My cousin is quite an attention seeker," Mark said from behind Isabella, startling her with his approach. "I am terribly sorry," he held her hand and tried to stable her movements. "Did I scare you?"

"No, you did not," she replied, clearing her throat. "Rosalie is beautiful. I would think she captures the attention of anything that is within ten or twenty feet of her."

"As do you Isabella," he responded with a heart-warming smile. "I was standing all the way over there," he pointed at a spot discreetly, "and I was so mesmerized by your beauty that I had to come over here and tell you about it."

Isabella could not stop the blush that crept over her cheeks, at Mark's compliment.

"Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

"I am afraid that I do not know much about dancing." She placed her lemonade on the table. "I am so clumsy that already, I foresee myself falling and embarrassing you in front of all these guests."

Mark closed the distance between them and bent his head to whisper in her ear. "I promise that if you do fall, I'll be there to catch you."

The orchestra started to play the twenty-first concerto – Andante by Mozart – as Mark and Isabella joined Rosalie and James in the center of the ballroom. Mark bowed down lithely in front of Isabella.

Galvanized by the anxiety swirling in the pit of her stomach, Isabella curtsied cautiously before entering his embrace.

Rosalie smiled knowingly at Isabella, and gave Mark a devilish wink that suggested she was not, by any means, going to lose to him.

February, 1901.

My dear Edward,

The words in your last letter have rendered me so speechless, that I am afraid all my common sense has flown out of the window. I have sat in this chair and stared at the fields, pondering on what intelligent way to explain what you have done to me.

You are everywhere. I cannot be rid of you. Your words are engraved in my heart. Your image is imprinted in my dreams. The first thing I wake up to in the morning is the thought of you. The last thought that crosses my mind before I close my eyes is of you. My afternoons are spent thinking of writing to you, talking to you, and wondering what you are doing in England.

I am jealous of the people you are surrounded by. Jealous of the sun that gets to help you start your day. Jealous of the moon that gets to say goodnight. Jealous of the air that has the benefit of touching your skin.

Your letters have become a constant companion to my thoughts. I read them over and over, wishing you were here with me, whispering those words that have such a dazzling effect on my poor heart.

Is this what love is? Does love invoke madness? Does it make everything around you seem irrelevant? Does it make you so unintelligent that you cannot find the words to express yourself? Does it make you despise time, distance, people and everything else that separates you from your beloved?

Does it make every word that forces you to think of that person, seem poetic?

I have spent the last months with a boy named Mark and even he cannot take my mind off you. When he smiles at me, my mind imagines what your smile looks like. I imagine what makes you smile. When he kisses my cheek, I imagine what it might feel like to have your lips do that.

When I am in a room full of people, your absence makes me experience the greatest loneliness I have ever felt.

Oh, please tell me darling, Edward, for I fear that I have gone completely mad, and if it is so, I do not want a cure for this insanity.

I am in love with you Edward Anthony Cullen. And it might be a mistake to make you aware of this impertinent fact. I might be left with a shattered heart when you possess the knowledge, but I would gladly take the risk because my life suddenly does not have meaning without you in it.

Please send me a letter and put me out of my misery.

Love, Rosalie.

P.S. The necklace was beautiful; I have kept it close to my heart. Thank you.

March, 1901. Wallace Manor.

Isabella's eyes trailed over the erotic paintings that decorated the walls of one within rooms of the Wallace Manor. The white disks of her eyes expanded in fascination, while digesting the sight of naked bodies in various positions, depicting sensuality and debauchery. Both males and females were wrapped in passionate embraces that were so intimate; Isabella felt she was committing a sin just looking at it.

"So you collect pornography?" She averted her eyes away from the sinful images, resting her gaze on Mark.

Mark looked at her with a thoughtful expression, almost as if he was trying to understand what was passing through her mind.

"It is not pornography," he replied, sounding offended at the word she had used to describe his art collection. "'Tis erotica. There is a difference, you know."

"Forgive me, but I was not aware of the difference." She turned her face away from him, hiding the embarrassment that had marked her cheeks.

"Yes, there is," Mark said, completely intrigued. The innocence on her face amused Mark. He had never met a girl who was so pure that her eyes bulged out of her face just at the sight of a man kissing a woman.

When she did not answer, he decided to continue. "Pornography has no art, no enduring interest. It bores us with time. Erotica is an art; it has an aesthetic beauty that attracts our admiration. A beauty of which we never get bored. It invites our contemplation. They are two entirely different things."

Mark realized that Isabella was quite different from the other girls he had seduced. He almost thought that the difference between her and those girls was similar to the difference between his erotica and pornography. Her naivety made him want to teach her many things. He had always thought that good girls were not actually good, they were just oppressed and that was why they wanted bad boys to rescue them.

However, Isabella proved him wrong. She did not seem to need rescuing, but for reasons unbeknownst to him, he wanted to be her knight in shining armor. And although, he wanted to take her virtue, he did not want to treat like the other girls he had encountered. But he did, so badly, want to kiss her.

So, Mark walked across the room and stood behind her, as she inspected one of the less-vulgar paintings. "Do you know what 'tis like to be kissed, Miss Swan?" His whisper was so low and deep that it caused a vibration within Isabella's chest.

Isabella was momentarily stunned by his proximity. He was so close that she could smell his cologne. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes flickering to his parted lips, and the atmosphere around them began to spin. She was very much aware of what was going to happen next, and what Mark intended to do. She was also shocked at how her body responded to him. Her senses had heightened, choosing now to become completely aware of him.

His onyx eyes held hers, and she noticed the unmistakable lust shining in them. "Have you ever had a boy's lips on yours?"

Before anything else could happen, Isabella attempted to escape from his hold. But his smothering gaze, and the seductive tone he employed, caused her to trip on the carpet. His arms cradled her gently, as she tried to regain her balance. She leaned against him, and when she was sure she no longer needed his support to stand upright, she moved away from him to breathe.

She had always considered Mark to be a handsome man, and she was attracted to him, but she had heard of his previous escapades. Knowing this, she did not want to be his next victim. There was also the notion that she wanted Edward to be the first and only person who kissed her. It was a foolish thought that she entertained, nevertheless, it was what her heart had yearned for as long as she could remember.

Mercifully saved by her chaperone and Rosalie, Isabella quickly disengaged from the heated moment that had encompassed her and Mark.

~!&!~

"I would consider Don Juan to be actually impoverished. He has nothing. He is like an empty vessel with nothing to give and nothing to receive," Isabella said, holding her hat carefully and praying that the wind did not have the opportunity to whisk it away from her head.

Mark plucked blades of grass from the soil. "I do not think he has nothing to give. He does give pleasure to the women he beds, surely, that has to count for something." His eyes twinkled.

The sun glistened upon the tendrils of Isabella's hair, that had escaped her bonnet. Protected from the glaring sun of spring by her red parasol, Isabella played with the edges of her gown while she and Mark engaged themselves in a conversation about the opera they had watched the day before: Don Giovanni.

Mark had found an excuse to come and see her again, for reasons he did not understand, save for the fact that he thoroughly enjoyed her company. Rosalie sat across from them, her head resting on one of the blue velvet cushions she had collected from her manor. She was extremely bored with their banter. However, she had no choice but to listen, for once again she was idle. Being the fact that she had cut all contact from Seth, she was stuck with their company.

And every word that was uttered infuriated her.

"Yes, but he hardly knows the women he beds. He knows not a single thing about them. What pleasure is derived when love has no tangle with it?" Isabella asked.

"That is because he is not in love. He does not want it, nor does he seek it, and that makes him powerful. For if he has nothing to feel, then there is nothing to regret." Mark was insistent in winning this argument.

"I hardly believe that. He just possesses a low self esteem. He is an indiscriminate, judging from his character, he is only concerned with quantity, and with his reputation. He associates love with being a predator. Each lover is a conquest for him, and that is not what love is about. He will never have the benefit of having something real and strong because he is blinded by ungodly things."

"Devil take it!" Rosalie exhaled sharply, picking up her parasol and the cushion, and stomping off toward the direction of her house.

Mark chuckled at Rosalie's display of what he called afternoon madness, as he shrugged and answered Isabella's worried question of what was wrong with her. He took that opportunity to get closer to Isabella and revel in the scent of lavender that accompanied her.

"Is that why you won't let me kiss you, Miss Isabella?" he asked her tentatively. "Because you think kissing is ungodly?"

The question had thrown her off guard, and Mark was rewarded by the blood that colored her neck.

"Miss Swan!" She craned her neck to Alice's distinct voice, sounding from a distance. "Miss Swan! Your parents request for your presence in the drawing room at once."

"I must go," Isabella said, standing up carefully.

"Give me the benefit of kissing your hand instead," Mark said.

He took her left hand, and pressed his lips to the black net covering it. Then he gave her a smile as she ran off to answer her parent's call.

"What is it?" she asked Alice politely, passing through the doors that led straight into the room where her parents sat.

"Find out for yourself," Alice replied contemptuously. The tone of her voice caused Isabella to wince. She had never experienced hostility from Alice before, and she wondered what had brought it forth. Before she could question her further, Isabella's mother rushed to meet her at the door.

"Isabella, where were you?" she asked with an abysmal look on her face, as she took in the state of her dress. Darts of grass had stuck to her dress. "Oh, never mind, we have good news." She ushered Isabella inside the room, pushing her to sit on one of the settees.

"Dear young Whitlock has sent these to you." Her mother's hands gestured to the bouquet of flowers that crowded the table.

Isabella was overcome by the smell of the flowers. The sheer number of calla lilies, stargazer lilies, and bearded irises - which were somewhat her favorite - that filled the table was overwhelming. Suddenly, the name her mother had spoken penetrated through her head, and she understood why Alice was acting indifferent toward her previously.

She had read the newspapers that contained gossip about both her family and the Whitlock's seeking a betrothal, but she was yet to believe it since they had not discussed it with her. But as she gazed at the numerous petals that shone brightly against the sun, she could not help but feel slightly betrayed.

At that moment, she wondered what Alice thought.

"They are so beautiful, mama," she said honestly, wondering how she was going to go on with what she wanted to say next.

After all, she knew that there was no way Jasper could have sent them. Since he did not desire her – neither had he paid attention to her for the past few months. If anything, she expected them to be from Mark, who had suddenly found an interest in her.

"But please, you must send them back to him with my undying gratitude, for I am afraid that I cannot accept." She watched the muscles in her mother's face construct a horrific expression, as her words registered in Lady Swan's head.

"Nonsense! What do you mean you cannot accept?" Lady Swan hissed. "Do you want to bring me sorrow, child?" she asked, while Isabella shook her head. "Good. Now, go to your bedchamber, Alice will bring the flowers to you."

Isabella did not have the energy to argue with her mother, so she obeyed and walked up to her room. That night, as Alice helped Isabella take off her gown, her eyes glanced around her room, wondering how to strike up a conversation with Alice.

"I did not–," she started, but her sentence got cut off.

"I know," Alice said.

"I'm sorry."

"'Tis not your fault." Alice helped her out of her petticoat. "I just wish I was enough for him."

Isabella did not know how to respond to that, so she kept silent. But the words resonated in her heart, for they described exactly how she felt about Edward.

June, 1901

Sweetest Rosalie,

I would like to have you know that it is not only you who is tormented. The last hours of my medical class have been occupied with thoughts of you.

You have spent these past years without me. You have shared your laughter with others. You have shared your words with others. You have smiled at boys; you have kissed their cheeks; you have danced with them, and they have held you. They have wrapped their arms around you.

And I have been here, lying on my bed, thinking of doing those same things. You say that you are jealous of the sun that gets to help me start my day. I am jealous of every smile you give to every boy that is not me. You say you are jealous of the moon that gets to say goodnight to me. I am jealous of every boy who plants a kiss on your cheek. I am envious of every boy who gets to have the chance to hear your voice. I am envious of everyone who is able to make you laugh.

Time passes and each second has me wishing I could be there to hold you in my arms. You fear that I do not love you. If I feel agony and jealousy at the thoughts of some other boys being in your presence, what would you call that? I am entirely devoted to you, Rosalie. I have derived such an immense pleasure from your last two letters, that the slightest chance of breaking your heart would lead me to my own demise.

With each letter you send, my admiration for you grows stronger and stronger. If the emotions you incite in me seem bigger than my heart can contain, what would you call that? If the thought of something devastating happening to you – which I have banished from my mind – may kill me since you are so far away and I cannot protect you, what would you call that?

If your absence causes me this much pain, what would you call that? I have suffered these years along with my desire for you, and I would suffer a thousand more just to discover more beautiful things about you.

You have absorbed my entire being, Rosalie. Fear not, you have me completely.

Love, your Edward.

P.S. I am glad you liked the necklace.

P.P.S. Who is Mark?

~!&!~

"They say you are to be engaged," Alice Brandon said, fingering the coats hanging in the closet.

"They say a lot of things." Jasper threw the scotch down his throat, and fought the urge to grimace at the burn of it.

They were currently in his bedchamber. After Alice had been relieved from her duties at the Swan house, she had quietly sneaked into Whitlock Manor and waited for Lord Whitlock to head to his chamber before entering Jasper's room.

"Is it true?" Alice fixed her eyes on the brown coat, avoiding the look on his face. "Are you to be engaged?"

She did not think her heart could stand the truth if she saw it in his eyes. She could barely survive the flowers he had sent to Isabella a couple of weeks ago. Though, she knew it was not Isabella's fault, she could not help the jealousy that had overcome her at the sight of it. At the ripe age of five and twenty, she had never acted like such a child before.

She had been ashamed of her behavior that night when she returned to her quarters. The love she held for him in her heart had burned her with torment and she had wept out her shame and uncertainties on her pillow.

"Father is thinking of it," he answered simply, watching the flames burn the vestiges of wood at the fireplace.

"And what are you thinking of?" she whispered in a small voice, that was barely audible. The fear of losing him was too hard to bear, and her bones quaked at the thought.

She heard the sound of his footsteps approach and stop just within an inch from her. He leaned forward, so that she could feel his breath caress the shell of her ear.

"I am thinking of you," he whispered, his hands wrapping around her waist. "I only think of you." He planted a kiss on her nape, enjoying the way her creamy skin felt under his lips.

Alice closed her eyes. "They will take you away from me," she said, the sadness evident in her tone. "And then I–"

"Hush." Jasper tilted her face with an index finger so he could see her face. "No one can take me away from you." He placed a soft kiss on her nose. "I am all yours."

Any further protests were swallowed by the kiss he stole from her lips.

July, 1901

Summer was here, along with its vibrant sun, its merry butterflies, its green fields, and the ladies basking in the delight of its season. The soirees, tea parties, musicals, picnic suppers and card parties were thrown in abundance, as was the norm, for the time of year.

It was also a season rich in suitors. The Whitlock family had been sending gifts, and other accessories, so that they might gain the favor of the Swans. Jasper – under the pretext of the rule that stated engaged couples should not be seen with one another – had not sought out Isabella's company, at all.

And Isabella had been happy with that; save for the gossip columns that had claimed that she and Jasper were engaged, when they were not. But of course, when she had voiced her discomfort about the situation, her mother had brushed it off, saying, "The sooner it happens, the better."

Mark had clearly hidden his acquaintance with her under the guise of being Rosalie's cousin. Considering Rosalie and Isabella were best friends, it was not unusual for him to be seen with them.

But this changed, one day, when Mark barged into one of the rooms at Swan Manor.

Isabella's governess was conducting the duet between Rosalie, who played the cello, and Isabella, who played the violin. Strings of both instruments exuded the beautiful music piece named Passacaglia by Handel, when they were interrupted by Mark's abrupt arrival.

He appeared at the door, breathing furiously as if he had ran all the way to the room, with one of the kitchen maids standing beside him.

"I'm sorry Lady Isabella. 'E would not allow me to announce 'is introduction to 'ye first, before 'e reached 'ere," the maid said.

"It is okay, Felicity," Isabella waved her off.

"Mark, what are you doing here?" Rosalie asked in bewilderment.

"I came to see Isabella," he replied. "Isabella," his eyes switched to her. "I have something I want to say to you."

Isabella dropped her violin onto her lap.

"What is this nonsense?" her governess asked, with distaste in her voice. "We are in the middle of a lesson here, young man."

"It will only take a second," Mark said.

"Well, get on with it," the governess retorted.

"Isabella, marry me," he blurted out.

The sound of a cello bow hitting the floor resonated through the room, and a muttered curse was the last thing heard before a deadly silence fell upon them.

Thank you for reading! As always, let me know your thoughts.