A/N: For Pree.

Disclaimer: Yeah, I still don't own this.

Quick recap of last chapter: Isabella visited Alice, with Rosalie, Edward and Jane (Edward's cousin). Jasper was preparing to go for war in the Philippines. And Edward played the Moonlight Sonata for Isabella.

The Delicate Dance

Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire – George Bernard Shaw

~o~

Isabella stood in front of the French windows in the Swan drawing room, glancing at a young couple—a gentleman and a beautiful lady with blond hair that glimmered brightly under the sun—through the parted curtains. Her eyes watched the gentleman's fingers flit through his hair in a quick gesture that exhibited his anxiety toward addressing the lady he followed. The young lady sauntered through the garden, swinging her red parasol, seemingly oblivious to the anxious man behind her.

"Oh, he has been in love with her for years, Renée. At first, I thought it was nothing but an infatuation. However, that proved not to be the case," said Esme Cullen to Isabella's mother. "Edward could never start his day without a word from her, especially on the day he knew the post would arrive."

Esme and Renée sat behind Isabella, farther into the room. They had been conversing about some matters that had happened in each other's absences. Currently, their conversation was about Edward and the letters he had received from Rosalie when he was in England.

"If Scarlet were here to see this, I am sure that even she would consider their match to be very agreeable," replied Renée.

Isabella had thought her mother's opinion to be absolutely wrong, for she had never seen such an uncongenial couple before. Surely, they might have been agreeable in their handsomeness; if love had been all about beauty, they would have been suitably matched. But it was not.

"We were afraid,"—the volume of Renée's voice reduced slightly—"that Rosalie, especially without the correct guidance, would take after her mother. She is—in so many ways—so much like Scarlet; her beauty, her countenance, her behavior. Poor Richard did not know what to do with her when her mother left."

"It must have been difficult for him," said Esme. "She bears a striking resemblance to Scarlet. He must have been constantly reminded of the woman who broke his heart—by running to Europe with that poet—every time he looked at Rosalie. We had always known Scarlet to have a bit of Bohemian blood in her, and though Richard loved her dearly, it was not enough to make her stay."

"No, how could it? Scarlet never married for love and she resented a life that expected her to follow rules. She had always loathed being told what to do, and she often considered the prospect of being a lady as some sort of confinement. She could have done so very well for herself."

"At least, I suppose she is happy wherever she is. She followed her heart and that is what matters," said Esme. She had always been fond of romances, mainly because she, herself, had been fortunate enough to marry for love. It had been one of those very rare cases at the time. Esme claimed that she had very much fallen for her husband's charm before he ever gathered the courage to propose. And no one had objected, for wealth and prospects were on Carlisle's side during their engagement.

Her friend, on the other hand, had married without love and had grown to love her husband, Charlie. Renée was a firm believer that marriage could progress to love, especially if it was the right union. And such a union was created by family decisions. For only a family could find a suitable match for their child.

Renée's eyes flashed. "Yes, and look what it cost her: her child! She had no money, Esme. For heaven's sake, he was a poet! And not a very good one if I recall correctly. Richard had the income to sustain a family. He had the assets and he loved her, such a rare combination and she callously and selfishly threw them away." She paused. "It had surprised me when she left her child, but when one thinks about it, Rosalie was probably better off with Richard. It is a miracle to know that she is in love with your son. With Rose's wild behavior, one would have never guessed that she was keeping her heart for Edward." Renée placed her tea cup on her saucer.

"Yes, I, too, was unaware that she returned his affections, save for when the letters had arrived," said Esme, "I still remember the way his eyes lit up when he ran to my room, claiming that Rosalie had finally responded to his letters. Bless that boy! I am surprised it took him this long to propose. It was the very first thing he had insisted on doing when he arrived here."

Isabella's despairing gaze was still fixed on the couple outside the window. No one heard her heart shatter to a million pieces, though she was sure the noise was deafening. She had thought, a few days ago, when Edward had played the piano for her in this very room, close to this very window, that he had recognized her. That he had known that it was him she was talking about that very night.

And yet he had not, for he had kept a distance between them since that night. Not once had he spoken to her. Even when she had tried to catch his eyes, he had been swift to either leave the room or engage himself in a discourse with Madam Willborough, who usually had very little about which to converse. Isabella had questioned what she had done to deserve this cruel indifference on his part.

However, there were more important matters that tugged on her heartstrings. Isabella knew she could not withstand the notion of Edward marrying Rosalie. With that thought, she excused herself from the parlor abruptly and rushed to meet the couple in the garden.

~o~

Rosalie Hale opened her parasol to protect herself from the rays of the sun as she walked through the garden.

They had all been sitting in the parlor, drinking tea while Jane entertained them with a few piano pieces. Isabella had been awfully quiet, distancing herself from the rest of the occupants in the room, sketching what Rosalie had thought to be another statue sitting on the mantel. Not that she possessed a modicum of interest in whatever Isabella drew in that book of hers.

Edward had been in the very same condition as well, save for the fact that he, instead, had watched his cousin play the piano with an intense admiration. He had surreptitiously glanced in Isabella's direction during intervals, but his gaze had quickly reverted back to Jane, though his attention failed to recover completely.

Conversely, Rosalie had been completely oblivious to the tension that stretched between the two. She had been engaged in a discourse between Lady Swan and Lady Cullen, though her mind often wandered to thoughts of Mark and Royce's return from New York. So she had been completely caught off guard when she found Edward standing in front of her, immediately—and almost abruptly—requesting her company for a walk outside.

She had agreed, and they found themselves walking in utter silence.

"Rosalie," Edward said behind her, and she turned to look at him. "If I am not permitted with the chance to do this now, I fear that I may never gather the courage to do it again. And it is of great importance that I seek your permission to liberate my feelings, for it is indeed quite suffocating.

"When we were children, I must admit that my admiration for you was merely based on your beauty alone. For how could one not see those," —Rosalie watched him swallow and close his eyes before he proceeded— "beautiful eyes and not be bewitched by their beauty? However, since we exchanged letters during these past years, I have never felt closer to anyone than I have to you." Edward took her gloved hand carefully, and the pad of his thumb ran over the back of her hand tenderly in circles. "I have kept you in my heart for the longest time, Rosalie, and I can wait no longer.

"Never have I felt such a burning, intense passion for anything in my life—including medicine—as I have felt for you. I beg of you to release me from my agony and marry me. I need you more than anything else."

Rosalie's hazel eyes flickered to his thumb as it rested on top of her hand. Then, her gaze moved to the window of the Swan Manor, where she was certain Isabella was standing at that very moment. The weight of Edward's words and the gravity of the feelings he had expressed left her confused and curious as to what exactly Isabella had written to Edward under her name.

She looked at the gentleman before her, who was proclaiming his love to her. Edward's green eyes held a fierceness that she could not describe with words. His hand felt firm on her gloved, feminine one. He was tall, lean and he possessed very handsome features that had women wishing he was offering for them. He was also the first person whom she had considered to seem noble and honest in his declarations of love, for Edward had confessed that he had fallen for her beauty at first. However, a feeling of disappointment dampened her thoughts, for he had also claimed to have fallen more for her letters.

The letters which she did not write. The letters Isabella had written to him.

But Edward could provide an escape from her father—from her prison. He had wealth that she was sure could sustain her for the rest of her life. And, if indeed he possessed such strong feelings for her, he would ensure that she was properly taken care of for the rest of her life when she became his wife.

Rosalie's thoughts traveled to Isabella. Isabella had never claimed to have any sort of feelings for Edward, so she certainly would not object to their betrothal. After all, she had been the one to instigate this situation. But what if Isabella carried great affection for Edward?

Love was a disease, a mental illness that forced people to do unspeakable things. It was an emotion that destroyed relationships. Perhaps Isabella would consider it a favor if she was able to realize, without disappointment or embarrassment, that Edward did not care for her any longer. And, if he did indeed care for Isabella, he should have been able to recognize who wrote the letters.

For all they knew, Rosalie was saving them from a devastating occurrence.

Rosalie smiled beguilingly at the gentleman that stood before her, looking at her with hopeful eyes. "Edward," said she, in a tone that was considered flirtatious and sweet. "I am so very honored that you have asked me to spend the rest of my life with you. I have waited as long as you have, you see. I fear that if I waited any longer, I would have become indisposed. My heart can only bear so much. However, I hope you can wait for my answer at the ball tonight." Her gloved hand moved to his face and caressed his cheek, the same way his thumb had stroked her hand affectionately.

Rosalie's thumb grazed slightly over Edward's lip, and she smiled devilishly when his mouth opened slightly. "Perhaps if you are able to find me first at the masked ball tonight, then we shall know that fate led you to me."

Edward took her hand gently from his face and planted a kiss on it. "Very well, my love."

"Rosalie!" Isabella's voice tore through the intimate moment that passed between the couple.

Both of them turned toward the house to find Isabella holding up her skirts as she ran to them.

"Dearest friend," Rosalie said sweetly when Isabella had reached them. "Why on earth are you running as if you are in danger? Is anything the matter?" She removed her hand from Edward's affectionate grasp and brushed a damp piece of wayward hair hanging over Isabella's forehead.

Isabella, who had left the manor abruptly on impulse, had failed to come up with an excuse as to why she was calling her friend's name.

"A lady does not run, Isabella, unless she is in danger of her life being taken away from her," continued Rosalie.

"Forgive me," Isabella said, panting and mortified at the fact that Edward had captured sight of her in an unladylike moment. There was no way she could ever convince him now that she was more beautiful than Rosalie.

With that thought, her gaze traveled to him in search of any trace that he had proposed to Rosalie. Edward's eyes fixed on hers intensely for a moment—but the moment was swift and left quickly before she could even get lost in it.

"You must excuse me, ladies. I have an engagement that I ought to get to," said Edward, and then he was gone, walking away from them and back to the manor.

Isabella watched Edward leave with a great sadness. His avoidance almost brought tears to her eyes. She looked at his retreating figure with a sense that she had just lost a part of herself—as if he had physically cut off one of her limbs and carried it away with him.

"Isabella, is there something you would like me to do for you?" Rosalie asked her, regaining her friend's attention.

"I—" Isabella's voice faltered. "My mother would like to speak to you regarding the masked ball this evening." The lie escaped her lips.

"And she could not send a maid?" asked Rosalie, with a small shake of her head. "Come then, we must return to the drawing room."

~o~

Isabella held the ruffles of her blue satin brocade gown as she made her way along the curved staircase that led to the ballroom. Rows of lace, pleats and ruffles curled behind her and followed her through the large oak doors. On her face was a Venetian Mask—simple but elegant—that outlined her brown eyes with gold jewels.

Isabella's gaze flickered around the room. Laughter, voices engaged in light conversations and classical music intertwined together, filling the atmosphere. Ladies in dresses with jewel tone colors of satin swayed with gentlemen in black waistcoats and trousers. Every face was hidden with a mask.

"Rosalie?" A soft, velvet tone called out.

And though she did not need assurance to know that it was Edward, Isabella's eyes still sought him out in the parted crowd. He was dressed in an impeccable black suit, just as every other gentleman present in the ballroom, but his body and his voice defined his distinction.

Isabella unabashedly entertained the thought of acquiring her best friend's identity for a moment. After all, she was certain that Edward would be unable to tell the difference, considering the fact that her face was hidden behind a mask. However, her hair was not. The brunette strands wavered slightly with each movement of her head behind the aigrettes that swooped from the top center of the mask. A great disappointment compared to the blond hair of her best friend.

Edward had not said a word to her in days and if all it took was for him to address her as Rosalie, she would consider it. All these years, she had hidden behind that name and loved him, what more could one night of pretense do?

Isabella had almost forgotten the direction of her thoughts when Edward took off his mask.

"The blue is absolutely stunning," he added, his eyes roaming over her figure. "And it is, as of now, my favorite color." He smiled, picking up her right hand and placing a kiss at the back of it.

Her heartbeat stuttered. She could no longer go with the affectation, for she feared that she would question what he would have said had he been aware that it was her and not Rosalie. Would blue still be his favorite color? Would his countenance still hold that great affection as it did now? The torment was too much to bear.

So, she quickly rushed to reveal her identity before he could proceed with more declarations. "I'm afraid it is Isabella. I have no idea of Rosalie's whereabouts at the moment," she said earnestly.

"Oh, please do forgive me, then." He bowed in front of her. "It's easy to be mistaken amongst this sea of masks."

Her gaze traveled around the brightly lit room, avoiding the disappointment that she was certain shadowed his countenance at the moment.

"Will you please oblige me with a dance?" Edward asked. "I fear I am without a partner and it will be a great pleasure to have this next dance with you."

His request returned her gaze back to him and his smile momentarily dazzled her into an accord.

"Of course." She swallowed, taking his proffered arm and following him to the center of the ballroom.

~o~

Edward bowed in front of the lady before him and watched her sink into a low curtsy. He opened his left hand and Isabella's soft, gloved hand slipped into it, like honey melting in tea, while her arm settled on his shoulder. They both began to waltz slowly, gliding across the parquet floors under the crystal chandeliers amidst other dancing couples.

Isabella tried with great effort not to concentrate on the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder. To quell her anxiety, she decided to engage Edward in a conversation.

"It is a very lovely evening." A sincere smile brightened her countenance.

"Yes, it is." Edward returned the smile, his gaze moving swiftly across the brightly illuminated room.

"All these people came here just to see you."

"You think so?" he asked in faux astonishment. "I highly doubt it. I assume they are here mostly for the wine and the host."

"Oh, no, I think not. Everyone has come to see the handsome Englishman," said Isabella, pronouncing the last word with a British accent.

Edward laughed. "Well, technically, I'm not English. I'm American. An American who stayed in England for—"

"—almost six years." Isabella blushed at the realization of completing his sentence.

"Surely, six years hardly turns an American into English. Besides Americans mostly think the English are snobbish, stuck-up, cold—"

"Slightly different from Americans, yes. Nevertheless, that hardly makes you a dull aristocratic gentleman in the midst of these fine, young men here."

"Do you consider me English?" asked Edward, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"A little," she replied honestly when she thought of the slight British accent he had acquired over the years. Their gazes held each other for a moment before Isabella went on. "But you cannot tell me you have not been reading the papers."

She noticed a couple of girls standing at the left corner of the room, staring in their direction. Isabella was highly certain they were not interested in her gown but in the man with whom she danced with.

Edward followed her gaze. "The ladies will be disappointed," he said, before bringing his gaze back to her. "I have no desires to ask any of them to marry me. I have already given myself to another."

Isabella almost lost her footing but quickly regained her balance with the support of Edward's arm. Her cheeks flamed at the embarrassment of doing so during the waltz and in front of guests.

"I'm afraid," she said, confused. "I fail to understand what you mean." The words tumbled out of her mouth as they both slowly stopped dancing.

They were standing in the middle of the ballroom with elegantly dressed couples circling around them. Isabella failed to notice any of the occupants in the room apart from the man whose green eyes were staring at her with an expression of guilt written in them.

"Isabella, I have to tell you—"

"Oh, look what we have here." Rosalie's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "Isn't this lovely?" she continued, removing her silver Venetian mask. Her bright red décolletage satin gown swayed with each movement, capturing gazes of the people in the room. Mark Wallace and Royce King stood behind her like two statues. Royce appeared to be apathetic but suddenly displayed an interest when he noticed Edward's presence while Mark turned away, avoiding Isabella as if she were a plague.

"I must say," Rosalie carried on, oblivious to the sudden discomfort that suddenly appeared on Edward's countenance. "I was certain that you would find Isabella at the ball first. Perhaps she is the one you ought to marry." She smiled, folding her arms across her chest. "Unfortunately, he has already chosen me, fate be damned." She walked closer to Edward, her gloved hand resting on his cheek while Isabella watched.

"You are marrying Rose?" Isabella's words came out in a whisper tangled with shock and sadness.

"Yes," Rosalie replied, not sparing her best friend a glance, but looking at her future husband. "He asked me to marry him this afternoon in the garden. It was a delightful proposal, which I have now decided to accept."

Edward's gaze met Isabella's and he shot her a pleading look. "You must forgive me. I had intended to tell you before Rosalie…" he trailed off, unable to complete his sentence.

"Had I known you would be surprised, I would have told you earlier myself. After all, you were aware of how deeply I felt for Edward especially with all those letters I wrote to him."

"I suppose…" Isabella's throat had closed up. An avalanche of feelings rushed through her. "Congratulations on your betrothal. Please, you must allow me to be excused," she said and then departed from them abruptly.

~o~

Isabella's feet darted as fast they could along the curved staircase. She was certain that if she had left an audience watching her, they were sure to regard such behavior as uncouth. Her mother was definitely going to reproach her for that display, but Isabella could hardly bring herself to care.

She held her gown and ran down the long hallway that led to her bedroom, as she had once run when Edward sent a letter to her for the very first time. She was sure that if her dear friend, Alice, were present, she would have been shouting after her. And for once, Isabella wished she was.

She opened the doors to her room and closed them behind her. Her back pressed against them as, finally, tears rolled down her face. Isabella had thought it impossible for her heart to feel heavier than it did when Edward had paid no attention to her these past few days. However, the news of their betrothal seemed to add a few bricks on it. She felt heavy with a certain kind of grief—as if a part of her had died. And perhaps it had. The part that had hoped that Edward would realize that he loved her and not Rosalie had died the moment he had proposed to Rosalie.

Isabella moved to the table beside her bed. Trembling, she took out her treasured sketchbook to find the drawings she had once made of Edward. The dark lines she had drawn of his face brought no comfort. She fell to her knees, the book landing on the floor beside her and reached under her bed to pull out the box of letters she had hidden, but she found only an empty, opened box. Fear gripped her and she wondered if she had mistakenly pushed the letters out of the box in her search. So Isabella reached back under the bed, but still found nothing.

Realization dawned on her heavily.

Rosalie had taken Edward, and now she had taken the letters, too.

I just want to thank Mrs Boyscout, TwiDi, Phoenixhunter47 and Regina for pre-reading, editing and offering suggestions. And I especially want to thank Sandi for her awesome beta work on this chapter.

Thank you dear readers for your patience and for reading and reviewing. I'm really sorry for the wait on this.

Let me know what you think.