Chapter Eight: Henry Higgins's Head

Author's note: Three cheers for a mass update! Undoubtedly, my beta should be studying, but she is fixing my mistakes instead. Let's hear it for Lady Weasleyy!

That damned pup! Couldn't he be arrested for loitering? Henry Higgins was not pleased. There was a farce playing out in front of his eyes, and it was threatening to tear his carefully constructed composure to shreds. Every night, Freddy Eynsford-Hill would be outside of 27A, leaning against a lamp post, staring up into Eliza's bedroom window with an idiotic hang dog expression on his face. The only pleasure Henry got from the mess, was that Eliza steadfastly refused to give in to such romantic nonsense. Henry knew this as a fact, because he would stay up long into the night, watching Freddy, waiting for Eliza to come running into the boy's eager arms. She never did.

"That's my girl," Henry thought, proudly. He promptly cursed himself for referring to Eliza as his girl. She was most assuredly not his, and he was too damned old to entertain such notions.

If only she had been twenty-two back when Henry was young and foolish. He had written sheets and sheets for one particular woman. A woman he would have gladly killed for, until she had bitterly disappointed him. It pained him even now to think how quickly he had kicked that woman's pedestal from under her. She probably didn't even know she had been standing on one. If only Eliza could've been there in that woman's stead. Eliza would have appreciated the moronically romantic Henry of yore. He wagered that she would not even be able to recognize him. No matter. Henry was who he was now, and it was too late in the game to change.

Still, he couldn't help but feel that evil demon called Jealousy as he observed his rivals' youth. What was the matter with Eliza, that she wasn't throwing herself at such external beauty? Didn't young, silly things tend to gravitate towards other young, silly things?

If she were truly silly, you wouldn't be up right now, agonizing over that inferior boy. Henry's conscience had a point. He had long ceased thinking of Eliza as the ignoramus she'd once seemed. Frankly, Henry was in awe of Eliza. Her rough speech truly belied the formidable strength of her mind. Once Henry had succeeded in tearing away whatever had been holding Eliza back, the rest had flown from her like a river undammed. She had stumbled during Ascot, but that was not the end of world. Henry had been thoroughly amused by the incident, despite himself. Eliza had not been amused, but she had recovered from her mortification quite beautifully. Henry recalled , with a smile, the evening after the Ascot affair.

During dinner that night, Pickering had been swearing up and down that the experiment was over, and Eliza was pale and wane. Henry skillfully pretended that he could not hear a word Pickering was saying. Eventually, the older man's protests got quite tiresome. Henry set his knife and fork down with a sigh, and turned to Eliza.

"And what of you, Eliza? Are you ready to give up everything we've worked for because of one slip-up?" Her eyes met his. For the first time, he noticed how exhausted she appeared. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, contrasting startlingly with the white pallor of her face. Henry began to feel just a little bit ashamed of himself for how hard he had been driving the girl. The guilt faded when it occurred to him that, although her body was tired, her eyes were burning with a determined fire that matched his own.

Wordlessly, Henry reached over the table, took one of Eliza's delicate hands and squeezed it gently. "No. I daresay we shall continue, Pickering," Henry spoke, his gaze never averting from Eliza's. They were true allies at last.

At least, they had been united in their effort until that blasted Freddy Eynsford-Hill and his foolish letter. The incident had aroused dark feelings within Henry, and he abhorred having jealousy imposed upon him. Freddy's early nonsensical verses had been nothing more than an amusement. They were non-threatening to Henry's world. Nothing more than the ramblings of a child trying to reach far above his grasp. But that letter.

Henry truly felt that Eliza's sincere naiveté had prevented him from doing something they both would regret that night. Never mind her willingness to succumb to his possessiveness, it should not have progressed that far. Eliza was truly a good girl, and he would have only frightened her with the reality of what he had wanted to do to her. He would have showed her the things Freddy promised in that letter, and he would have done it with a skill befitting his age and experience.

That ridiculous expression on Eliza's face as she waited for Henry's kisses! Denying his primal urges in regards to her had been a good decision. He had been a fool to believe her anything but chaste and pure. Callous as Henry could be, he could not be a destroyer of innocence. Eliza deserved so much more.

Henry realized he was quite tired. The next day would be hectic, as the night would bring the Embassy Ball. He shot one final glare at Freddy Eynsford-Hill before retiring.

Henry was always devilishly uncomfortable in evening wear. He wanted his old trousers and jumper, not the restricting black strait-jacket that fools referred to as 'fashionable'. Pickering was in top erratic form, flitting about with a never-ending tumbler of port in his hand. Henry must have turned down an offering of spirits at least three times during the past half hour.

Finally, Eliza appeared at the top of the stairs. Henry held his breath as she descended. His creation, floating down the stairs on wings he had meticulously constructed for her over the past half year. She was truly magnificent. A vision of womanhood.

He would have that glass of port after all.