Elizabeth would have quite enjoyed the waltz had she not been pretending to be someone else. Fitzwilliam wanted her. Elizabeth knew her husband well enough to know when he wanted her. It filled Elizabeth with both gratification and fury. Her husband wanted her, not as herself, but as a loose facsimile of a goddess of lust.
Elizabeth rubbed her fingers on her husband's shoulder, shifting her weight to brush her hip over his hardness. So be it, if he wished a mistress, he would have one.
Elizabeth was, in this moment, a novelty.
Except Fitzwilliam did not stay focused on her. With each third turn his attention strayed. Elizabeth, facing him, could not see where his gaze went until they turned. And even so, the ballroom had grown crowded, and Elizabeth, not knowing which woman he sought, could not determine the object of Fitzwilliam's affection.
Or perhaps, she had been mistaken. Fitzwilliam wanted her, but made repeated protests that he was married.
And heavens, despite everything, she wanted him.
Elizabeth’s wig shifted. She would have reached up to adjust it, but the waltz bound her hands.
Darcy stared at her nape. "Are you certain we are not acquainted?"
Elizabeth’s heart clenched. She held her breath, glad the mask hid her expression. She had been grateful to learn Mr. Edwards was in town and attending the ball. She told him of her plan to meet her husband in costume, sharing nothing of her suspicions of her husband’s mistress; and, in the spirit of fun, Mr. Edwards had agreed to accompany her and “introduce” her to Mr. Darcy as his companion.
Now, Elizabeth’s plan did not seem so well formed. She tilted her head, hoping her hair would fall back into place, or at the least Fitzwilliam would interpret the movement as a response.
They danced. He pulled her closer. "You do not trust your husband then," Darcy said, the muscles in his jaw clenching.
Fitzwilliam knew. And he was angry. Understandably angry, if there was no mistress. Elizabeth wanted to pull away, but if she ran mid-dance, it would only make things worse. His hand cupped her waist, and he pulled her closer.
Elizabeth said, "All men crave novelty.” Mrs. Dorset’s words echoed back at her, and Elizabeth questioned herself. The letter was from a lady, but what if it was not a mistress? Then it was Elizabeth who had betrayed her husband. She asked, “What is a wife to believe when her husband leaves three times in as many months with no explanation?”
He pulled her closer, lowering his lips to her ear, teasing the lobe with his tongue. Yes. He knew. Elizabeth could not breathe. His teasing was gentle, but his hands on her were firm. She shifted, trying to put some space between them, but he held her fast.
Elizabeth wanted to melt into him. She wished to take him to another room and have him take her, as though this ruse was a sensual game. His breath whispered over her ear. "Alas, I would never betray my sweet, innocent wife with one such as you.” His voice was harsh, possessive and angry. Why had she not done this before, seduced him as another woman?
“Fitz—!” Heat built in her core. Let him think this was a game.
The dance ended. Fitzwilliam let her go. Taking a step back, he bowed.
What was he looking at? Her husband put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her from the floor. “Wait for me.”
“Fitz—?”
“Stay here.” Without waiting for a response, Fitzwilliam let go and strode into the crowd. Elizabeth flushed, the fury churning in her guts. She was not a dog to be ordered about.
Elizabeth’s fears of a mistress had eased, but what had made her husband leave so abruptly? Fitzwilliam was still hiding something.
She noted her husband’s direction and followed.
What if “Philippa” was not a stranger, but a sign Lydia and Mr. Wickham had brought trouble to their door again? Fitzwilliam would not "burden" Elizabeth with such a thing, though Elizabeth felt she should not leave it to her husband alone to carry the burden of Elizabeth's poor relations. She knew Fitzwilliam gave Lydia and Wickham occasional loans, which all knew would never be paid back. But the letter Elizabeth held had not been in Lydia's looped script. Nor had she rambled off on tangents, which was her habit in correspondence.
No, “Philippa” was not Lydia.
The press of other partygoers made movement through the crowd difficult. Elizabeth’s suggestive costume and lack of female companion drew stares, and she had to sidestep one young man's attempt to intercept her and ask for a dance. As Elizabeth wound through the other revelers, she lost sight of Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth hugged her arms over her chest, wishing she had a fan. The wig was hot and the mask sticky in her hand. Perfume and sweat mingled in the thick air.
Where was her husband?
The ballroom had four entrances, each raised at the top of five stairs. Elizabeth moved towards the closest. The landing was clear. There she could catch her breath and, if the heavens allowed, find her husband in the crowd below. She might also see for whom Fitzwilliam had abandoned her, and confront him about it after.
She pushed through the crowd and climbed the stairs. Taking a breath of the cooler air, she looked out over the floor.
There were too many people. A young, raven-haired woman, her arm linked with a man in a priest’s costume, climbed the stairs.
The young woman said, "Let us stay here." Her frock was brightly colored and low cut, almost revealing the crest of her nipple.
The man said, "It is still warm here. If we visit the gardens, we will be more comfortable." As he passed, Elizabeth whiffed the distinct scent of spirits. Whiskey.
The woman pulled at a glittering braid. Elizabeth recognized by the gesture that this woman was younger than her curves and costume suggested.
Where was her chaperone?
It was not Elizabeth’s affair, but glancing at the couple, the hairs on Elizabeth's arms rose. This gentleman was tall and well formed in his priestly vestments, but his hair was touched with silver, and if the lady was as young as Elizabeth suspected, that meant he was at best twice her years. The way his hand rested on her forearm, his index finger stroking the patch of bare skin between her glove and sleeve, was not the gesture of a brother or friend.
The young woman began, "I am not—"
The man leaned towards her and smiled, "Come along. I have a treat for you." He pulled her forward, and after a moment’s hesitation, she followed.
Elizabeth did not like this. "Pardon me?" Elizabeth called out, but neither paid her any mind. Perhaps they did not hear.
The man leaned towards the girl, slipping something into her hand. She giggled.
Elizabeth glanced back over the ballroom for her husband, but the young lady weighed on her mind. Perhaps he was a family friend, but the gentleman had taken liberties.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy had stepped outside for some air. It would only take a few minutes to check, and Elizabeth could check on the young lady with the glittering braids as well.
Elizabeth stepped into the hall. It was lit at three feet intervals by flickering candles. Ahead, the double doors to the gardens were open, and beyond them, someone laughed. The doors were a fair distance away, at the end. They were not so close Elizabeth should have lost sight of the young woman and her priest companion. Elizabeth walked down the hallway. Every six feet or so along the walls was an alcove, either with a set of doors or covered with curtains.
As Elizabeth walked, a sense of fear came over her again. She passed a curtained alcove and heard a muffled whimper.
"Quiet!"
Elizabeth dashed to the curtain and pulled it open.
The man in priest’s clothes jerked back, his hand still on the young lady’s hip. Her lips were reddened, and she shook.
"What is this?" Elizabeth demanded, though she understood well enough. “She is a child!”
“Hardly a child. No child would be here, and no young lady of proper breeding would be without a chaperone.” In close quarters, the distinct odor of spirits cloyed. This lecher was well in his cups and taking advantage. Elizabeth would not have that.
“She is under my care. Step away,” Elizabeth said.
"You misunderstand. We were playing a game, right, Miss Wilde?" The left side of his lips turned up in a sneer. The mask hid his eyes, but Elizabeth did not need to see his eyes to know he lied. Elizabeth walked to the young lady and held out her hand. "Come with me."
The young woman looked from Elizabeth to the lecher, who now blocked their exit. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. He would not attempt to overcome the both of them so close to the main ballroom. Elizabeth would scream and help would come. He must know that.
Except he was inebriated. A sober man would have recognized the precariousness of his position. In the close confines of the alcove, the stench of spirits on his breath was overpowering. He could do Elizabeth and this young woman harm before another intervened to help them.
The horrid man’s gaze rested on Elizabeth's throat and downwards, sweeping over her bosom. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "We were having some fun," the man said.
Gripping the girl’s hand, Elizabeth backed away, her back flush to the curved alcove wall. Plasterwork leaves dug into her skin. "Leave!" Elizabeth shouted. Her voice cracked.
He took a flask from his coat and drank down a long pull. “No,” he said, breathing out a long sigh. “I dislike how you stare at me. It was only a kiss, and she enjoyed it."
Elizabeth screamed.