The Muse

by Jessi

Chapters 11-15

Chapter 11

For the last time, Elizabeth stood alone in the center of Studio B as William Darcy frowned into his notebook. She knew it was the last time because he only had twenty seconds left of the music to choreograph.

“Let's begin,” William said, dropping the notebook down on the chair and walking towards her. “I need to get this thing finished today.”

He stopped in front of her and half-smiled. “I'll bet you're happy.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow in an ambiguous reply. She was happy. After Charlotte's comment yesterday, Elizabeth just wanted these rehearsals to end and to distance herself from William before she became universally hated by all in the company.

William began explaining the final steps of the piece, which crescendoed in contrast to the sedate fade of violins. The phrase began with en dedans piqué turn into his arms that stretched out into an arabesque, before a final jump and supported lift. The problem was that all of these steps were done on one leg only- the leg that had been bothering Elizabeth for some weeks.

She executed the turn stiffly, and couldn't bend her knee before the jump without wincing.

“Plié more before the jump,” William told her.

Elizabeth tried, and grimaced. Letting go of her, William stared down at her ankle, his face grave.

“How long has that been bothering you?”

“What?”

“Don't be coy. Your ankle.”

“My ankle is fine.”

“Okay, then plié more before the jump.”

Glaring at him, she tried the step again. She didn't wince this time, but William caught her jaw stiffen as she tried to suppress the bite of pain to her Achilles. Again, he let her go. William let a long moment pass between them, frowning into her face. Elizabeth merely stared unemotionally at the wall.

“Go stretch it out,” he said, before returning to the chair at the front and opening his notebook.

Elizabeth remained still. Then, she sunk to the floor, kicked out her leg, grabbed her toes, and stretched the aching tendon. Her face grew hot. Refusing to look up, she studied the stitching of her tights. She felt his eyes on her.

“So, you're going to the Gala with Colin what's-his-name?” he asked suddenly.

Elizabeth looked up and frowned, unsure how to answer that question, or whether it was even appropriate.

“I'm not,” she replied in a guarded tone.

William broke into a sardonic smile. “Ah, but he was so confident that you would go with him.”

“I have no clue what would lead him to believe that. Would you, Mr. Darcy?”

“Knowing you, I'm sure there's some double meaning behind that statement. But, no, I don't know why he would think that.”

Elizabeth yanked harder at her toes, relishing the burn in her calves and thighs. Knowing you, she thought bitterly.

“You're not going with anyone then?” he asked casually.

Elizabeth smiled. “I am going with someone, in fact. Greg Wickham.”

His face fell perceptibly. It was the revenge she'd wanted, and Elizabeth looked back down at her tights to conceal the smirk on her lips. She kept stretching, but the silence continued. Glancing up, Elizabeth caught William staring over to the windows, his forehead creased in anxiety. Her revenge lost its sweetness.

Elizabeth kept her gaze on his, hoping he would look back at her with challenge flashing in his eyes. William just rubbed his mouth, and continued to frown at nothing. He stood sharply. Following his back with her eyes, Elizabeth felt her stomach sink.

“From the beginning,” he mumbled, his back towards her as he cued the music. “Be careful with your ankle.”

Standing, Elizabeth looked down to the tips of her pointe shoes and muttered a curse under her breath. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the guilt bubbling inside of her. Somehow, it was easier when he struck back. Elizabeth wondered whether she should apologize, but laughed at the thought. Apologize for what? For going to the Gala with Greg? Just because the two men held a grudge against each other, didn't mean it had to affect her. Besides, William was in the wrong, not Greg. There was nothing to apologize for.

William pointedly avoided eye contact as he made his way back to the center of the room. Once the music began, Elizabeth tried to focus on the steps. However, she found it difficult when William refused to respond to her. His touch was hesitant, his eyes vacant. The steps felt dead. To compensate, Elizabeth exaggerated hers even more. She became someone else, the temptress of William's pas de deux and not just some unsophisticated corps girl. Elizabeth looked at him with eyes not her own. She was sultry and provocative.

It seemed to work. About a minute into the pas de deux his eyes rested on hers. They still seemed troubled and aloof, but at least they engaged with hers now. Despite her feelings for the man, Elizabeth needed him with her when they danced. How could she perform a pas de deux otherwise?

The sudden role-reversal upset Elizabeth. William had always been the one coaxing the dance from her. It felt odd to take the lead, to know how the pas de deux should have been danced, and to have to tease it from him. She furrowed her brow, feeling her insides tremble with insecurity and frustration.

“No,” she whispered, “I need you to hold me tighter.”

William started, her criticism slapping his crisply. Then, Elizabeth felt his grasp steady under her fingers. His eyes wandered over her face, and they cleared of their disquiet. He frowned in that same severe, disapproving manner. However, the look now filled Elizabeth with relief. The William Darcy she knew had returned. They danced the remaining minutes of the piece as they always did.

Coming to the final seconds of the piece, William suddenly spoke. “Scratch that ending. After the last turn, echappé front then sousous and put your hands here.” He patted his neck.

Elizabeth complied as best as she could with the impromptu instructions. Raised up on the tips of her pointe shoes, her eyes were even with his, her arms wrapped around his neck. Now that her gaze was at his level, she started at him firmly. In the hard lines of his face, only his eyes yielded – as gray and churning as tornado clouds. The final phrases of the music filled the room, but William did nothing. He only scanned her face with those tornado-eyes.

Amidst the last trill of the violins, William edged his face to hers. Elizabeth's eyes widened in shock as his lips fell suddenly but softly down on her mouth. It was so unexpected, yet so tender. His lips moved languid and assured. As the music died, William's hands came up to cradle her face. Elizabeth's eyes were still open and she saw that his were not. Never, not in any late-night fantasy, had she anticipated such an ending. Never had she dreamt that a man's mouth could feel like that.

The CD changed to the darker Fugue in G. Pulling away, William looked at her briefly, an inexplicable color across his face, and brushed past her to stop the music. His movements were perfunctory and cold.

“That's it,” he said, returning to her. “Just echappé , sousous, and the kiss.”

It was as she thought – just dancing and nothing more. Elizabeth ran her tongue across her lips, her eyes still round. Nodding, she felt her throat become as dry as paper.

“You did the lift fine, so I think I'll finish here today. Thanks for your help.”

Nodding, Elizabeth backed out of the studio slowly, then nearly tripped on herself as she turned and strode up the hall. She stumbled down the first flight of steps, her knees wobbling. In the landing, she clutched onto the rail and stared at her trembling fingers.

“What the hell?” she whispered, just to hear her voice, just to make sure what had happened had not been a hallucination.

Trace-like and rewinding through rehearsal again, she continued back to the dressing room, the final bars of Bach swirling over and over in her head, the impression of his lips seared onto her own. Elizabeth would never forget their taste or their softness. She didn't know what to think. Even if it had been his choreography, he could have warned her. A dance step and a kiss were in two different leagues, after all. Something told her she should have been livid.

Nevertheless, in spite of all rational thought, Elizabeth could barely suppress the gasping urge to fly back up the stairs and have him do it again.

Before she could act on those feelings, she threw her clothes on, not even bothering to strip off her dance-wear, and ran out of the building, up the block, and down into the depths of the subway entrance on Columbus Circle.

**

That evening, Jane wondered at the thudding and crinkling noises coming from her sister's room. Even over the blare of Everybody Loves Raymond, she could hear Elizabeth tearing things apart. During the commercial break, Jane rose from the sofa and went to her sister's closed bedroom door. She knocked softly and let herself in.

Elizabeth sat in the middle of several boxes, their contents – from papers to old trophies and stuffed animals – sprawled across her bedroom floor. Jane raised an eyebrow.

“Should I even ask?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Jane, I promise I'll explain all of this tomorrow. Right now, I just need you to leave me alone, okay?”

Jane sensed desperation in her sister's tone. Nodding, Jane made no reply and closed the door.

After nearly an hour of going through two boxes of old stuff, Elizabeth finally hit upon the thin manila folder she had been looking for. Her frenzy died, and she pulled it from the large cardboard box in front of her, with as much reverence and anticipation as an archeologist digging up buried treasure. Opening it, she gingerly went through a stack of magazine clippings: Mikhail Baryshnikov, Darci Kistler of New York City Ballet, some nameless dancer in a gorgeous leap, the Bolshoi ballerinas lined up perfectly in the second act of Swan Lake, and then what she was looking for - Perfection, by Hermes.

It was a black and white photo of William Darcy, naked and taut, his leg straightened behind him in a rigid tendu. Half of his body was lost in shadows. His muscles rippled everywhere. A hard, sculpted calf rose to a bulge of thigh muscles rising even further to his hard gluteus. One half of his abdominals hid in darkness. The Grecian arms. His head thrown back, eyes closed in either a look of fierce concentration or of lust. His body glistening. The man was perfection. Just like the name of Hermes' cologne.

Elizabeth's heart exploded. She hadn't seen the photograph in years. She was only a girl of ten when she had first seen it, but now she could appreciate the picture through the eyes of a woman. Her breathing stopped. Finally, Elizabeth understood the commotion it had caused. Suddenly, she understood why flocks of teenage girls had, at the time, swarmed to Ballet Theater performances like groupies at a boy-band concert. William Darcy, Principal Dancer, Ballet Theater of New York, said the fine print running up the left edge of the advertisement. Elizabeth's breathing grew ragged and she touched her lips.

For a minute, for an hour, Elizabeth couldn't be sure which, she stared at the photograph. A cacophony of emotions careened through her. Such a beautiful, rotten man. But sometimes funny, sometimes tender. Oh, but so obnoxious, so arrogant. But those lips….those lips…

Elizabeth ran her tongue over her mouth, primal impulses lapping at her insides.

“No!” she whispered sharply to herself, “Are you going crazy? And now you're talking to yourself. Dammit.”

Elizabeth chuckled and closed the manila folder. Setting the Hermes ad aside, she cleaned up the mess, shoving papers and memorabilia back into the boxes. She reappeared in the living room, just in time to catch Big Brother with Jane. Her older sister made no mention of the prior scene. The two girls argued over who would get kicked out of the house that night. In the end, it was the person whom neither had expected.

The next day, Jane went to retrieve a leotard that Elizabeth had borrowed the week before. Unfolded on Elizabeth's dresser was the photo of William Darcy that her sister had taped to her bedroom wall years ago. Jane picked it up and stared at it for a moment. So William Darcy had been the source of last night's commotion. A smile curved across Jane's lips, and she left the room quietly, replacing the photo in the exact place it had been before she found it.

**

On an unseasonably warm, Sunday afternoon, when Jane had gone out to brunch with Charles and his parents, Elizabeth decided to take the subway down to the East Village as she often did. She stepped up at St. Marks Place, into a world entirely more colorful and loud than to which she was accustomed. She sauntered through the streets and avenues, window-shopping. Stopping at Veniero's, Elizabeth purchased a cannoli to-go and a coffee from a wagon set up along 1st Avenue, and ate her snack on the stoop of a red-brick building.

A belt displayed in the window of a vintage clothing boutique caught her eye, and she stopped in. The price ended up being far too high for a mere belt. About to leave, Elizabeth paused when a sparkling strap grabbed her attention. She reached her hand into the rack and pushed aside the clothes, revealing a long, black ball gown with beaded straps and neckline.

“That's a great piece,” the shop lady offered. “Just came in a couple days ago. Authentic 1940's.”

Elizabeth plucked it from the rack and sighed. The immaculate wool did not reveal the dress' age; it looked as if it had never been worn.

“It's gorgeous,” she sighed, fingering the glimmering, black beads at the collar. Her fingers edged inside the dress, and plucked out the price tag: $275. Sighing again, this time in resignation, Elizabeth tucked the tag back in. Sensing her customer's interest, the saleslady emerged from behind the register.

“This dress was handmade. All of the beads were stitched on by hand. They don't make dresses like this anymore. Really, for this price, the dress is a steal.”

Elizabeth frowned good-naturedly. “I wish I could agree with you. It's a bit out of my price range.”

Shaking her head, the saleslady smiled. “You won't say that once you try it on.” She took the dress from Elizabeth's hand and whisked her to a small dressing room in the back of the store. “Let me know if you need any help.”

Once alone, Elizabeth shrugged. Trying on didn't cost anything, after all. She slipped out of her coat and clothes, and zipped up the gown. Her eyes widened. The dress fit her like a dream. It was definitely a piece of clothing from yesteryear. Meant to be worn with a corset, it cinched in at the waist, with a gracefully scooped neckline. It hugged her hips and thighs, flaring out under her knees. Granted, because of her height, the dress trailed on the floor more than it should, but it was nothing a pair of four-inch heels wouldn't fix. Elizabeth twirled in the mirror, imagining the look on Greg's face when he saw her in a dress like this. A corset and four-inch heels. She smiled wickedly, imaging Greg's face once he got her out of the dress. The woman had been right; for $275, a dress that fit her like this was a bargain.

“How's it going in there?” the saleslady called.

Elizabeth opened the door to the dressing room, beaming. “Do you take MasterCard?”

**

Caroline Bingley's eyes radiated anger like a spotlight. William had just demonstrated the last steps of the pas de deux and she did not like what she saw. The choreography itself did not bother her. Rather, how and with whom the steps had been choreographed incensed the prima ballerina.

“And after the kiss, the lights fade,” William said nonchalantly.

The entire pas de deux was five minutes of foreplay set to classical music, on which, Caroline was positive, Elizabeth Bennet had wielded a heavy influence. William was partial to her. That was obvious. It was also obvious he was attracted to her. The burning, vitriolic question was: How had Elizabeth Bennet done it?

Caroline had been trying to win over William for years. More than a few dancers had. However, when it came to his choreography, William staunchly rejected any temptation that would “question the integrity of his work,” as he had once told her. Yet, here they were, being told they would have to make out on stage like some kind of avant-garde, East Village freak show. So much for integrity.

Caroline crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. Louisa Hurst gawked wide-eyed at the choreographer.

“We really have to...kiss?” she asked with contempt.

Her partner, Jacob, laughed. “Don't worry, hun. I won't be thinking about you.”

William's face stiffened. “The kiss is part of the choreography.”

“William, this is hardly proper,” Caroline interjected.

He glared at her. “I'll be the judge of what's proper for my choreography.”

Caroline glanced over to Louisa. Marc also seemed uncomfortable with the kiss, but for other reasons, namely his irate partner. Jacob tore a hangnail off of his pinky with his teeth.

“Oh, it's your decision after all. I would just hate to see all of our artistic integrity compromised just because you and Elizabeth Bennet went a little overboard in one of your private rehearsals. That's all.” Caroline's tone turned bitter.

William swallowed hard. The other dancers looked away awkwardly. Mirroring Caroline's stance, the choreographer folded his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Ms. Bingley, let me make you an offer. Since you're so worried about your artistic integrity, I invite you to get the hell out of my rehearsal until you feel you're ready to work like a paid professional.”

Caroline's nostrils flared. Slowly, she unfolded her arms and straightened her posture. “You have no right to tell me who's a paid professional. Fucking some little corps girl!”

“There's the door.” William nodded to the opposite end of the room with his chin.

The prima ballerina paused, looking from Louisa, who refused to meet her gaze, back to William. Seconds later, she huffed and whirled on the ball of her toe, storming from the room.

William pursed his lips, concern flashing momentarily in his eyes. It faded a second later. He looked to his dancers, his lips twisting into a half-smile. “Let's try that section from the beginning.”

**

That day, William had let out all of the corps dancers early to work on the pas de deux with the four principals. When he dismissed all of them, Elizabeth included, a sinking sensation pulled at her. She had hated those rehearsals. She had hated their forced intimacy. She thought she had hated the unwanted attention, but as she trudged out of the studio, once again a nameless face in the crowd of corps dancers, Elizabeth felt betrayed.

Elizabeth changed clothes slowly, her mind pulled back to rehearsal last week. To the warm pressure of William's lips on hers and his hands on her cheeks. The skin on her arms tingled. No doubt that kiss, too, would end up in the piece. The entire company, an entire theater of spectators were to be unwitting voyeurs into something that should have been between only the two of them.

She shook her head sharply. No, Elizabeth reminded herself, it wasn't a kiss. It was a dance step. Yet, that thought offered no consolation. It unsettled her further. Elizabeth wondered what she was to him. He treated her with indifference at best, disdain at worst. He flagrantly took advantage of her rank, or lack of it, in the company for his own benefit. William was known for his erotic choreography; it was nonsense to think he held any special regard or feelings for her. She resented him. He infuriated her. And yet, a small part of her wanted his approval.

Today, however, proved Elizabeth's dark suspicions- she was nothing to him, replaceable, just some body he toyed with for a couple of minutes, three times a week.

Sighing, Elizabeth looked around her despondently. Her eyes settled on the clock. It was only 4:30. The bank would still be open. She could grab a leisurely cup of coffee before dinner, or go home early and wash the tights that had been piling up in her laundry basket. But she didn't want to.

Before she let the weight pressing on her chest grow any heavier, Elizabeth closed her locker sharply and strode from the room.

Chapter 12

“I'm sorry, what?” Elizabeth said, her mouth halfway to her Starbucks cup.

“Colin is picking me up at 7:30,” Charlotte repeated, unable to meet her friend's severe gaze.

“Colin? Colin Williams?”

“Yes.” Charlotte stirred a third packet of sugar into her coffee.

Elizabeth blinked twice and looked across the table at her friend. Then, she laughed. “Okay, Charlotte. Good one.”

Charlotte didn't smile. “No, Liz. I'm not kidding. He asked me the other day and...we're going together.”

“Okay...” Elizabeth began gingerly, furrowing her eyebrows. “Are you into him?”

“No, not really. But it's not a requirement to like a guy before you go out on a date, is it?”

“Alright, let me ask you this. Can you stand the guy?”

Charlotte exhaled sharply and looked past her friend's shoulder. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I'd want to give him a chance? Just because you can't stand him...He's not a bad guy, Liz.”

Elizabeth shrugged, making no reply. She was sure Charlotte wasn't going to the Gala with Colin Williams so she could get to know him better. Rather, it had more to do with getting to know the people Colin knew. The person, rather. Charlotte was mildly obsessed with the grande dame of New York City's art world, Catherine Boroughs. She was convinced that knowing her would get her better parts, maybe even promotions. Charlotte talked about Boroughs constantly; some of the girls in the company had even started calling her Little C behind her back.

Elizabeth was relieved she had a date like Greg. Not only would she be the object of envy of every single, sex-starved corps girl in the room, but his down-to-earth and easy-going nature would be exactly what Elizabeth needed in a room full of Manhattan art snobs. Although he had been out of town for the past week filming a hip-hop video in Jamaica, he'd still called twice, professing each time how much he missed Elizabeth and how excited he was to see her “hot body” in her dress (and hopefully out of it). Comments like that made her laugh. He would be away until Saturday and take a morning red-eye back to New York just to go to the Gala with her.

“So...what do you say?” Charlotte asked again, “Do you want to split the cost of renting a limo?”

Elizabeth downed a long sip of cappuccino. “How much did you say it was?”

“Colin knows someone. He got us a great price. Eighty bucks an hour, so that's twenty each.”

Pursing her lips, Elizabeth thought about it. “I don't know. That's almost twice as much as a cab.”

“But only twenty dollars. Come on, Liz. It'll be like prom all over again.”

Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. “I never went to my prom. We had a dance performance that night.”

Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Even better. Now you'll get to see what it's like.”

Perhaps it would be easier to ignore Colin Williams while sipping on champagne in their own limousine, Elizabeth reasoned. Plus, Greg would be there. “Okay, I'm in.”

Charlotte beamed and told her they would swing by her place around eight.

**


Elizabeth let herself into the apartment. “Jane?”

“In my room!” her sister called.

Grinning, Elizabeth checked her reflection in the hallway mirror and then tiptoed to Jane's room. Sitting on her bed, she was thumbing through that month's Cosmo.

“Hey, where've you been? You're- Holy crap!” she said, looking up to her younger sister in the doorway. Elizabeth burst into giggles and bound into her sister's room.

“Do you like it?”

“I haven't seen your hair that color in years!” Jane cried, touching the now chocolate strands falling over her sister's shoulders.

“I've decided to go au natural,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I think it looks good.”

Jane beamed in awe. During Elizabeth's freshman year at college, she had dyed her hair light brown, in the most drastic act of rebellion a dancer could get away with.

“You look amazing,” Jane smiled. “What made you do it?”

“Oh, I don't know. It was time for a change, and I thought I'd make a terrible redhead. You think Greg will like it?”

“He'd be a fool not to.”

“And look,” Elizabeth said, opening her purse and picking out a small, flat parcel. “I went downtown to Loehmanns and found these on sale.” Opening the bag, Elizabeth dumped a pair of dangly silver and marcasite earrings and matching bracelet onto the bed.

“Very nice,” Jane said, picking up the bracelet and trying it on. “And how much did all of this cost?”

“A trim, the dye job, and the jewelry cost exactly $185.95. Plus the $360 for the dress, shoes, and corset. I'll be eating ramen for the rest of the month.”

Jane smiled. “But it will be worth it once Greg sees you tomorrow. He'll drop dead. Especially with that dress.”

“I can't wait! I feel like I'm in middle school,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Okay, Jane. No more time to talk. I still need to shave and paint my nails.”

“I'll let you to it then.”

Elizabeth bounded off of her sister's bed and headed for the shower, wishing there weren't twenty-four endless hours separating her, Greg, and the Netherfield Gala.

**


With only thirty minutes left separating her, Greg, and the Netherfield Gala, Elizabeth began to panic. She paced the length of her living room, the wool swishing over her legs. While Greg had told her he would call when his flight got in at seven that morning, she had still received no phone call. Elizabeth had tried his home and cell three times each. Finally, she called the airlines to confirm that his flight had not been cancelled. A chipper operator informed her that it had actually landed fourteen minutes early.

Saturday had inched along, with Elizabeth's stomach dissolving to butterflies as the day passed. She meant to dress leisurely, but found she was so nervous that the whole hair, makeup, and dressing process had taken her less than an hour. Jane was still in her room, pinning up her hair while singing along to a Backstreet Boys song.

Succumbing to her anxiety, Elizabeth called Greg's cell phone again. This time, it actually rang. Elizabeth's heart leapt, feeling instantly relieved. But it sunk with each successive ring, finally thudding at her feet when the voice mail picked up. She tried again. Same thing. Just as Elizabeth slammed the phone down on the cradle, Jane breezed out of her room.

“Oh, Lizzy,” she gasped, “You look spectacular.”

“It's not going to matter since Greg isn't picking up his phone!” she hollered, stalking across the room

Jane frowned. Turning, Elizabeth's face softened into a smile. “Sorry. Hey, you look great, too. But you always look great.”

“He'll come, don't worry. Want to join me in a pre-Gala drink? It'll calm your nerves,” Jane offered.

Elizabeth nodded and Jane disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared with two mugs of white Carlo Rossi.

“It's better than nothing,” she said, handing Elizabeth a mug. Elizabeth downed the entire thing in minutes, while Jane sipped gingerly.

“Want a refill?” Elizabeth asked, hopping up.

“I still have some left, thanks.”

Elizabeth poured more wine from the jug and drank half the glass in the kitchen. The cheap stuff did nothing for her nervousness.

At 7:30 exactly, the buzzer sounded. Both girls leapt up, but it was Elizabeth who strode to the intercom.

“Hello?” she asked, her voice cracking hopefully.

“Hey, Liz,” came a male voice. Elizabeth's heart sunk. It was Charles.

“Tell him to come up,” Jane called out. “We'll wait with you until Greg gets here.”

Elizabeth nodded weakly and buzzed him up. Coming in the apartment, Charles' eyes smoldered with such obvious pleasure upon seeing Jane that it made Elizabeth miserable. She retreated to her room, pretending to look for something, while the two lovers cooed on the sofa in the living room. Her clock read 7:42. Instinctively, Elizabeth knew he wasn't coming. Her chin trembled. Over $500 wasted. Plus $40 for a limo ride with the Catherine Boroughs fan club.

“Mascara,” she said, fanning her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Clearing her throat, she put on a calm face and reappeared in the living room to find Charles sucking at her sister's neck. Jane immediately pushed him away, colored, and then smiled guiltily. Elizabeth nearly laughed at the looks on their faces.

“Okay, you two lovebirds. You can go. I'll wait by myself.”

Jane frowned. “Lizzy, are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I'm sure he's stuck in traffic. Or something like that. You go ahead. Charlotte will be here at eight.”

Nodding, Jane and Charles stood. Jane squeezed Elizabeth's hand and said she'd see her at the Gala. Then, they left. Elizabeth sighed and flopped onto the couch, feeling a hopeless peace wash over her. She had been stood up, a first for her. Why had it happened on a night when she'd spent all that money? The thought of being dateless in a limo with Colin Williams suddenly resurrected her panic.

Elizabeth bee-lined for the kitchen and finished off the rest of the Carlo Rossi.

**


Charlotte arrived twenty minutes later and glanced at Elizabeth suspiciously. She was Greg-less and reeking of alcohol.

“Did Colin stand you up too?” Elizabeth spat bitterly, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Charlotte swallowed. “No, he's just circling the block in the limo. Did Greg...?”

“Yes. Bastard.”

Sighing, Charlotte rubbed Elizabeth's back. “He missed out, Liz. You look amazing. Your hair...”

Elizabeth smiled pathetically. “Okay, okay. Let's not leave Prince Charming waiting.”

Both women made it downstairs in time for the limo to pull around the corner. Elizabeth almost choked. Gaudy and white, it looked like a relic from the 1970s. A long scratch marred the left side of the car. The interior was decorated in tacky burgundy velour with a crystal chandelier hanging from the roof of the car. Cigarette burns appeared here and there on one seat. A curtain was missing from the purple-tinted windows. And there was no alcohol.

“Okay, let's go!” Colin cheered as the limo lurched forward, sending Charlotte sprawling into Elizabeth's lap.

The limo ride was a tense affair. Colin glared at Elizabeth until they reached the Upper West Side. She glared back only long enough for her friend not to notice. Beyond the Upper West Side however, Colin changed tactics, deciding to make Elizabeth jealous by whispering sweet nothings into Charlotte's ear. He must have spit on her face instead, because Elizabeth saw her friend discreetly wipe her cheek and ear every so often.

Elizabeth ignored them. Gazing out of the window, her mind settled on only one thought: Wouldn't Mr. Darcy love this? Her face burned with humiliation. She hated Greg, not so much for standing her up, but for placing her in a position where she was dateless at the same function as a with-date William Darcy.

The limo pulled into the driveway of the Netherfield Hotel. Fortunately, no one arrived along with them to witness their horrible carriage. Elizabeth scrambled out of the beat-up limo. Charlotte and Colin soon followed, her friend casting her a resigned look.

“Elizabeth, you can give me the forty dollars on Monday,” Colin said gently, as if doing Elizabeth a favor.

Biting down on the inside of her lip, she merely nodded and strode up the steps, figuring acquiescence was a small price to pay to get the hell out of Colin Williams' company.

**


By 8:30, the Netherfield Gala was in full swing, with couples moving across the dance floor to snappy renditions of Sinatra songs. The din of the crowd surprised Elizabeth when she walked in; there were far more guests than she had imagined. It was a sea of black tuxedoes and gowns. Old women dripped with diamonds. Men wore Armani. Elizabeth recognized a few company members, who smiled at her in greeting. Before she did anything, Elizabeth zipped towards the bar and ordered a champagne.

William stood off to the side of the huddle, sipping a glass of ginger ale with disinterest. Next to him, Anne remained silent, her gaze intent on the opposite side of the room. They had barely spoken the entire evening, but he didn't mind her silence. Anne didn't want to be with him as much as he didn't want to be with her. She was distracted by the sparkling bleach-blonde in the sequined peach gown on the far side of the ballroom. Mariah Lucia, Anne's long-term girlfriend of three years.

An hour into the Gala, Elizabeth still hadn't arrived. Her sister was here, stunning in a strapless white number that offset her bronze skin and light hair. Jane looked like a typical California girl even though she hailed from Suburbia, Michigan, and William smirked when he saw the self-satisfied smile plastered across Charles' face. A pang of envy shot through William. To have a woman like that love you! He caught Charles' eyes and motioned for him to come over.

“Having fun?” William asked dryly, when his friend reached him

“I am. Hello, Anne,” Charles said, nodding to the mousy woman at William's left.

She smiled weakly and then shirked away.

“You don't seem to be having fun,” Charles said, frowning.

“Compared to you, no.”

Beaming, Charles glanced back to Jane. “I'm so drop-dead in love, Will. I'm tempted to kidnap her, take her to Vegas, and just get married right now.”

“And what would Mr. and Mrs. Bingley say about that?” William replied.

“They love Jane.”

“But I'm sure they wouldn't love a drive-thru wedding,” William laughed.

Charles rolled his eyes, but smiled.

“Where's Elizabeth?” William asked casually.

Scanning the room, Charles shrugged. “When we left, she was still waiting for Greg.” Charles' face grew serious, “Jane said Elizabeth couldn't reach him all day. She thinks he stood Elizabeth up.”

William took a long sip of ginger ale. “Typical. Asshole.”

Anne then returned with a plate of caviar-laden crackers and began to crunch on them. Charles looked at her and smiled, and then turned to William.

“I'd better get back to Jane before my parents discover her.”

“I thought you said they liked her.”

“They do. I'm afraid my dad will start giving her stock market tips, and once you get him started, he never shuts up,” Charles joked before waving and then walking away.

William smiled and then looked back down to Anne.

“Cracker?” she offered.

William held up his hand. “No thanks. You don't have to stick around on my account.”

Anne shrugged and licked a stray fish egg off of her finger. “It's not like I can talk to her anyway. Mother's here. We have to pretend like we don't know each other.”

Shaking his head, William took another sip of ginger ale, looked over to where Anne's gaze fell, and smiled at her. And then he did a double take.

He wouldn't have recognized Elizabeth if she hadn't made a beeline for Jane Bennet. Her hair was no longer a sun-kissed straw color. Now the color of milk chocolate, it fell down her back and shoulders in lush waves. She wore a simple black dress that did amazing things for the natural curves of her body. She was classic and sophisticated and mesmerizingly beautiful.

“Huh?” Anne whispered, eyeing him queerly.

“Huh?” he replied, unable to peel his eyes away from Elizabeth at the far end of the ballroom.

“You said ‘Christ,'” said Anne, her eyes following the same line of William's gaze.

“Oh,” he said, downing the last of his drink, “I'll be back.”

Anne watched him go, casually swerving through the bejeweled throng, accepting words of congratulations, and yet never taking his eyes off of the woman standing next to Jane Bennet. Anne squinted. It was Elizabeth Bennet, with dyed hair. Her face relaxed. So that's who William had been scanning the room for all night. Relieved that he had finally left, Anne faded back against the wall where she was most comfortable.

It felt like an eternity before William had crossed the room. His heart thumped in his ears the closer he came to Elizabeth. She whispered furiously with Jane, her forehead creased in anger. William swallowed, feeling jittery and thrilled at the same time. He approached close enough to hear Jane say “-much have you drank already?” before the words died on the older sister's lips. Both Bennets looked up to him, with equally surprised and expectant faces.

They could not have looked any different. Jane was luminescent with her blonde hair, bronzed skin, and white gown. He briefly complimented her, but then turned towards the darker sister, and lost all ability to speak. Jane smiled knowingly, and then slipped away.

Elizabeth's face flushed, and she reached for a ringlet, slowly twirling it in her fingers. In that gown, with her lips painted burgundy, her dark hair curled in soft waves, and her bright eyes bare except for heavy mascara, she looked like someone straight out of a George Hurrell photograph. Dark, sensuous, and luscious. Elizabeth parted her lips, but William spoke first.

“Your hair.”

She paused and then colored. “I dyed it back to its natural color.”

“So you're not a blonde?”

“No.”

He paused to consider her new face. “I like you better this way.”

Elizabeth smirked softly, the apples of her cheeks plumping and her eyes narrowing seductively. “I appreciate the compliment, but I didn't do it for you.” Her voice was heady and sweet, like finely aged brandy.

William arched an eyebrow. “For Wickham then?”

He saw the flame in her eyes waver.

“No, for myself.”

A darkly sadistic urge seized him. “Nevertheless. Greg's a lucky guy. He's with the most beautiful woman in the room. Where is he? I didn't see him come in.”

He watched as the fire in her eyes died, leaving only embers of melancholy in its place. Elizabeth struggled to retrieve her pride. Licking her lips nervously, she opened her mouth to reply. She began, but quickly closed her mouth. Averting her eyes, she murmured to the floor, “I, um, have to…” Elizabeth pointed to nothing and then brushed past him, unable to meet his eyes with her own.

William suddenly hated Greg only a little more than he hated himself. He sighed and rubbed his mouth. Cursing under his breath, he turned and headed back to the same wall where Anne Boroughs sat nursing the same glass of champagne she had when he left.

**


Elizabeth watched Charles sway softly with her sister on the dance floor, his eyes closed blissfully. She snorted when Colin plunked his foot down on Charlotte's toes, causing her to limp off the dance floor. Downing her fourth glass of bubbly, Elizabeth contemplated checking her voice mail again at the pay phone in the hotel lobby. She had run out of quarters, though.

A waiter with slicked-back hair came by with a tray of champagne flukes. He stopped in front of her and Elizabeth picked up another one. With each successive glass, her misery lightened, the room grew dimmer, the music more melodious. She scanned the room. The collective worth of all the guests probably exceeded an oil-rich country.

She dragged her eyes over to William Darcy, standing in a throng of old women, dripping with sequins and jewels. He smiled politely and nodded at something one old biddy said.

“Asshole,” she muttered, scanning the room for Anne Boroughs. At least Greg had the courtesy not to show up. William was completely ignoring his date. Elizabeth slowly prowled the perimeter of the room, unable to take her eyes off of William's tuxedoed back.

Approaching Sir William Lucas deep in conversation with a tall, regal-looking woman, she darted further into the crowd, not wanting to be spotted. The woman looked about sixty, with a thin face and proud, upturned nose. She had on a heavy Harry Winston choker with a simple black gown. Classy, but for the haughty arch of her fine eyebrows.

“…didn't like his piece, William,” the woman said, the faint traces of an upper-class Manhattan accent in her speech. “She's not even in it.”

“I can talk to him about that,” Lucas said, in the most deferential tone Elizabeth had ever heard him use. The woman folded her arms across her chest.

“I don't like seeing my money wasted on abstract nonsense,” she continued, her tone harsh.

“Catherine, some concessions must be made. We did promote Anne…”

Elizabeth swallowed, positive she was privy to a conversation she shouldn't be listening to. She saw the woman crane her neck and eye Sir William, a look of pure disgust on her face.

“I have it on good authority that Charles didn't want to promote her.”

Sir William tittered uncomfortably. “Well, his girlfriend was a candidate for promotion as well, you know…”

Despite the alcohol, Elizabeth's head suddenly zeroed into focus. She straightened her spine and turned away, her breathing growing ragged.

“Well, I'm glad to know there's someone with some sense in your company, William. I've always liked Ballet Theater and really didn't want to withhold my donation. But you understand how these things are.”

He chuckled nervously again.

“It's a good thing that Anne's fiancé looks out for her,” Catherine continued, nodding her bony chin towards the group where William stood. “If it weren't for William Darcy, she'd be going on her eighth year as some silly corps girl…”

Catherine kept talking, but Elizabeth could no longer hear anything but the building pulse in her ears. She broke away from where she was standing, and strode to a deserted corner of the ballroom, where several waiters ambled around. Her mind raced, but the excessive champagne weighed down her rational thoughts like mud. Something about that conversation hadn't been right. Something about Catherine Boroughs, her daughter, a donation, Charles Bingley, and William Darcy. Had she said fiancé? Elizabeth tried to recall the peculiars again, trying to piece together the situation. The waltz in the background didn't help.

“Ms. Bennet,” came a voice interrupting her thoughts. She jerked her head up, startled. William stood before her, his face taut. He raised his eyebrows arrogantly.

“Well, will you?” he asked.

Elizabeth glowered. “Will I what?”

He sighed and looked away momentarily. “Will you dance with me?”

Confusion flickered across Elizabeth's face. She stared at him blankly, her head light and her legs woozy. Prudence screamed at her to refuse. He had insulted her, scared off her date, and…and was engaged to Anne Boroughs! Plus, he had been involved in some way with Jane's promotion, how or why, Elizabeth hadn't figured out yet. She needed to work through her thoughts, not mess around on a dance floor. Certainly not with Enemy Number One. She opened her mouth, a refusal on her tongue, when William's eyes turned back to hers.

Elizabeth faltered. His metallic eyes looked at her from under those thick and expressive eyebrows. His lips were parted ever so slightly, waiting for her reply. She saw his Adam's apple move in a hard swallow.

“Fine,” she resigned.

William's face relaxed. He did not smile, but he extended his arm to her. Elizabeth eyed it before weaving her hand through, resting her palm against the soft wool of his jacket. As they approached the dance floor, the upbeat waltz ended and the crooning notes of a “Music of the Night” rendition began.

Unthinkingly, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around William. From somewhere beyond her lightheaded buzz, she knew half the room was watching her and the man of the hour dance. Yet, she had been here, dancing in his arms, too many times to be nervous. She swayed in annoyed silence, resentful of William's intrusion and now his reticence. Casting her eyes up from his lapel, Elizabeth caught him staring down at her. His placid countenance further soured her mood.

“Is my company that unbearable?” she spat.

He blinked, coming out of his trance. “Your company?”

“You said you found the company unbearable at parties like this, remember?”

He stared blankly at her for a second, and then raised the corner of his lip in a lopsided smirk. “Your memory is too accurate for your own good.”

“Although I probably shouldn't be too offended, since you can't even tolerate your fiancé's presence.”

“My what?”

“Your fiancé. Anne. You do remember her, don't you?”

William chuckled once. “Anne is most decidedly not my fiancé.”

“Not according to her mother.”

“Let her mother think what she pleases.”

“You don't have to lie to me, Mr. Darcy. You've been with her for the entire evening.”

William frowned, but amusement twinkled in his eyes. “We did come together. You're not jealous are you?”

He's expected a wry roll of the eyes to his quip. Instead, she blushed deeply and turned her face away. “N-no! How much have you had to drink?”

William pursed his lips, feeling a quiet excitement grow inside of him. Looking down at Elizabeth, who could not meet his eyes she was that disconcerted, he nearly laughed. Could she really be jealous? Was she wishing she were with him tonight?

“I'm perfectly sober,” he said, arching an eyebrow playfully. “Rest assured, first impressions are not always what they seem to be. You're judging my relationship with Anne much too quickly.”

Elizabeth snorted and laughed. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, then?”

Oh, this is rich, thought William, she's jealous! Satisfaction melted over him like warm butter. He smiled at Elizabeth with his eyes. “You see that woman over there? Blonde, peach dress.”

Elizabeth craned her head to the right, wondering why William was suddenly pointing out the unknown woman in the loud gown. She nodded.

“That's Mariah Lucia. She's a painter. Have you ever seen her work?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“She does mostly abstract stuff. Had a few shows in some galleries downtown. Anne dragged me to one three years ago. That's where they met. They've been seeing each other ever since, but Anne's never told her mother since the old bitch wouldn't approve.”

It took a few moments for understanding to flicker through Elizabeth's eyes. When it did, she lowered them, only the crown of her head visible to William. “Oh,” was her reply.

“I trust that you won't say anything. I'm one of the only people who Anne's told.”

“Of course. I won't say anything.”

The conversation died. Content with the silence, William let the Music of the Night be the only sound between them. He looked down at the woman in his arms. He had held her enough times for him to sense her unease. Had he really discomfited her that much? Her eyes gleamed like amber under the dim lights of the ballroom's chandelier, but she refused to look at him. A troubled frown marred her face. Every so often, her eyebrows flinched, reflecting the storm of thoughts brewing in her head. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, what insecurities about himself and Anne were running through her head. He wanted to tell her that Anne and Caroline and any other woman meant as much to him as his doorman, that it was Elizabeth who had ravaged his sanity over the past weeks. He allowed the hand on the small of her back to pull her into him protectively. Elizabeth looked up then, and he saw confusion and something else entirely flashing in her eyes.

She inhaled softly and again looked away.

William had seen Phantom of the Opera enough to know that the last notes of the song were upon them. He didn't want it to end. He needed to figure her out. He wanted to iron out the wrinkle in her brow. He wanted to obliterate any reflection on Anne or Greg that may have stained her thoughts. He wanted to bring back the communion they shared in the dance studio.

Suddenly, she looked up at him, the fire in her eyes raging out of control. “Why was Anne Boroughs promoted?”

William flinched in shock. Just then, the music ended and the orchestra received their applause from the room. Sir William Lucas' voice then boomed from the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen-” The screech of the microphone cut him off and made the room cringe.

William glanced down to Elizabeth.

“For the same reason you got Greg Wickham fired?” she snapped, trying to pull out of his embrace. He started. Wickham? Scanning her face in bewilderment, he grabbed her elbow and led her to the edge of the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” Elizabeth hissed.

“Thank you for coming tonight and supporting Ballet Theater of New York. I hope you're all having a wonderful time at our annual Netherfield Gala. The party's just getting started so I invite you to eat, drink, dance, and of course, donate, to your heart's content-”

“What did Wickham tell you?” His eyes were fierce. Elizabeth instinctively shirked back, but then caught herself. He was to blame. He had ruined Greg's career, and judging by the look of fear on his face, he probably also knew Elizabeth had caught him pulling the same tricks with Jane.

“There are three company members here tonight who I would like to call to your attention. They represent the very best and very brightest of our company's future. If they could come up here when I call their names. The first is Melissa Dawson, who has just been promoted from soloist to principal dancer…”

As the room politely applauded, William froze. He looked up to the stage, realization dawning over his face.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Anne Boroughs, who has just been promoted from the corps de ballet to soloist…”

“Don't go away,” he commanded, before straightening his tie and righting his posture.

“-and of course, the fabulous William Darcy, who has come back home to be our Choreographer in Residence this year.”

He turned and cast Elizabeth a meaningful look before plastering on a fake smile and heading towards the stage. Applause thundered through the ballroom, the noise making Elizabeth's head spin. She suddenly felt exhausted. She was so tired of William Darcy. He infuriated and disoriented her. His conceit, his self-righteousness, and his manipulations. She hated him. She hated Anne and Catherine Boroughs. And Charles Bingley. And Sir William Lucas. And while she was at it, Greg Wickham and Colin Williams

Elizabeth swallowed. The champagne had caught up to her. She needed to use the bathroom and then she needed to leave. Backing into the crowd, Elizabeth strode along the edge of the ballroom, making for the door. She burst into the empty hallway and stumbled on the carpet. Righting herself, she scolded her fuzzy head and then made her way to the restroom. A few corps girls were returning from that direction. They complimented Elizabeth on her hair as they passed her. Smiling in reply, she walked into the restroom and first ran her hands under the cold water. Elizabeth pressed her cool fingers onto her face, reigning in the fire on her cheeks.

She stared at her reflection. Rotating her head from one side to the other, she smiled sadly.

“What a waste,” she muttered, turning away from herself and into one of the stalls.

Her reflection remerged when she opened the door once again. She looked so unlike herself, with her hair now its natural color. Funny that she would feel more comfortable with it dyed. Propping both hands onto the counter, she leaned into the mirror and stared hard at her reflection. She opened her bag and went to take out her lipstick, but decided against reapplying.

Snapping the bag shut, she decided she'd had enough of the Netherfield Gala. She would stop off at the deli on the way home, grab a pint of Ben and Jerry's, and still make it back in time to watch Saturday Night Live. With the decision made, Elizabeth felt a resigned calm wash over her. This disaster of a night was finally over. She strode from the powder room and headed back to say goodbye to Jane.

As she neared the ballroom, she almost plowed into William, who had just stridden cat-like from the entrance. Elizabeth started and stared, her reflexes dulled by the alcohol.

“Why did you leave?” he asked brusquely.

“I went to the restroom. Or did I need your permission for that?”

His features softened. “I thought you'd left for good.”

“Well, I'm about to. Excuse me, I'm going to say goodbye to my sister.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, she would worry if I just disappeared.” Elizabeth again tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her upper arms to stop her.

“Why are you leaving?”

“Why do you care?”

William said nothing, but his features morphed into a look Elizabeth could only describe as helplessness. She felt the bile rise in her throat. Before she allowed it to overwhelm her, she attempted to wrest her arms from him.

“You need to tell me what Wickham told you.” His voice was as rigid as ice.

“Listen,” she growled, shoving her pointer finger at William's nose, “I don't need to do anything. You can boss me around in the studio, but don't try that shit here.”

Elizabeth's heartbeat had skyrocketed. She felt dizzy and hot. Rubbing her eyes, she lowered her face and tried to reign in her fury. William still stood in front of her, his breathing deep, but labored. She looked up at him.

“I'm leaving,” she repeated, but with less determination than before.

His face was twisted into a look of confusion and anger. His eyes were so intense that Elizabeth couldn't move. She stared at him, feeling her heart race out of control. William was a Medusa and his horrible stare had turned her to stone. The music and ruckus of the ballroom filtered out into the deserted hallway. Laughter and the clinking of plates in the background contrasted with William's ragged breath. She could only stare at him, watching the metal of his irises dart across her face. Her breath hitched. She felt an awful pressure at her throat. She could only stare, hypnotized. Her mind rippled with one, abrupt thought: My God, he's beautiful.

Who moved first, Elizabeth could not be sure. It was immediate and reactive. Suddenly, however, her mouth and William's were moving frantically over the other's, battling for domination. He clasped her face in between his hands. She tangled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. They kissed, frenzied against each other.

Elizabeth's shoulder blades suddenly scraped against the rough wallpaper. Letting her weight fall back on the wall, she pulled William down and opened her lips to him. Elizabeth's head swam with the soft purposefulness of his mouth, the spicy musk of his cologne, the roughness of his jacket on her bare arms. He pressed himself down on her, kissing her jaw and neck. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth allowed herself to drown in him. He nibbled on her earlobe, his breath tickling her ear. A small cry escaped from the back of her throat.

The sound made him stop and pull away.

Opening her eyes, Elizabeth gazed up at him, her vision swimming. She blinked twice. William's face was taut and his jaw rigid, but his eyes darted up the length of her chest and face. After a few seconds, he grabbed her wrist.

“Let's go,” he said hoarsely, pulling her down the hall.

“But...Jane,” Elizabeth protested feebly.

“Call her when we get home.”

They stopped only at the cloakroom to retrieve their coats, before bursting into the frigid March night, and stepping into the first taxi waiting in the driveway of the hotel.

Chapter 13

Elizabeth groaned, arched her back, and stretched her arms over her head. Opening her eyes, she experienced a moment of confusion before the events of the night before came crashing back to her. She sighed and groaned again. Her mouth felt cottony and dry, and her head throbbed. Sitting up in bed, Elizabeth looked to her left, finding herself alone in a king-sized bed. Light peeked in through the gap in the curtains.

She looked around the bedroom. White sheets, beige carpet, mahogany furnishings.

Her stomach lurched. She hung her head and held it in her hands, murmuring a choice four-letter word. Elizabeth stayed in that position for several minutes, contemplating how to proceed, how last night had happened. Her gown had been removed from the floor, along with her corset, pantyhose, and underwear. They now rested on a plush chair in the corner.

How in the world had last night happened? She had been furious with him, but couldn't recall why. The more she tried to remember, the further reality receded. She could only recall the night in flashes – like photographs in a slide show…Banging her knee against a bar stool as they scurried, mid-kiss, back into the bedroom, the feel of warm hands undoing the zipper down the back of her dress, his lips hovering over her nipple. She didn't even recall what he looked like naked. Or how the first time proceeded or ended.

She remembered afterwards they'd tripped into the bathroom, the sting of cold tile under her bare feet. Things grew clearer under the stream of the shower. She had yelled at him when his hands slinked across her hips as she had been trying to remove her mascara. She recalled taking him in her soapy hands, his groans reverberating in the small, tiled shower. Her own cries and gasps punctuated the steady sound of the water beating down. Her hand splayed before her on the navy tiles, bracing herself against the shower wall as he sunk into her from behind. The chilling cold of the tiles brushing against her swollen nipples. His bronze fingers kneading the whiter flesh of her breast. She also remembered climaxing so hard that she banged her head on the wall.

Elizabeth touched her forehead. A piece of skin was gone. Rubbing her eyes, she swallowed down the urge to cry. It got worse.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she remembered awaking. She lay on her side, her legs curled into a loose fetal position. Her head ached a bit then, but her thoughts were clear. William was awake. He lay facing her, propped up on an elbow, his torso naked, his lower half outlined by the graceful fall of the sheets. He ran his hand lightly over the swell of her hipbone. Elizabeth had stared at him, until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Both gazed at each other for a small eternity. She recalled the look in his eyes: profound tenderness bottoming out to an unspoken question. Then, Elizabeth had smiled sleepily and reached up for his face, bringing it down to hers for a deep, deliberate kiss.

“Elizabeth,” he had whispered into the flesh under her ear, “you screamed ‘Mr. Darcy' when you came in the shower.”

Elizabeth only chuckled.

“You might want to fix that,” he said.

“Are you ordering me around again?”

William answered with an unhurried kiss.

The third and last time they made love had been languid and exploring. His movements over her had been rocking and slow. She'd felt like a small boat tossed gently in a vast lake. William had murmured things to her, words that now sent her face burning. The back of his fingers grazing her neck, her throat, her cheek. Elizabeth was tugged back to their rehearsals, marveling at how very similar his hands felt on her naked skin. The sex was a dance, almost choreographed in its perfection.

She had closed her eyes, felt him, heard him undulating over her. For the first time, Elizabeth felt what it was to be adored by a man and his body.

And in that final climax, she buried her face into the warm crook of his neck and gasped the word he wanted to hear - William.


“William?” she called. The word felt strange on her lips. There was no reply.

Elizabeth swung her legs off the bed, pulling the sheet with her. Her head pounded as the blood rushed up to it. Wrapping the sheet around her body, she tiptoed to the bathroom. No William. She swallowed down a quake of annoyance. A small aftershock of despair followed in its wake. The bedroom door was cracked open. Pulling it back, she stepped into the hallway. Several doors lined both sides of the cream-carpeted hall. At the far end was a staircase. Elizabeth pattered to it and got halfway down before her jaw dropped.

Under her sprawled a massive, high-ceilinged living room, the far wall lined by glass windows that ran up the entire length. The hardwood floors gleamed. She saw a marble fireplace on another wall. Elizabeth didn't even know apartments in New York could have more than one floor.

Being careful not to trip over the sheet, she made it down the stairs and then called out “William” again. This time she received a sweet mew in reply. An orange cat appeared from around the staircase, its tail swaying behind it.

“Hello there,” Elizabeth cooed, kneeling down to stroke it. The feline purred. “Where's your master?”

The cat only rubbed the top of its head against Elizabeth's hand.

“You know, the big, scary guy with the bad temper?”

Elizabeth again received a loud purr. Sighing, she stood and gazed around the enormous living room. Two hallways led off to either side of the room. Looking right, she saw the breakfast bar and the stool she had run into the night before. She chose left. She passed a smaller, more intimate living room, complete with a black baby grand. Then another hallway appeared off of the left of that room. She heard the soft strains of classical music and followed the sound.

A door at the end of the hallway was ajar. Elizabeth approached silently and peeked into a miniature dance studio. She saw William in the center, clad in sweatpants. He was shirtless, his chest glistening with sweat. Elizabeth swallowed hard, staring at his abdominals moving in and out as he panted from exertion. In the light of day, she admired what she could not in the previous night's drunken, dark haze: the muscles of his shoulders rippling down to unyielding triceps. Forearms flexed gracefully. And, oh Lord, Elizabeth closed her eyes momentarily, the ridges of muscle that flanked his hipbones.

The moment of unspoiled voyeurism provided a luscious respite from the self-loathing and William-loathing that had pounded at her temples seconds before. But it was only a moment before more raw feelings shook her.

She retreated from the door and stood in contemplation. The rush of desire was slowly thinned by a seeping irritation. William was playing the role of ungracious lover immaculately. Never had Elizabeth been abandoned in the bedroom the morning after. Sighing, she rubbed the corners of her eyes with her fingers. She was humiliated. Backing away from the door, she tiptoed down the hall and back into the palatial living room.

Treading to the huge windows, Elizabeth leaned her forehead onto the cool glass and gazed out at Central Park beneath her. She began absentmindedly chewing on a fingernail. For a few long seconds, she watched taxis whiz by on the street. The sky was a muted, cloudless blue. Elizabeth cursed herself. Closing her eyes, she winced in a simple remembrance of the previous night.

She was so absorbed in her remonstrations that she didn't hear William's soft footsteps on the carpet. He paused, watching her, a slow smile warming his face. His heart thudded. He couldn't believe it. Elizabeth was here. They had spent an entire night having the best sex William had had in years. He didn't understand it, but he trusted it, just like he trusted gravity to keep him from falling into outer space.

Still, the transformation had astounded him. How could one woman go from snarling at him, shoving her finger in his face, to then hurling herself into his arms and overpowering him with the warmest, softest lips he had ever tasted? She was supposed to have come with Greg, and she had gone home with him. Her mouth had tasted faintly of alcohol, but her speech had not been slurred, and her eyes had been daggers. She was lucid. It had to have been some mighty powerful jealousy. Women, he thought.

William amazed himself. After that ghastly Gala, three lovemaking sessions, and then a sleepless night thereafter, he had the energy to sneak out of bed sometime around six in the morning and choreograph for two hours straight. He grinned like a milk-satiated cat. How could he help but choreograph at that moment? Every nerve in his body had been humming. In his bed slept a gorgeous, brilliant, and eager twenty-three-year-old. Not only that, but a gorgeous, brilliant, and eager twenty-three-year-old, who he had made love to three times and probably given twice as many orgasms. He still had it! He felt invincible. That morning, he had choreographed the third movement of his piece.

He gazed at her silently, as she stood in the far end of his living room, draped in his sheet. Her stunning, chocolate hair tumbled over the white linen and her elegant shoulders. Elizabeth sighed, the sound reminiscent of her soft gasps in his ear the night before. William's desire began to simmer slowly. He cleared his throat, making her jump.

“Sorry,” he said, approaching her.

Her lips fell open, a momentary rebelliousness bubbling up in her irises, before a pink flush spread across her cheeks. He saw her eyes trail down his torso briefly before she forced them back to his face.

“Have you been awake long?” he asked.

“No.”

William brushed a ringlet of hair off of her shoulder and grinned lopsidedly. “That's a very expensive sheet you're using for a toga.”

The flush on Elizabeth's face deepened. “I didn't…” her voice trailed off.

He looked at her forehead, a small pink wound marring the skin next to her hairline. Elizabeth flinched when he ran his thumb across it.

“We have to be more careful next time,” he murmured, brushing the hair off of her shoulders and exposing her neck. William grasped the nape, and brought his lips down to nibble at the skin under her jawbone. She stiffened and inhaled sharply. Moments later, a stifled moan escaped from her throat.

His lips moved to her mouth, and he kissed her slowly. Elizabeth hesitated. Believing her embarrassed, William pressed her against him and deepened the movements of his mouth to encourage her. She responded, but without the same intensity as the night before. After a few more moments, however, Elizabeth began to melt. William trailed his hands lower, to cup and knead her breasts. He moved to undo the dastardly sheet, when Elizabeth groaned into his mouth and then shoved him away.

She stood several feet from him, panting, her lips swollen. Suspicion swam in her eyes. Then, she averted them and once again a slow, crimson flush stained her face. Elizabeth could not meet his gaze, she was so ashamed and angry with herself. As he breathed irregularly, she wondered what was going through his mind. Was he angry? Did he think her a complete tease? She risked a glance; he looked…puzzled. Hurt?

Staring up at him, Elizabeth bit her lower lip. Suddenly, her hungry stomach piped in with a protest of its own. William heard it growl, and the expression on his face changed. Elizabeth went even redder, and he chuckled with a lopsided smile.

“Okay then, what do you want to eat?” he asked.

“Um…really that's okay. I can get something after I go.”

William frowned.

“I-I just want to take a shower.” She saw his eyes smolder and so she added, “Alone.”

The frown deepened. Reluctantly, he turned and motioned for her to follow him upstairs. As she trailed behind him, Elizabeth gawked at a bead of sweat running down the rivulet of William's spine. Cords of muscles ran parallel to it, rising up to two ridges under his shoulder blades. She was shaken, ashamed, and angry, yet all she wanted to do was reach out and caress that powerful back.

They climbed up the stairs, William pausing at the top.

“You can use the shower in my bathroom. Call me if you need anything.”

Nodding, Elizabeth lowered her eyes as she swept past him through the master bedroom and into his enormous bathroom. Closing the door, Elizabeth sighed, her shoulders slumping. She stared at herself in the mirror, fingering her now dark brown hair. She didn't look like herself. Hell, she didn't feel like herself. Removing the sheet, she flushed when she saw a deep, berry-colored mark on her right breast. Undeniable proof that last night had been no dream. She approached the mirror and examined the cut on her forehead.

“Elizabeth,” came a muffled voice from the bedroom, “I need the sheet to make the bed.”

Before she could react, the bathroom door opened and Elizabeth yelped. “What the hell are you doing? Don't you knock?”

William started and gazed at her in irritation. Elizabeth recoiled when she saw the annoyance in his eyes change to a much deeper emotion as he stared at her nude body.

“Hey! I'm naked here!” she yelled again, crossing her arms over her chest.

A wickedly lopsided grin curved over William's lips. “You didn't seem to mind last night.”

Elizabeth's nostrils flared. “Get out,” she commanded dangerously.

William raised an eyebrow and scooped the sheet off of the floor. He turned to retreat, but not before he swept his eyes up Elizabeth's trembling body one last time.

Once he had gone, she quickly stepped into the shower stall and turned the water on. She rubbed her face, hoping the soothing stream of hot water would settle her frazzled senses. It had the opposite effect. The navy blue tiles on the wall only reminded her of Sex Romp Number Two. Despite the sickening churnings of her stomach, Elizabeth felt her core grow warm as the images flashed through her mind again. She immediately picked up a bottle of shampoo and began to wash her hair.

Elizabeth wondered what would happen now that they had shattered the border of professionalism. How would rehearsals proceed tomorrow? How would they proceed tomorrow? Could they be civil? She figured not. After one-night stands, people usually weren't. Plus, William and she had never had a record of cordiality towards one another. Staring vacantly into the middle distance, she shivered. Stupid, stupid move, Elizabeth cursed.

Turning off the water, she stepped from the shower and dried herself off with a lush white towel. She looked around the bathroom, elegantly decorated with navy tiles and white touches all around. She felt like she was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, or what she imagined staying at the Ritz-Carlton would feel like. Just then, she realized she had nothing to change into.

Elizabeth tentatively opened the bathroom door and stepped out onto the soft beige carpet of William's bedroom. He wasn't there. She plucked her gown up from the chair and then cursed, remembering that in their enthusiasm last night, William had broken the zipper.

“William?” she called out. No reply, again. Elizabeth groaned in irritation at the cat and mouse game they were playing. Ready to expel a string of four-letter words, she whizzed around and then caught sight of a note on the bed.

Hope these fit. I'll be back in five.

Under the note was a pink sweater from Banana Republic with the tags still on, and a pair of gray, pinstriped wool pants. She checked the label – Marc Jacobs – and whistled. Elizabeth briefly wondered why William would be in possession of women's clothing, in her size no less. An uncomfortable thought flashed through her head, but she quickly suppressed that.

Elizabeth dressed. The clothes fit fine, except for the pants, which were too long. Glancing over to the dresser, she spied a sleek cordless phone. She picked up it up and punched in the number to her apartment.

“Hello?” answered a groggy voice.

“Jane?”

“Liz?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God. Elizabeth Bennet! Where the hell did you go last night? I was frantic.”

“Sorry,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Sorry! That's it? Sorry? Where are you? Why are you whispering?”

“I was a bit drunk last night.”

“Oh my God. Are you in jail? What did you do, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “No, Jane! I'm fine. I'll be home later this afternoon.”

“Where are you?”

Elizabeth paused, wondering whether to lie or not. The lying option was against her. She could say Charlotte's apartment, but knowing Jane, Charlotte was probably the first person she would go to in a panic if Elizabeth were missing. Elizabeth swallowed.

“I'm at...William Darcy's place.”

No reply came from the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Elizabeth asked.

“William Darcy's?”

This time, Elizabeth did not reply. Jane chuckled low on the other end. “Oh, do you have things to tell me when you get home.”

“Jane, you have to promise me not to say anything to Charles.”

“Okay, fine. But you're telling me everything.”

Elizabeth heard a door slam shut downstairs.

“Fine. Gotta go. Bye.” She slammed the phone on the cradle before Jane could reply.

Elizabeth's heart began pounding wildly, and she didn't know why. She was having another out-of-body experience, still unable to believe that she was in William's apartment. Taking several deep breaths, she walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“William?”

“In the kitchen!”

Elizabeth steadied herself with another breath and walked into the kitchen where William had just set down a bowl of cat food. Sucking in her breath, she tried hard not to stare at him, but thought it extremely cruel of him to look so damn good. His hair was mussed, his chin dusted with stubble. The clothes he wore – loose jeans, and a hooded zip-up sweatshirt – gave him an edgy urban look. William caught the look in her eyes, and smirked.

“Good, the clothes fit,” he said, with a slice of mischief in his tone.

“The pants are a little long,” replied Elizabeth, kicking her feet out.

“My sister's a few inches taller than you.”

“Sister?” Suddenly, she remembered Greg had mentioned a sister.

“Why else would I have women's clothing in the house?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Old girlfriend. I don't know.”

Again, William smirked that annoyingly self-satisfied smirk. “It would be extremely tacky of me to give another woman an old girlfriend's clothes.”

Elizabeth made no response.

Suddenly, William turned around a grabbed a plastic bag off the granite countertop and produced two palm-sized bundles from it. “Roasted vegetables with goat cheese or smoked ham and swiss?”

“Huh?”

“I picked up some sandwiches from the deli around the corner. Which one do you want?”

Elizabeth stared at him. “You didn't have to do that. I told you I could pick something up on my way home.”

William's smile soured. “What kind of man do you think I am? First, I give you an old girlfriend's clothes, and then I send you home on an empty stomach? I try to be a little more gentlemanly than that. Veggies or ham?”

Pursing her lips, Elizabeth looked away. “Veggies, please.”

She accepted the sandwich from William and unwrapped it, salivating. Pulling a plastic bottle of orange juice from the bag, William then got two glasses down from a cabinet and poured her some. Elizabeth accepted one glass with a polite smile and took a light sip.

“Mm, fresh squeezed,” she said.

William only smiled in response and walked around the kitchen counter to join Elizabeth on the high stools by the breakfast bar. They ate in awkward silence for a few minutes. Elizabeth complimented the sandwiches, and they chatted about the deli around the corner. That conversation soon sputtered to an end.

William ate with his eyes riveted on her, which made Elizabeth nervous. A roasted pepper fell out of her sandwich and landed on her borrowed pants. Cursing, she picked it up quickly and apologized to William. He just shrugged.

“My sister never wears them anyway.”

Sensing an opportunity for conversation, Elizabeth picked up the cue. “Is your sister home?”

“No,” he answered curtly. Then, softening his tone, he added, “She's away at school.”

Elizabeth dropped the subject and the conversation once again lapsed into silence. She chewed monotonously, not tasting a thing. Placing her sandwich down, she glanced around the apartment, desperate to hit upon a topic of conversation, until she could flee.

“This is a really nice apartment,” she said.

William smiled. “Thanks. I spent a lot of time and money getting it to look like this.”

“It's beautiful. It could be in Architectural Digest.”

“It was. September of last year.”

Elizabeth paused to let that one sink in. “It's so clean.”

“One man living in an apartment this big doesn't really do much damage.”

“Yes. How does one man live in an apartment this big? How does one man afford an apartment this big?”

William smiled, the mischief returning to his lips as he popped the last piece of focaccia in them. “I don't pay anything for it.”

“And they say there's no such thing as a free lunch in this city. How'd you manage that deal?”

“Simple,” William replied, balling the paper wrapper, “I own the building.”

Elizabeth gave up all conversation attempts after that. Finishing her sandwich in silence, she did her best to ignore the eyes she knew were fixed upon her. She didn't want any more altercations. She just wanted to go home, take two Advil, talk to Jane, and attempt to forget this entire mistake. William probably wanted the same. Swallowing the last bite of bread and washing it down with the orange juice, she turned to him and smiled weakly.

“Thanks for breakfast.”

“Like I said, it was the least I could do.”

“So,” Elizabeth said nervously.

“So.”

“So, I'd better get going then.”

William's face darkened. “Why? It's not even nine-thirty.”

“Well, I'm sure you want your Sunday back.”

“I have no plans today.”

Elizabeth licked her lips and pursed them nervously. “I-I should get ready for tomorrow. There's laundry and...cleaning. You know.”

William continued to glare with a look that microwaved her insides. He made no immediate reply to her excuse. Instead, he reached across the counter for her sandwich wrapper and glass, making Elizabeth jump in surprise. Still ignoring her, he dumped the wrappers in the garbage, set the glasses in the sink, and with one hand, leaned against the kitchen counter, facing her.

“And what do we do tomorrow?” he asked.

Unable to meet his eyes, Elizabeth looked to her hands on the counter. She shrugged. “Nothing I guess. Now that we…uh, got that out of our systems, I don't see any reason to behave differently to each other.”

William's face flinched. “Hm.”

They stared at each other for an awkward minute. “Let me get my things,” Elizabeth said finally.

William watched in silence as she collected her purse and coat from the crumpled pile in the living room

“Oh, my gown,” she said, pointing to the stairs.

“Don't worry about it. I'll take it to a seamstress for you.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, you don't have to-”

“Elizabeth,” William interrupted in a warning tone, “just let me. I broke it, I'll fix it.”

Reddening, she opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly spun around and walked in the direction of the foyer. Fearing she would get lost if she didn't follow, Elizabeth skirted after him. He stood next to the front door, his hand already on the handle. Elizabeth recognized the customary coldness in his eyes. William Darcy, the relentless choreographer, had returned.

Elizabeth buttoned up her coat quickly, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. When she fastened the last button at her neck, she glanced up at him. He sighed softly and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Be careful getting home.” His voice was wooden.

“It's broad daylight. I think I'll be okay.”

He shrugged and then opened the door for Elizabeth. In the doorway, she turned to him.

“See you tomorrow.”

He nodded perfunctorily. She thought she detected wistfulness in his eyes, but she breezed by him so fast she could not be sure. She pressed the elevator button. His door was the only one in the hall. The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Still, William waited in the doorway. The doors slid open.

“Bye,” Elizabeth said, turning her head slightly to look at him. He made no reply, instead retreating silently into the confines of his apartment, and closing the door with a sharp, resounding thud. Elizabeth frowned.

“Asshole,” she muttered, before stepping into the elevator's blissful emptiness

Chapter 14

The next day, both William and Elizabeth met in rehearsal with forced indifference. For two hours they struggled to reign in blushes, nervous habits, significant looks, or looks of any kind, really. Not that it was easy. Several times, Elizabeth, in her attempt to appear cool and composed, snapped her head away from his gaze too quickly, drawing strange looks from Jane and Lydia. Knowing his own vulnerability, William wore loose pants to rehearsal that day, and for the ten minutes prior to three o'clock, thought of the leaky faucet in the guest bathroom, his long-dead grandmother, the meeting with his stockbroker - anything that would keep his mind off of Elizabeth and Saturday night.

Thus, they were able to pass the two-hour rehearsal with nothing more than several casual glances exchanged between them. Afterwards, however, Elizabeth grabbed her things and bolted. She ensured that she left the building protected by a large group of corps de ballet members. Monday passed without a word spoken between the two of them.

Caroline Bingley had not been at that rehearsal or the prior two, but not much was made of it. She often skipped rehearsals, casually strolling in after a week's absence with no credible excuse. Some were surprised that she would try a stunt like that with Mr. Darcy, but no one put it beyond her.

On Tuesday, before company class, Elizabeth went to check her mailbox. She found a memo about the floors being waxed, a flyer for an upcoming Alvin Ailey performance, and a blue envelope, sealed, with nothing written on the front or back. Glancing into the other dancers' mailboxes, she noticed no other such envelope in any of them. Her heart began racing.

Ripping it open, she pulled out a sheet of lined paper, folded in precise thirds. Her fingers trembled when she read the small, neat cursive.

Wait for me downstairs after rehearsal today. -WD

Swallowing, Elizabeth felt the ire begin bubbling. No “please?” And what if she had plans? Balling up the note, she shoved it deep in her bag and headed downstairs to change.

That day in company class, she got a verbal lashing by the ballet mistress for forgetting a step in the waltz and nearly crashing into another dancer. In the adagio, the teacher once again yelled at her about her hip alignment. Elizabeth repressed a scowl, but once the exercise was over, rushed off to the back of the room to lick her wounds. Stretching out her calves over the barre, she caught Caroline Bingley's eyes fixed on her. They narrowed and the prima turned away with a prickly smile on her face. Elizabeth's stomach flopped. She scanned the room, feeling as though everyone's eyes were on her. Caroline's certainly were. From across the room, Louisa seemed to be glowering, too. And Robert, and Laurie, and Anne, and even Katherine.

Moving towards her sister, Elizabeth muttered, “Why is everyone looking at me?”

Jane frowned. “No one's looking at you.”

Elizabeth bit her lip and watched the rest of the exercise feeling unbearably scrutinized.

**

William rapped on Sir William Lucas' door and stepped in without being invited. The artistic director was perusing sketches for costumes, leaning back in a large, leather chair completely out of place against the spartan linoleum tile and utilitarian desk. He looked up when the choreographer entered, a blank expression on his face.

“I see you received the sketches,” William began, sitting.

“Hm,” Sir William said, his normally jovial manner absent.

“What do you think about them? I hate the color.”

“Darcy,” Sir William sighed, throwing the costume sketches on his desk, “do you know why I'm angry?”

“No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“I'm livid at you.”

“At me?” William said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “And what did I do now?”

Sir William threw his hands up. “What did you do? You should know well enough! You ruined the Gala!”

William folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in the chair. “Charles said the company pulled in the most donations it has in ten years.”

“It did!”

“And so I ruined the Gala, how?”

Sir William leaned forward in his chair and glared at William. “What happened to you after ten o'clock, Darcy? I couldn't find you. No one knew where you went.”

“I left.”

“You left. You left! Inexcusable! Do you know how many people were itching to hand their check to you personally? Do you know how many people asked about you? At least ten. Ten! Including Catherine Boroughs. Anne had to have some woman acquaintance take her home!”

Sighing again, William attempted to reign in his annoyance. “Last time I checked, I was a grown man, who didn't have to ask permission before I left a social function.”

The artistic director glared harder. “Don't get fresh with me, Darcy. You cost us a lot of money.”

“We pulled in $15,000 more than last year.”

Only then did Sir William crack. “But we could have pulled in so much more,” he whined. “Big C said she wouldn't write her check until she talked to you personally about your piece.”

William scowled. “I have nothing to say to her.”

“Darcy, darling, she's your godmother. Surely you can convince her to add on a few more zeros.”

“If my piece does, then fine. Otherwise, you know my policy on groveling.”

“Oh, Darcy! For such a young man, you have entirely too many policies,” Sir William whined, his bad mood dissipating.

Standing, William grinned. “And for such an old man, you have so little faith. Don't worry. We'll get her at the preview.” He turned to leave. “Oh, and we're changing the color of those unitards.”

“You know Big C hates contemporary pieces!” Sir William called out.

William waved him off and walked out of the office. He had other things to worry about. The preview was Saturday and Caroline hadn't shown up to two rehearsals. William didn't tolerate absences, especially from the principal dancers, especially before a performance, and most especially during Gala Week. Three multi-millionaire donors had sat in on William's rehearsal for fifteen minutes the day before, and he had had to justify the superstar prima's absence to them. That laxness may have been acceptable with Lucas, but with William, she was out.

The next problem was that Louisa Hurst had already been scheduled to dance in a Raymonda excerpt for the preview. It was a grueling role that, coupled with his piece, would be exhausting for her. She would never be able to perform his choreography properly after dancing Raymonda. Besides, Lucas would never approve such an imprudent cast change.

Any other choreographer in such a predicament might have panicked, begging his prima ballerina to come back and perform. William Darcy was not any other choreographer. He did not bow before conceited principals who broke rules without a thought, and he always had a contingency plan.

William was hardly surprised when Caroline again skipped Tuesday's rehearsal. Sighing, he placed his hands on his hips and scanned the room. Corps de ballet members rested on the sides, in various stretching positions, some simply watching, some whispering quietly. He zeroed in on the person he wanted.

“Ms. Bennet.” Her face flinched momentarily, but other than that, she revealed nothing in her expression. “We're missing a principal dancer again. I need you to work with Marc on the pas.”

Elizabeth hesitantly approached. He noticed timidity in her eyes, a beautiful, unsure look. William promptly looked away, feeling the fluttering of his heart already doing things to his sanity. When he willed himself not to think of her in that sense, his body surprisingly complied. There was something to be said for years of self-control and discipline.

Thereafter, rehearsal proceeded uneventfully. Without Caroline, the principals learned their roles in twice the speed it normally took them. William was pleased. He avoided giving any corrections to Elizabeth. He didn't yet trust her – or himself – to remain composed in the face of one-on-one interaction. Although he caught her eyeing him, he refused to give her any pointed looks. He would leave all of that for tonight.

After dismissing rehearsal, he headed downstairs to shower and change.

**

Elizabeth sat on the stoop of the building, resting her arms across her knees. So many convergent thoughts raced around in her head that she found they nicely cancelled each other out, leaving only a gray anxiety muddling her brain. She didn't know why she was waiting for William. She had no desire to be alone with him, and given their parting on Sunday morning, she doubted he wanted to be alone with her, either. Yet, the thought of going home, spending another night silent, troubled, probably alone, waiting for Greg to call with an explanation, held little appeal.

For two days, her every thought had been of Saturday night. Elizabeth had gone over every word, every touch, every movement so often, that she felt as though she were remembering a movie and not actual events. But it was a movie on mute, being viewed from the middle. Despite her best efforts, a hefty chunk of her memory from Saturday night had been swept away in the aftermath of too much champagne.

The door swooshed open behind her, putting an end to her contemplation. Elizabeth looked up to see William towering over her. She stood abruptly. He descended the steps and waited before her, a small smile curving his lips.

“Ready?”

It took a moment before Elizabeth trusted her voice to reply. “Um, ready for what?”

“Dinner,” he said abruptly.

“You didn't even ask me if I had plans. I might have plans, you know.” Elizabeth felt her resolve returning.

“Okay. Do you have plans?”

“No.”

William looked at her curiously. “Then let's go.” Without waiting for her, he turned and began walking uptown. Elizabeth's chest heaved in anger. Running to catch up with him, she strode to keep his pace. She glared up at him.

“What?” he snapped, when he caught a glimpse of her face.

“Where are we going?”

“An Italian place a few blocks away.”

Nothing else was said until they reached the restaurant. Once inside, William removed his heavy pea coat, revealing a gray cashmere sweater and perfectly tailored wool pants that were far nicer than the jeans and sneakers she had on. Elizabeth swore she saw the hostess wrinkle her nose.

“You could have warned me,” Elizabeth whispered sharply once they were seated across a candle-lit table.

“Of?”

She gestured to her sweatshirt. William shrugged. “You look fine.”

“The hostess doesn't seem to think so.”

“The hostess makes eight dollars an hour. Don't worry about her.”

Elizabeth bristled and snapped her eyes down to the drink menu. Skimming the list, her eyes widened at the prices. Six dollars for a Coke? A sharply dressed waiter came to take their drink order.

“Iced tea,” William ordered.

“Just water, please,” Elizabeth said.

“San Pellegrino or Boario?”

“Uh…just tap water will be fine.”

The waiter paused, then nodded and headed back to the kitchen. Elizabeth let a small sigh escape her lungs, which went unnoticed by William as he scanned the menu.

“The gnocchi here is outstanding. But so is the roast pork loin,” he commented.

Elizabeth opened up her menu. Linguine marinara, the cheapest entrée on the menu, was nineteen dollars. She sat in silence, running her eyes up the page, desperation wracking at her chest. Swallowing, she closed the menu and tried to smile.

“I'll let you recommend something.”

Glancing up at her, William considered her offer and then went back to his menu. The waiter returned with their drinks and took their order. Tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, leek soup, gnocchi in a four-cheese sauce, and roast pork loin. Maybe dessert later. Elizabeth shifted in her chair, making a mental tally, and then realized she wasn't hungry at all. After the waiter departed, William stirred his tea casually with the straw and smiled at her. Elizabeth felt her heartbeat trip in anxiety.

“So,” she said, “What's up?”

William smiled lopsidedly. “Nothing's up.”

“Okay…then why did you want to talk to me?”

“I didn't want to talk to you. I mean, I do. Want to talk to you. But I had nothing specific in mind.”

Elizabeth frowned and adjusted the napkin in her lap. “I just thought…because of the note and all…that you needed to tell me something.”

“No.”

“All right, then is there a reason you asked me here tonight?”

William chuckled. “Why do you think, Elizabeth?”

The way he said “Elizabeth” made the hairs on her arm stand on end. She shifted again “To talk about Saturday night.”

“Do you want to talk about Saturday night?”

Elizabeth shrugged, feeling her face warm. If he had no particular agenda, why had he brought her here? It had all of the trappings of a date - a man and a woman, a candlelit table, an Italian restaurant. But, the idea of a date with William was so ludicrous and farfetched. She knew she must have had a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to regain her composure. Elizabeth looked up and smiled nervously. Then, looking away, she made a trite comment on the décor of the restaurant.

William propped up his cheek with his hand and smiled. Light from the small candle on their table flickered over Elizabeth's face, deepening the color of her skin and lips. He saw the flame's reflection bouncing in her bright eyes, and felt a deep satisfaction warm him. It felt good to finally be with her like this. He had wrestled with his emotions for so long, dreamed of her body on his in so many ways, been haunted by her in the studio and in his bed before sleep. Now, he was simply relieved. At Saturday's Gala, she had made the decision for him with her sudden, zealous kiss. That was the hard part, wasn't it? Acting. And he hadn't even had to. Now, he simply needed to proceed as usual. The hard part was over.

He didn't mind the lapses in their conversation. It gave him the opportunity to observe her – her adorably freckled nose, her small, heart-shaped lips, her bright eyes, and that mane of hair, straight and glossy and aching for his fingers. William felt his body respond and pushed those thoughts away until he could satiate himself in her again tonight.

The soup arrived, and William smiled smugly as Elizabeth blathered her way through it, making nervous comments about the texture of the broth and the designs on the bowls. He was struck by how young she was, so tense in the company of a man. William found it a welcome change from the urbanity of the women he normally dated. She was twenty-three, beautiful, bright, a miracle lover, and nearly blubbering with girlish nervousness in his presence. William leaned back in his chair and smiled. Yes, he still had it.

Elizabeth had nearly had it. For twenty minutes, she had sustained a monologue about the goddamned tablecloths, soup broth, filigree on the bowls, Florence, and Leonardo da-fucking-Vinci, and she was through. If William wanted to keep smiling his patronizing, little smiles, then he could do it in silence. She didn't know why he had brought her here if he simply meant to stare condescendingly the entire evening. Elizabeth wondered what Jane was doing, and inwardly scowled when she imagined her sister with her perfect, un-patronizing boyfriend.

The pasta came. Elizabeth hated cream sauces. She hated sharing a plate of pasta with William Darcy even more. If he liked the gnocchi so goddamn much, she would let him to it.

“You're not going to eat anymore?” he asked.

She raised her palms and offered him the rest. Tapping her foot against the floor, she cringed when she made contact with William's leg. “Sorry.”

“Are you nervous?” he asked her, his voice dropping to a silky burr.

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Good guess, Sherlock.” She smiled archly. He returned the smile, more mysterious than the Mona Lisa. Looking away, Elizabeth felt like she would explode with ire. How could such a man, so smooth and handsome, be such a schmuck?

The evening crawled along. Little meaningful conversation was to be had. They talked haltingly about New York City springs, the Yankees, about Elizabeth's father's obsession with hockey, and then the tiramisu was brought and inhaled, mostly by Elizabeth. She nearly cried with happiness when the check came. William tossed his platinum Amex down carelessly into the leather folder and handed it back to the waiter. Although Elizabeth offered to pay, he waved her off.

Throughout dinner, the look in his eyes had grown increasingly unreadable. Once outside, she felt as if she were staring into the eyes of some kind of animal, they were that dark and indecipherable. She was confused. Dinner had all of the trappings of a date, yet what a bizarre, horrid date it had been - stilted conversation, belittling stares, long silences. What was the meaning of it all? Elizabeth didn't know, and she didn't particularly care. She just wanted to get home, see if Greg had called, change into her PJs, and join Jane on the sofa for Friends reruns.

William hailed a cab, which jerked to a halt at the curb. He opened the door and left it that way.

“Well, ladies first,” he said.

Elizabeth pointed in the opposite direction. “No, that's okay. I'll take the subway.”

William smiled. “We can take a cab back to my place, Elizabeth. It won't cost more than five dollars.”

“I'm going home.”

The smile on William's face instantly faded. “What?”

“There's class tomorrow at nine o'clock. I have to go home.”

“You can go to class from my place.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Elizabeth suddenly understood. She glowered. The expensive meal had been just an overture to a badly wanted encore of Saturday night. She backed away, unable to control the anger in her voice.

“No,” she growled, “I'm going home. Goodnight, William. I'll see you on Friday.”

Before he had the chance to reply, she spun on her heel and began walking in the direction of the subway station. Several long moments later, she heard a car door slam and a taxi speed off uptown.

**

William had lived in his apartment for thirty-five years, in the master bedroom for a little over three, since his father had died. Yet, Elizabeth had been there for only a night, several hours really, and suddenly the whole place reminded him of her. His body groaned for her. William glanced over to the bathroom door. A shower, ice cold, might give him a moment of relief. Stripping and tossing his clothes in an uncharacteristic clump on the floor, he marched to the shower and turned the cold water all the way up.

William stood under the freezing jet spray, his whole body shivering and goose-fleshed. The water did everything to cool off his body, but nothing for his thoughts. There had been poison in her voice. Why? William didn't understand. He had taken her to an expensive, Italian meal at one of his favorite restaurants. He had admired her the whole night. He hadn't been brusque. He'd smiled. That was more than he could say for any other first date he'd had in a long time. Then, why?

Turning off the water, William quickly reached for a towel and patted himself dry. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower, padding over to the bathroom counter. Leaning into it, he inspected himself in the mirror. Sure, there were a few tiny wrinkles, but he looked better than most men his age who were stuck in some nine-to-five desk job. He stepped back, rubbed his biceps. Rotating to profile, he flexed his triceps and nodded in approval. He looked good. He'd always known it. Women thought so. It just made him all the more frustrated.

He paced back into his bedroom. While his body at least was not burning with need anymore, his chest was still wracked with anxiety. William stopped, looked around, and grew livid. She hadn't even thanked him for dinner. Here he was banging his head against the wall over some ungrateful girl. It was absurd. A girl. A corps girl. He dated lawyers, socialites, wannabe actresses, women. Not silly, ungrateful corps girls. William laughed hollowly, hearing the strain in his voice. Resuming his pacing, he glanced at his bed, neatly made, but, he could only remember how pleasantly disheveled and sheet-less it had been a few mornings ago. His anger crumpled.

God, he had been happy on Saturday night. Happy like he hadn't felt in months, maybe years. Light, giddy, satisfied. Like good things stretched before him for miles, finally. Like years of gray had ended on Saturday night. And now he felt like they were back with a vengeance. All because of some ungrateful, disrespectful, simple corps de ballet dancer.

Could he doubt it anymore? She had ensnared him. He loved her. And now he would have to suffer fools to relish that love. William laughed bitterly again, imagining himself spending the night in her Harlem apartment, probably being dragged downtown to the movies or clubs or to Herald Square to shop or whatever normal twenty-three-year-old girls did for fun. No wonder she'd felt so awkward tonight; Elizabeth had probably never been to a restaurant that fancy. William threw his hands up and sighed.

“Well, I suppose there's nothing I can do about it now,” he grumbled. Maybe he had been an ass that night. Maybe he should have asked Elizabeth what she wanted to do, rather than presume she liked posh Italian meals. Maybe she preferred fluorescent-lit pizza parlors. In any case, he would have to apologize to her on Friday, and learn how to stoop to her lifestyle if he wanted this to work. That was what love was about, right? Flushing your pride down the toilet, adapting to the other, blah blah blah. William grumbled to himself and sighed, shuffling downstairs to the kitchen to satisy a recently insatiable craving for homemade garlic bread.

Chapter 15

Rehearsals during Gala Week proceeded more efficiently than they did under usual circumstances. The pressure to perform, both on the dancers', choreographers', and artistic directors' parts, grew heavier when several multi-millionaires sat at the front of the studio, contemplating how many figures to tack onto their check. William Darcy's Monday and Tuesday rehearsals were productive; the principals had completely learned the pas de deux, and he had just begun to clean it. While it was not ready for the New York City stage, it would suffice at the Spring Season Preview. The audiences wanted to see William's piece, which meant to Sir William Lucas, that they were also willing to pay generously for the privilege. Had it been any other choreographer, Lucas would have refused to show an inferior work of dance. However, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to rake in several thousand dollars more for the company.

No benefactors, no matter how wealthy, were permitted in Friday's rehearsal. The choreographers needed time alone with their dancers before the Preview. Looking back, William had never felt more grateful for that stipulation than he did that year.

Elizabeth's face flushed completely red. She waited with her head thrown back for Marc to receive his correction from William. Although he knew he could never have the entire pas de deux cleaned by the next day, William had his pride, too, and strived to have at least the first minutes perfect and glittering.

“Right. The other arm at a ninety-degree angle with your…”

The back door creaked open, cutting him off. Caroline slinked in the room, smiling broadly. Half of the dancers turned to gawk at her, the other half at Mr. Darcy, whose face broke into a scowl.

“Sorry,” Caroline sang, as she strode towards the center of the room, “what did I miss?”

Her eyes alighted on Elizabeth, and she narrowed them. Crossing his arms over his chest, William pursed his lips in annoyance.

“Oh, only three rehearsals. Nothing minor,” he snapped.

Caroline tittered jovially. “You know how nervous I get during Gala Week.”

If there was one thing everyone knew, it was that Caroline Bingley never got nervous, especially during Gala Week when she had a daily opportunity to strut in front of New York's wealthiest. William clenched his jaw and said nothing. Still smiling, Caroline sashayed to the center of the room.

“Well, where did we last leave off? Thanks, Elizabeth, I can take it from here.”

Elizabeth stumbled out of Marc's grasp.

“Ms. Bingley, there have been some cast changes since you've last been here,” William said brusquely.

“Oh? I've heard nothing about any cast changes.”

“They were last minute. You've been cut.”

Caroline's face went white with anger. She began sputtering, “W-what!? Does William Lucas know about this?”

Several of the dancers murmured on the sides.

“You walked out of rehearsal last week and have missed three rehearsals since. Please shut the door on your way out.” William turned back to his dancers, and plastered on a stiff smile. “Let's go from that section again.”

Caroline was seething. “You can't just kick me out! Or, have you forgotten who's dancing the lead role in the Preview tomorrow?”

William smirked at her. “I haven't forgotten at all. Thank you, Ms. Bingley. As I said, please close the door on your way out.”

Laughing, Caroline turned her sharp nose from William to Elizabeth. The corps girl inhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders against Caroline's bared canines. “Oh no, William. Have you gone mad? A corps de ballet member? Oh, my God. This is too hysterical. Wait until I tell Lucas.”

Elizabeth's face paled. Mouth ajar, she stared up at William.

“Elizabeth is dancing the pas de deux tomorrow,” the choreographer replied calmly, “in spite of what you or Lucas want.”

Everyone in the room now gaped at Elizabeth. Looking up at him in bewilderment, she muttered, “Mr. Darcy, stop” under her breath. He glared at her briefly and then turned back to Caroline, raising his eyebrows in a haughty invitation for her to once again defy him.

“Oh, no,” she chuckled, “I'm dancing the pas de deux tomorrow, William. And I'm sure both Charles and Lucas will back me up on this one.”

William breathed deeply. Looking at his dancers, he snapped, “From that section again.”

Caroline's nostrils flared. Stamping her foot on the floor, she whirled around and stormed out of the studio. As she left, she screamed, “And there's your fucking door!” before slamming it so hard that the windows on the opposite side of the studio rattled. All of the dancers were wide-eyed, including Elizabeth, who stood mute and trembling in the center of the room.

“Ms. Bennet, let's go,” William seethed.

Elizabeth glared up at him, her hands shaking in rage. Her throat constricted painfully as she willed herself not to cry. With barely a day of preparation, there was no way she would be able to dance this role tomorrow. Her chest heaved shakily. Then, she felt Marc's comforting hand on her waist.

“Come on, Liz,” he whispered. It took a few deep breaths for Elizabeth to compose herself sufficiently to dance. Once she began, William growled at her about her hip. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. They got halfway through the sequence before the door once again creaked open.

This time, all heads snapped towards the noise. Charles appeared in the doorway, and looked right at William. Nothing was spoken between the two men. The resigned look on Charles' face said enough. Sighing, William massaged his eyes and then walked towards the door. Charles opened it wider, allowing his friend to breeze past him wordlessly.

“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “you too, please.”

She lowered her head and reddened in humiliation as she crossed the studio and left. Charles dismissed rehearsal and thanked the dancers. Even from the stairwell, she could hear Sir William Lucas' voice booming in anger a floor above her. Elizabeth stopped on the landing, gasping for air. Charles caught up with her and squeezed her shoulder.

“Calm down. You did nothing wrong. Lucas will probably send you home in a few minutes. This is all just a misunderstanding.”

Feeling like she would hyperventilate, Elizabeth took two deep, shaky breaths. “I knew nothing about this. He just- all of a sudden- back there...Dammit!”

“Liz, relax. This is between Will and Caroline. Nothing's going to happen to you. Come on.” Charles rubbed her back and smiled at her. Forcing a smile, Elizabeth nodded and willed her legs to finish the trek to William Lucas' office.

“…even tell me! We already have the programs printed up! You can't just go and change casting the day before the show, William!”

Charles cleared his throat and ushered Elizabeth into William Lucas' office. Caroline glowered at her and muttered a string of nasty comments under her breath. William wore an expression of stone, refusing to make eye contact with Elizabeth.

“Close the door, please, Charles,” Sir William ordered. The artistic director smiled at Elizabeth. “I'm sorry about this, honey. Don't worry, I just need to hear your side of the story.”

“My side?”

Sir William nodded, and Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I don't really have one. Mr. Darcy just suddenly announced today that I would be dancing the pas de deux. I knew nothing about it.” Elizabeth was surprised by how even her words came out, when her insides had turned to blubber.

“I see. Caroline claims you had been learning the part all along.”

“She wasn't…” interjected William.

“When I ask for your opinion, you'll give it to me, Darcy,” the artistic director snapped. Looking away, William paced to the window and looked down at the street below.

“I hadn't been learning the part necessarily. I- I helped Mr. Darcy choreograph it. I was his guinea pig, so to speak.” Elizabeth looked to the back of William's head. He made no reply.

“So, you weren't understudying it?” William Lucas asked.

“No, sir. At least, if I were, I didn't know about it.”

Caroline suddenly took a step towards Elizabeth, her eyes ablaze. “You left out the part about fucking him! How convenient.”

William snapped his head around, a snarl on his lips. Charles broke in first. “Caroline, out!” He flung open the door and gestured for her to leave. The prima glared at Elizabeth before walking out in a huff.

Recovering himself, Sir William managed to smile weakly at Elizabeth. “I'm so sorry about this, love. Why don't you wait outside for a few moments while I talk to Darcy?”

Nodding mutely, Elizabeth scurried out of the room. Once in the hall, she threw her back against the wall by Sir William Lucas' now-closed door and, shutting her eyes, sighed heavily. Fortunately, the hallway was empty and silent. Her hands still trembled uncontrollably. Rubbing her eyes with them, she contemplated her fate. She didn't know if a sexual relationship with a co-worker was against company rules. Would she be fired? No, she reasoned. After all, Sir William knew about Jane and Charles. The artistic director hadn't seemed angry with her at all. He had just called her in to more fairly assess the situation. Feeling her heartbeat begin to calm, her fear turned to fury towards William.

“Presumptuous, selfish asshole,” she muttered, before groaning in aggravation. Sudden, muffled shouts filtered out from behind the door. She recognized William and Mr. Lucas' voices. Elizabeth felt no pity for the choreographer. What in God's name had he been thinking? He had never once mentioned that he'd wanted her to dance the pas de deux. Then, to drop the news so unceremoniously in the middle of rehearsal, the day before the performance no less! Was he insane?

Elizabeth had never felt so used, like a pawn in his skirmishes with Caroline Bingley, an excellent checkmate. Elizabeth's temper began to simmer. It was typical of him. Ever the self-serving egomaniac, William couldn't possibly understand what it was to be used as human fodder for a person like Caroline. The venom in the prima's eyes. Simply remembering it, the skin on her arms puckered and her heart thudded.

Then, suddenly, the woman herself appeared. Stopping when she spied Elizabeth, Caroline smiled dangerously, paced towards her, and leaned her bony shoulder against the wall. Elizabeth turned and ignored her. She heard more muffled shouts from the office. Caroline snickered.

“Would you like to know the irony of this whole situation?” she hissed.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, not bothering to respond.

“Well, I'll tell you anyway. The irony is that William gives you a better part because you put out, but told Charles not to promote Jane because they were dating. A bit hypocritical, don't you think?”

Caroline knew she had hit bull's-eye from the stunned expression on the young dancer's face.

“William didn't tell you? My brother wanted to promote Jane. William wanted Anne. And well,” Caroline inspected her fingernails casually, “we all know how it turned out. Ironic, no? Especially since Jane's a far better dancer than you, Elizabeth. Frankly, I don't know what William was thinking. Unless...you do great things in bed. Maybe you could give me a few pointers after this whole mess is resolved.”

Too shocked and insulted to reply, Elizabeth simply stared at the prima ballerina. The night of the Netherfield Gala came crashing back to her and more specifically, the conversation between Catherine Boroughs and William Lucas that she'd overheard. She felt as though she should say something and heard herself stuttering a reply, but the only thing she was cognizant of was Caroline's smug expression.

Suddenly, the door swung open and William charged out with a black expression on his face. He paused, glaring at Caroline, before storming wordlessly down the hall and into his office. The door slammed sharply, making Elizabeth jump. Caroline grinned and slithered back into Sir William's office. Elizabeth heard her sing, “I knew he'd come around.” She received no reply.

Charles came outside. Smiling sadly to Elizabeth, he shrugged. “Liz...”

She held her hand up. “You don't have to apologize. It was wrong of him to do that. I-I'm actually relieved. I wasn't ready to dance the pas de deux.”

Charles sighed, half in relief, half in resignation. “Then let me apologize for...” He nodded towards Sir William's office. Caroline's words, her expressions rushed back to Elizabeth, crashing over her like a tsunami. She made no reply.

“Why don't you go get changed? There's no more rehearsal today.”

Elizabeth glanced at William's door.

“And don't worry about him,” Charles continued. “He just needs to cool off.”

Nodding, Elizabeth felt her insides churning with anger, with fear, and with leaden disappointment. She smiled at Charles, thanked him, and then slowly made her way down to the locker room.

When she swung open the door, all activity and noise ceased. Everyone eyed her. Inhaling, Elizabeth quickly skirted to her locker and concentrated hard on ignoring the stares. Charlotte, who was neatly winding the ribbons around her pointe shoes, put them down and touched her friend's arm.

“Are you okay?”

Elizabeth nodded and smiled at Charlotte.

“What happened?”

“I'll tell you later,” whispered Elizabeth, not really wanting to say anything at all. Jane approached and hugged her sister's shoulders. Knowing Elizabeth, she asked nothing, simply kissing her sister on the cheek, and walking back to her locker. Inwardly, Elizabeth cringed. Whatever Jane imagined must have happened to Elizabeth, she would never know that she was the real victim. Jane had been so close to promotion, and William Darcy had denied her that. Elizabeth slammed her locker shut, making Charlotte jump.

Elizabeth showered and changed without speaking to anyone. She felt the inquisitive stares on her back, but fortunately, the dancers saved the gossip for when she wouldn't be around. She didn't care what they thought, anyway. What did their opinions matter, when the Almighty Darcy lorded over them all?

Elizabeth stuffed her leotard, tights, and warmers into her duffel bag. She swore under her breath. Her water bottle and towel were upstairs in the studio. Letting out a string of curses any truck driver would be proud of, she knew she was more aggravated than the situation warranted. Elizabeth slung her bag over her shoulder, and wordlessly strode from the locker room, knowing the room would burst into gossip the moment she left.

Bounding up the two flights of steps, she marched straight to the studio. Elizabeth entered, her sneakers screeching on the floor as she stopped dead. William stood at the opposite end of the room, leaning his elbows against the wooden stereo cart. He propped up his forehead on balled fists. It was a posture of despair. Realizing he had company, he quickly straightened his back and looked up. His face visibly tensed, and then relaxed when he saw his visitor was Elizabeth.

Both stood at opposite sides of the room, staring at the other. Elizabeth felt ire lap at her chest. Caroline's words echoed in her head: “Ironic, no? Especially since Jane's a far better dancer than you, Elizabeth. Frankly, I don't know what William was thinking. Unless...you do great things in bed.”

Elizabeth quickly strode to get her water bottle, on the other side of the room. The distance between them diminished sharply when William began pacing towards her. Once she had snatched her bottle and towel, Elizabeth spun around and marched away from William.

“I know you're upset,” he said, violating the silence.

Elizabeth stopped again, her sneakers squeaking. “I am.” Her voice was acid.

“I fought for you, but Lucas can see nothing but dollar signs in his head.”

When Elizabeth's expression remained stony, he sighed, looked down to the floor, and smiled weakly. Then he passed her, crossing the room, and shut the door. He turned and leaned back against the closed door.

“I wanted you in the pas de deux. It doesn't look right without you. It's come to the point where you're the only person I see when I choreograph.” He shrugged. “Looks like I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, huh?”

Elizabeth's face flinched, and she frowned. Unsure of the meaning behind his words, she could find no appropriate reply. Folding her arms, Elizabeth felt her anger simmering.

“Look, I'm just as upset as you,” William continued, “and now I'm stuck with Caroline, who doesn't even know half of the pas de deux and who couldn't dance it right even if she did.” William threw up his hands in frustration.

“No, I don't think you could possibly be as upset as me.”

William stared at her and then scowled. He pushed himself off of the door and made his way to Elizabeth. Thinking he would begin a tirade against her, Elizabeth frowned when he brushed her cheek gently with his fingers.

“I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I really thought the pas de deux could work with you in it. I let my feelings get the best of me. I guess love turns even rational men into idiots.”

Elizabeth's heart began to beat faster. He continued stroking her jaw line with his thumb. Glancing over to his hand, she frowned and then slapped it away. William started and stepped back. Elizabeth glared at him, her face turning red.

“Love?” she spat. “Love! With who?”

William's eyes darkened as they did when he choreographed. His eyes darted across her face, down her torso, and back up to her eyes. Shaking her head, Elizabeth looked away.

“Bullshit,” she whispered, “that's such bullshit. With me?”

His face flinched. “Of course, with you. You'd have to be an idiot not to know that.”

Her eyes widened and then she laughed. “That's such bullshit.”

William blinked.

“Do you expect me to believe that? After the way you've treated me today? After the way you always treat me?”

William's breathing quickened. He pursed his lips. “Well, yes. I brought you back to my house, I was about to cast you in my pas de deux…”

“You look down on me, you treat me like I'm a piece of gum stuck on your shoe, you treat me like some kind of Barbie doll and not a person with feelings.”

“I don't do those things, and you know it, Elizabeth.”

“No,” she replied, her voice trembling with anger, “you do. You treat everyone like that. Me, Charles, even Caroline, whose face I so badly want to mangle right now, but who deserves better than your cold contempt! You're not in love with me, William. You're in love with yourself. Or rather, with your choreography.”

“I've never given you anything but preferential treatment,” he protested, his voice wooden.

“Yes, and I never asked for it! Why couldn't you have bestowed that same generosity on my sister when you advised Charles not to promote her?”

Paling, William opened his mouth to reply, but then quickly shut it. He looked stunned.

“Caroline told me everything,” spat Elizabeth. Placing his hands on his hips, William turned from her and began pacing slowly. His face was twisted in agitation.

William inhaled. “Your sister is a fine dancer, but there were other, more important reasons why she couldn't be promoted this season.”

“Charles wanted to promote her.”

“Charles wasn't thinking straight! It would have been a huge mistake to promote your sister this season, and I told him so. I've used more rationality with him, than I have with myself.”

Elizabeth bristled. “And what's your justification for Greg Wickham?”

“Greg Wickham?! That shit stood you up and you're still defending him?”

“I'm interested in Greg Wickham only as he relates to Jane. You got him fired. Just like you screwed my-”

“Got him fired! Yes, I've wanted to hear you explain that gem since the Gala. Exactly how did I get Greg Wickham fired?” The veins on William's neck bulged in anger. At the outburst, Elizabeth stepped back, feeling momentarily intimidated by his rage.

“He…he didn't say.”

William snorted. “Yes, of course. Of course he didn't say! But you believed him anyway. Because it's so easy to believe someone who simpers and flatters and lies as easily as most people breathe. Maybe if I did the same, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. But, I'm sorry. I'm not made like that. I don't go around spouting poems to every woman I meet.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists. “No, you just get off on humiliating us! You think you're hot shit and you treat us accordingly.”

“What should I have said to you, Elizabeth? Great extensions? Nice jumps? Should I have brought you a dozen roses at every rehearsal? Taken you on dates to the mall? Or, would you like a sonnet? I'm not a poet, but I can probably think up bullshit that's just as good as Greg Wickham's.”

Elizabeth inhaled slowly and shakily. Closing her eyes briefly, she shook her head. “There,” she said quietly. “Right there. Proof that you're an arrogant, self-centered, insensitive ass. I almost feel insulted that a man like you would fall in love with me.”

Nostrils flaring, William answered her with a deadly calm. “Hold on. You slept with me.”

“That was a drunken mistake.”

“You weren't drunk.”

“You've never fucked someone just for the hell of it?”

Opening his mouth, William tried to respond, but shut it suddenly. He reminded Elizabeth of a fish gasping for its last breath, but she couldn't savor her victory. William's words stung too much. Rehearsal had bruised her. Caroline's confession had broken bones. She felt knocked-down, bloody, and exhausted. So she simply stood there, her eyes distant, waiting for William to say something.

“All right…I see. I've misunderstood what we were. I'm sorry if I've offended you. Good luck tomorrow. I'll see you at the theater,” he said. He cast her a look she couldn't read, and then swept past her, his footsteps resounding on the wooden floors, leaving Elizabeth alone with only the sounds of Manhattan's streets in the background.

 

 

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