I can't believe it's been such a long time, the last year and a half has felt like a blur. But thank you so much for all your encouraging reviews, I'm so glad you're still drawn to this story. And I'm sorry, as always, for being such a shoddy updater. Thank you! I hope you're safe with your loved ones.

Chapter 10

The weather was dreary. Gone was the sunshine which glinted off the iron sea and the salty, lemon-scented air. Vast sheets of rain poured down the glass panes and made the occupants of each house want to curl up in bed with a book.

Lydia burst into Mary's room as its occupant was doing just that.

"Mary! What on Earth are you doing reading? Haven't you heard the news? No, of course, you couldn't have."

Mary set her book down. Every time the matter of "news" came up, she was on her guard. Three days had passed without incident since the episode on the beach. She was still pretending to be vaguely ill.

"Fanny and the Colonel have been invited to the Royal Pavilion! I saw the invitation on the footman's tray! I'm sure they're going to call us down any moment to tell us!"

Mary released a breath. She frowned. "It's rude to nose around in people's letters, Lydia."

"I did not nose around! I only stole a glance at it when the footman was called to the front door. Oh, do you think we'll be able to go, too? We must, surely! What if Prince George was in attendance? What if he noticed me?" Lydia mused wistfully, walking up and down the room.

Mary sat up. "I'm quite sure Prince George won't be in attendance."

"How do you know?"

"Do you believe Brighton wouldn't have caught wind of it beforehand? I'm sure they anticipate his visits before he even makes it out of London."

"He might arrive incognito!"

"You read far too many novels," Mary muttered, reaching for a glass of water.

"Me? What about you, getting rescued by Mr. Wickham like a proper heroine," Lydia teased.

Mary grimaced. "Please refrain from calling me that."

"Oh, tosh! Any other girl would be dying to be in your shoes. I've been meaning to ask…what did it feel like to be carried in his strong arms?" Lydia asked, sitting down on the bed with a languorous sigh.

Mary grabbed the volume she was reading and struck Lydia on the back. "I'm going to sock you if you don't stop it."

"Mary! We're not twelve anymore!"

"Then stop behaving like a child."

Their scuffle was interrupted by the maid.

"Pardon, Miss Bennet and…Miss Bennet, you're both wanted downstairs."

"What did I tell you?" Lydia cried out. She whirled in a happy circle. "We're going to the Royal Pavilion!"

Mary groaned.

"I'm afraid…you won't be able to come with us to the Pavilion," Mrs. Forster explained, looking quite pained.

Lydia deflated like a popped balloon. She collapsed in an armchair and put her head in her hands.

"Noooo," she wailed, miserably. "Please, Fanny, you can't leave us here! Oh, I'll never have another chance in all my life to see the inside of a palace!"

"It's not quite a palace," the Colonel interjected pedantically. "But the minarets are quite splendid… That Oriental style gives the Prince credit, for it was his idea, you know…"

He stopped abruptly when he noticed his wife glaring.

"I'm afraid we cannot extend the invitation to our guests, as much as we'd like to," she continued calmly. "You see, it's a matter of great privilege. Invitations are scarce. Only the Colonel and I may attend. Why, there's talk that the Earl of Albemarle will be there and many of the Prince's friends…"

Mary, who had attended all of this with perfect equanimity and not a small degree of relief (for, despite the Pavilion's architectural wonders, she had no desire to explore it) regarded her sister with genuine sadness. Lydia was a silly goose, but she did not deserve to have her hopes dashed so cruelly.

"I thought you said it was very unlikely that you would be invited," Mary pointed out coolly.

Mrs Forster's smiled a thin smile. "Well, Mary, the Colonel appealed to his friends and ensured we would get an introduction. My husband commands his majesty's troops. He is quite deserving of the honor."

For his part, Colonel Forster looked quite uncomfortable to be referred to in the third person.

Mary shrugged. "There is no doubt of that, but surely, couldn't the introductions have waited until we were gone so as not to disappoint my sister?"

Lydia raised her head sharply. Her eyes were swimming in tears. She stared at Mary in shock. "Mary! We certainly do not wish to be gone! Oh, we'll stay, even if we have to sleep in the attic!"

Mrs Forster fanned herself in distress. "Good lord, there's no need to sleep in the attic! We are very happy to have you. But I'm sure you can see that this privation is not meant as a slight."

Mary nodded. "Yes…I've spoken out of turn. I apologize. We appreciate your kindness."

Mrs Forster privately thought that she did not sound at all apologetic. She eyed the elder sister shrewdly, but Mary held her head high.

Lydia mopped at her tears. "Oh, how shall we console ourselves when you are gone to the reception?"

Mrs Forster patted her arm. "I shall invite Mrs Kenilworth and her cousin, Miss Brereton to keep you company. You shall a lovely little dinner here…and who knows who else might turn up."

Lydia parted her lips. She and Fanny seemed to share a secret look.

Mary frowned. "How do you mean?"

But Mrs Forster rose quickly and spoke about needing all the help the girls could offer in preparing for the great event. That was the poor Colonel's cue to leave, and he was very thankful for it.

Lydia seemed to recover from her disappointment very quickly. She became aflutter with excitement at the thought of looking through Fanny's dresses. She followed the mistress up the stairs.

Mary watched them. She had a bad feeling about all of it.

There was nothing better than a house without its masters. Often times, far more mischief could be managed in a respectable home whose only armor of defence was an elderly chaperone. Why, there was something so perverse about it that it rivalled the pleasures of a brothel. Wickham stepped on the soft, lush carpet of the parlour floor, feeling illicit. What a great irony, letting the wolf come through the front door.

It was just him, Denny and Carter tonight, but the three of them would do a fine job of it. Mrs Kenilworth would succumb to sleep in her armchair once she was plied with enough wine. Miss Brereton, though past five and thirty, was all giggling nervousness at the appearance of men. She would do just fine. They'd indulge in a few games of cards and they'd ask the young women to sit close by for good luck. Then a spot of dancing and a spot of wine-stained kissing, if done right. There were many ways to use a fire-screen, and the servants would be none the wiser.

Lydia Bennet quickly leaped up to greet him, attired in her finest muslin, a little pink ribbon on the front of her dress. She was like a slice of raspberry marmalade, so sweet and homely it set one's teeth on edge. He did not have to do much to get in her good graces.

"Oh, Mr. Wickham, you must convince Mary that there's nothing wrong with you staying for dinner!" she whined.

Finally, he glanced in her direction. He had sensed her the moment he stepped into the room. She was speaking quietly to Mrs Kenilworth. Her expression was forbidding. She was wearing a dark brown gingham dress with a white spencer underneath, buttoned stiffly up to her neck and down to her wrists. The sight of her, fortressed and shut tight and so very much on edge made him feel a hot flicker in his belly. She always knew just what to do to, didn't she?

He approached Mary and Mrs Kenilworth with a genial smile.

"I am much aggrieved to hear that we have intruded upon your company. Had we but known that you wished for a private dinner we would have made our excuses to Mrs Forster."

Mrs Kenilworth fluttered her hands in alarm. "Oh, no, Sir! You must certainly stay! We are quite happy with the arrangement! Young ladies ought not to be left to their own devices. Mrs Forster entrusted me with the task of chaperoning, and I shall certainly not disappoint her. I'm a mother of officers, after all, and I know a thing or two about them."

Yes, as you never tire of telling us, he thought, much entertained by the witless woman.

"Ah, but I do not believe Miss Bennet agrees with the arrangement. I believe she has been telling you to ask us to leave."

Mary drew herself up to her full stature. Haughty and self-possessed and so very much at his mercy, he decided. She believed herself to be separate from him, but you can't run away from your shadow.

"I have, indeed," Mary spoke boldly. "For my sister is not yet out in society and there is only one married woman here for whom this dinner would not be a terrible impropriety."

Wickham smiled faintly, a smile only meant for her, cold and sinuous and softly piercing.

"Terrible impropriety?" he echoed. "Tell me, why would it be improper? Have we done anything to make you think ill of us?"

Mary opened her mouth, but Mrs Kenilworth interceded on her behalf.

"Miss Bennet is an overly cautious young lady, which speaks well for her character, but she must not forget her manners," the elderly woman spoke with a pointed glare in her direction. "She ought to be grateful you were there to rescue her from the elements."

Wickham lowered his head humbly, but he watched her, even when he couldn't see her.

Mary's face turned to chalk. He could smear his fingers on it.

His face across the table was obscured by the flickering candles. Light cast shadows into the groves his face. Every time he wielded his knife, new sparks of light were drawn and rejected by his smile.

Mary tried not to look at him.

Wickham spared her no glance. He was seemingly occupied with Lydia and Miss Brereton.

Yet, they were always watching each other, always hunting the silent, invisible animal between them.

Mary felt it as intensely as she felt each sip of water-diluted wine. She drank little.

Mrs Kenilworth was on her third glass. She mentioned the Pavilion and what a fine thing it was that the Colonel and his wife had been invited.

Lieutenant Carter leaned forward on one side of the old woman and filled her glass for her. "Certainly, a very fine thing, but we'd hazard they're not having a better evening than us. Why, we wouldn't switch places for the world. The entire Pavilion does not afford such good company."

Mrs Kenilworth was very pleased with his statement, very pleased indeed.

Mary felt it her duty to temper the compliment.

"Does your judgement then exclude Colonel Forster and Mrs Forster, or are you saying they are not good company?"

Carter was stumped. He laughed uneasily. "Oh, I err, certainly not…"

"Mary, he said no such thing!" Lydia protested. "Stop being dull."

"Lydia, we mustn't speak that way," Miss Brereton chided her with a blush, for she was not used to so many men staring at her at once.

Wickham hid a catlike smile behind his glass.

The buttoned dress squeezed all the blood out of her. He noticed how hard the cuffs cut into her wrists. He watched surreptitiously the tines of her fork cutting down her lip, leaving no trace. Bloodless, indeed.

Wickham wondered at the strange construction of people. Some were made one way, some another. She had somehow been made precisely for his private pleasures. That was the secret balance of the world, the search for people whose construction matched yours, though they had been bred for vastly different purposes.

Her mind and body offered endless rooms for exploration.

Perhaps some feeble-minded people called it love. But he knew it was not love. Love was some sort of fantasy that one eventually grew out of, and never felt again, like catching the mumps and living through the fever and then being quite immune. Men believed they loved women and this induced them to marry them, eventually, if there was also a tidy sum of money, and then, in three months' time or less, they would discover they'd only wanted a trip to the town fair and they were quite done with the excitement.

No, he happily did not love her.

He would not insult her that way.

He did not know what it was he felt, for the best kinds of feelings were always nameless.

She stood by the fireplace, with her back to the fire.

Wickham approached her by and by.

They had retired to the drawing room for coffee and brandy. Mrs Kenilworth was already dozing in a chair. Miss Brereton and Lydia were playing cards with Carter and Denny, though there wasn't so much card playing as there were secret glances and mouths hidden behind Queens of Spades and little touches under the table.

Mary seemed intent upon breaking up their party when Wickham came upon her with a glass of sherry.

"I would not have you go without refreshment, Miss Bennet. But dear me, you do not look very happy to see me."

Mary set down the glass he offered her. "An astute observation, Sir, for I am quite indisposed. I believe it's high time the evening came to an end."

"Oh, but it's just begun," he said, turning towards the room.

"I shall ask you all to leave shortly."

"And shall we go on your authority alone?"

They stood almost side by side, watching the others, the people who would never understand the thing between them.

Mary clenched her jaw. "Yes."

He smiled. "You shouldn't have been so hard on poor Carter. He's no idea who he is dealing with."

"And you do?" she asked, almost like a challenge.

She seemed to regret her words quickly, for she turned away from him.

But she couldn't help it, could she? She could not help exploring his rooms.

Wickham changed tack. "D' you know, Carter may have been greasing the old woman up, but I do take his words to heart. I do not envy the great society of the Pavilion."

Mary frowned. She was never quite ready when he unleashed his honesty, but she did not hide from it. He was quite certain that she secretly liked him for it. Her unbridled honesty was never a far cry from his.

"I'm sure they do not envy you either," she replied.

He smirked. "I only envy the baths. I heard the Prince had the tiles imported from India."

"How interesting," she drawled.

His smirk grew fangs. "I also heard he once kept Mrs Fitzhherbert hostage for three days in one of those baths. No wonder he changes mistresses so quickly. None of them have the proper stamina. Quite stifling, isn't it? To be on your back in that heat for hours on end…" he trailed off, drinking the sherry he had brought for her.

Mary swallowed dryly. The impossible tapestry he wove before her eyes left her sick with apprehension and a strange sense of familiarity, as if she already knew all of this.

"I'd wager that you would fare better, if given the chance," he added, as an afterthought. "You would remain cool to the touch."

Mary's spine straightened painfully. The fireplace was still at her back, but the warmth did not touch her. He was right. She watched Miss Brereton, whispering in Captain Denny's ear. She did not want to whisper in Wickham's ear. They were past such foolish gestures, she felt. What she wanted – what she always wanted when he was in her presence – was to startle him.

She turned to him abruptly, took a step closer.

Wickham waited, curious. Always curious about her.

"Open your palm for me," she said simply.

The words.

Always the words.

He could not define where it came from, her power. It was stronger than her sex, or sex alone. The echo of it, painfully distant and erotic.

He leaned against the mantelpiece and opened his palm. Tentative, like a schoolboy.

Mary slipped her hand in the pocket of her dress. She took out something from that intimacy.

She dropped the red necklace into his palm.

Her fingers were cold, but the read beads were warm.

He stared at the offering. He had given her this necklace.

"I am returning your unwanted gift," she spoke slowly.

There was a moment of silence between them, and then Wickham closed his fist around the beads and Mary turned her head away.

"I see," he said, looking at the room.

His voice had dropped an octave, but he did not sound discouraged. His eyes landed on plump little Lydia whose little ribbon had unravelled.

"I shall hold onto it, until you want it again," he said with a careless drawl.

Mary scoffed. "I would not hold onto such a vain hope."

"Oh, I don't make a habit of hoping. You will be mine, eventually."

He said it quaintly, no rosy enchantment to his conclusion. Simple and bare and cold-blooded.

Mary lifted her hand to her neck, pressed a hand to her stiff collar. "You cannot make me."

But he could. And she knew he could. All he had to do was speak up about the many times they had been alone and the things they had done. His "heroics" on the promenade would but crown their affair.

But that was not his way.

He could tell her he had already asked her father and he had left the matter to him.

But that was not his way either.

He smiled lazily. He said, "Well, I can certainly make Lydia. Matter of fact, she would come willingly."

Mary blinked. "What?"

He leaned one elbow on the mantelpiece and inspected his young prey. "Yes, very willingly. I could have her eating from the palm of my hand. Quite literally, I imagine."

"Wickham," Mary said.

He turned his head and looked at her, eyes laughing at her doom. "Now there's your choice, little hellion. Either you come with me, or I take your youngest sister. And I don't suppose she could survive such a fall, could she?"