Quite rapidly, the thought of taking young Jeremy to the Carne household filled Mistress Poldark with a larger and larger sense of foolishness, and so it was that she turned her mind for alternatives. As abhorrent as her husbands recent behaviour was, there were still folk with less attractive ways that she could not bring herself to expose her young son to.

It would not do to drag the most precious thing left in her life into the mucky abyss that her own upbringing had always been, and just because old Tom Carne did see the light of the good Lord did not mean that he had had a total change of character. Though, as she turned her options over, she did find that she sought the comfort of her younger siblings. As hard labour as it had been to keep them fed, clothed, happy, during her time at Illugan, they had been grateful, kind and cheerful children, all her brothers. Despite what their father may have put them through, she had every faith that they would make good and caring uncles.

An uncle, unfortunately, was no father. Jeremy's father at present made Demelza's heart sink with each time he stepped into her sight, and the feeling was heavy and sour not just for the refreshed anger that came leaping up, but for the part of her that longed for reconciliation. It was as though a smaller, less furious Demelza resided within her, cursing her at every opportunity that she did not take Ross into her arms and wholly forgive him. As her respect in him had taken a blow in the wake of his infidelity – no use skirting around it, for a woman d'know when her man takes to straying – she had expected her love for Ross to wane, but instead it seemed to rear its head at every expression of regret, apology, pain, that passed over his scarred roguish features. It was then rapidly doused as she decided his regret was entirely justified.

The back and fore did make her head spin sometimes it was so violent. And it were in the midst of this mental back and forth that an invitation arrived to attend Sir Hugh Bodrugan's party and Ross all but spat at it as lord and master of all in his purview. The little Demelza within that always swore by Ross and his decisions seemed quieter than ever, as a tentative fancy to autonomy blossomed within the woman herself, fuelled by no small intention of spite.

What's good for the goose, after all, must be good for the gander.

At an impasse with future arrangements for herself and her son, it did not take much to push Demelza over the edge – another disappearing act from Ross, perhaps scuttling off to Trenwith to bed his great lady once more and convince her not to marry George Warleggan – when she found herself facing a messenger from Werry House out confirming attendees to Sir Hugh's party, and no husband to defer to.

Several times through the night she did regret her decision to accept the invite by herself. Less so in the daylight, in the ballrooms and surrounded by people, but there were brief moments where her facade of Mistress Poldark felt strained and she longed to lie in her marital bed, even alone or with her son, rather than to stay the night in the red room. As the sun set upon Cornwall, the tension grew but a smattering of familiar faces quickly eased it as with a few introductions, she floated easily into conversation with the upper class, wanting to speak of anything but her own despairs. The distraction was refreshing.

Even George Warleggan made her an introduction, though his name attached to anything or anyone did make her hackles rise even if she did not show it. She wanted to curse how Ross' dislikes had invaded her own, but simultaneously could not find any great love of the young upstart, as some called him, dwelling deep in her somewhere, and decided that she wasn't especially fond of George even by her own makings.

As Captain MacNeil arrived on the scene, her well-sought company was suddenly hoarded away by the enamoured soldier, and in another moment shocking doubt filled her senses – sometime in the sudden stillness and quiet of the garden air, removed from the crowd and seen perhaps only by god in heaven above. He did steal a kiss, and she could recall watching his every movement, comparing him – Judas! She cursed herself for comparing him instantly to Ross but how could she not? And while it was not unpleasant, the kiss was lacking in something that she hoped was not entirely singular to her husband. Her heart did hammer in her chest, but she tallied that to the flowing liquor and recent dances, and not some great love blossoming for the scot who led her back to the party.

When he requested she give him something to hope for, and then very calmly and firmly pestered an invitation to her room out of her, the doubt coursed through her again - but she promised herself a few more glasses of sherry would chase the feeling away.

"I believe Sir Hugh called it … the red room?" she replied, unsure.

She would show Ross. Per'aps cuckold him good and proper, she fancied, in her braver, more reckless moments – those where she was spun around the room on the end of a man's arm, and then flung again into another man's arms to the cheery racket of a quartet of fiddlers.

The music would stop, and her eyes would seek the doors and walls for a moment, as if she supposed Ross would come sauntering in at the last moment to reclaim her, to make a stand. But perhaps she had already given him his orders, and sent him marching for the battlefield. The thought made her still on her way to her lodgings for the night. A faint image danced behind her eyes and she leant against the banister, more than a little tipsy, picturing Ross blown away by the ball of a musket, cut down in battle and gasping in the dirt.

Salt burned in her eyes and she felt her throat grow tight, but she clambered up the stairs to her room with a sense of purpose. She was beginning to take stock of her own emotions, and as furious as she was with her husband, she did still wish he was here for her to scream at. Or her at home, for him to explain himself to. Or, wherever he was …

She made it to her room with nary a wobble, and settled her back against the shut door, taking a deep breath as if to expand her stays a little, but they did not give her any relief. She turned to secure the latch on the door, and then hesitated. Demelza was fairly certain she should expect Captain MacNeil, and it would not do for him to be waiting about outside for all to see him invited to her bed. Whatever she intended, she could not leave him to draw attention. Demelza left the latch alone and went to the bed.

She sat down, and waited, but she was not kept waiting long.

Demelza sprang to her feet as quickly as the door was swung open and shut with effortless grace, and afore she could speak, she was entangled in the arms of the tall scot in his underwhelming nightwear, wet kisses pressed to her mouth and sweet nothings tumbling out against them.

She did say his name several times to call his attention to her voice, to heed what she had to say; his name on her tongue seemed to excite him and she began to feel as though trapped in a china shop with a raging bull.

The captain had a small amount of patience for her explanation about her unfaithful husband – though he did begin to remove his clothing presumptuously, roving her beauty with his eyes as she spoke - and offered some support of her prior justifications for intending to betray Ross in revenge, but when she adjusted her tone and admitted she had lost her nerve, he did not yield and remove himself as a gentleman would.

His hands remained resolutely on her elbows at her sides, and he smiled patiently as though she were a child when she declared that she could not be so wicked, so cruel, as to bed another. Perhaps there was a moment where he would have left her be, but she did not see it or catch it.

As she waited for his response, she was not filled with confidence at the way he seemed to laugh silently, and raised a finger to stroke her cheek. "My angel, it does you credit to be so delicate," he said, so softly that she expected him to relent at last, "but think for a moment of me," he continued, an expectant lilt to his tone, as if it were a question. When she frowned a mite, he added, "... who has been looking forward to this encounter ..." his hand stroked tentatively at her shoulder and he smiled hopefully at her, eyes flashing daringly, "as a mortal's taste of heaven. Your duty now is not to your husband but to me."

As Demelza stared, her face a little blank as she tried to decipher his meaning, but clearly satisfied with his poetry, he descended upon her lips once more, this time with force, as he did not expect further hesitation from the lady.

It was at some point before this, across the fields on Nampara land, that Demelza's husband, a man beginning more and more to see the error of his ways, sat down to dine at his good friend Dr. Enys's home, to inform him of his good fortune of a loan repaid in full. Ross had reason to be confident about it, as he knew Tonkin well and knew him to be trustworthy, and it seemed that a source of financial stability was finally settling neath his wobbling family life. He had made a mess of things with Demelza and Elizabeth, but he could only hope that time, money, and distance, mayhap, would mend both bridges.

It did seem these days as though he had rashly set both proverbial bridges alight with his previous actions.

Elizabeth in a vulnerable position, clearly vying both for himself and George Warleggan to make the race that much more intense, had enticed him and numbed his senses with the paradox she became, but the moment her mystery was indulged and they were abed, post-coital, Ross felt as though a long held fantasy had somehow been destroyed. After all this time, he could see, at of course, the most inopportune time, that Elizabeth had never been meant for him.

For her low birth, and as scandalous as his marriage had seemed to all, the thought of ruining Demelza and not marrying her all those years ago – had never occurred to him. And it screamed in his mind as soon as Elizabeth lay naked beside him, to flee. This was not his territory, and he had done something wholly un-doable. To bed his cousin's widow … and now, she seemed more that than anything else. Certainly not his childhood sweetheart. She was no longer his, and he was beginning to understand that.

Still, it vexed him that George may possess her – and at Demelza's mentioning, he could see that was perhaps Elizabeth's intent; to pit him against his greatest foe, placing herself as the prize of the matter.

And though Elizabeth was not to be his, it did not seem as though his wife offered herself as an alternative. The insult of his briefly seeking another, and especially Elizabeth, a past love, was more than the girl could bear. It called into question their very marriage. He could see that, but he knew not what he could do to mend it.

Ross shook himself from these thoughts, unwilling to dwell on them as he sat with one of his best friends in the world.

Dwight made a passing comment that he had been called to Trenwith to tend on Elizabeth, and it seemed that escaping his thoughts was not in the cards for Ross. He enquired and Dwight laughed it off, chalking the Widow Poldark's fainting spell to the thought of marrying George.

"George is not deterred, of course," Dwight mused as he returned with two glasses and some brandy, "I could guess he is as tenacious a suitor as he is a businessman. He attends Sir Hugh's party tonight, no doubt to shed light on his impending family connection as soon as possible."

The smallest of groans escaped Ross and he made quickly for the first glass of brandy that his friend poured between them. "Of course. I have no stomach for Sir Hugh, who would send poor Jim Carter to the assizes simply to make his morning hunt all the quicker. Or his ilke, which I'm sure there's no shortage of at Werry House tonight."

A strange look passed over Dwight's face and his eyes snapped to Ross even as he poured the brandy into his own glass. He set the bottle down and frowned. "I did think it odd that you allowed Demelza to attend alone," he watched his friend's face go slack and sat a bit straighter. Before he could say more, Ross leant forward, his face afire.

"I did not allow Demelza to attend alone," he said tightly, even as his mind raced and his features snarled at the unintended provocation Dwight had incurred.

Dwight spoke quickly, "I passed her on the road this evening, collected by Sir Hugh's own carriage. I was surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner, in light of her attendance," he put his hands together and looked quite abashed. "I am sorry, Ross, I had no meaning to cause concern."

Ross drained his brandy and stood up from the table. At the worried look on his friend's face, he breathed a tense sigh and set about putting his gloves back on. "Demelza and I have had arguments. Fisticuffs, even," he marvelled at that last a little and gestured to his fading black eye. Dwight had been slightly aware of the trouble at home, and looked on in concern. Frustration tore across Captain Poldark's face and stretched his scar uncomfortably as he bit out, "I did not expect she would go to trot herself out as a harlot to have her revenge."

"I'm sure she cannot mean ..." Dwight negated firmly, having held Demelza in high regard for some time. "Women often attend parties alone," he also stood, meaning to help mend bridges, unknowing how badly damaged Ross' proverbial bridges were.

"Not my wife," Ross lifted his hat from the table and beat some dust out of it. "I must go to Werry House and collect her before she does herself any discredit," he clenched his jaw and released it, before exhaling, "Any more than I have already done her," at a near mutter. He collected his greatcoat and nodded politely to the good Doctor.

Dwight looked very concerned, but led his friend to the door and opened it wide for him. "I am sure things will settle, Ross. Ride safe."

"I can only hope. Thank you Dwight - for your hospitality, the dinner, and your patience with my exiting so rudely to make right my family affairs," he allowed a brief smile to pass his anxious features as he passed, and then made across the garden to mount Darkie with purpose.

No time at all seemed to pass on the ride to Sir Hugh's. He knew the way well, and could recall going to the hunts in his youth with his father, often racing there at the last minute after oversleeping. His mind seemed faster than his horse, and he wondered at Demelza's intent – stupidity? Boredom? Spite?

Yes. Spite. It was unbecoming of her, and he roared at his horse to rush onward, scaring the poor beast into a frantic gallop. He was not riding safe, certainly.

Sir Hugh alone was bad enough, though he could imagine Demelza dodging him easily, for he would be required to attend all his guests. And of course, George would be there, front row witness to any of Mistress Poldark's follies, certainly the first to inform him if he did drop a rank in society over any of it.

Suddenly he was trotting into the courtyard of Werry House, and a groom came to take his horse, even though the hour was late and the lights inside had died all but upstairs. A rushing feeling like illness stirred in Ross' stomach as he settled on the ground and made for the main entrance. He raised his arm to pound the door, but hesitated and knocked more politely. It was perhaps out of equal spite that he thought he might go quietly and catch her in the act …