Chapter extended on 1/9/2019.

IX. Vortex
and a crescendo

-~o~-

Darcy placed his cards on the table, one by one. The eight of diamonds, the nine of spades. The ten of clubs. The jack of spades. And, last but not least, the queen of hearts winked up at the men, her face frozen into a smile.

"Luck of the devil." A deep scowl settled over Felix Knight's ruddy features. "At this rate we'll all be paupers by midnight."

Grant grinned, entirely too cheerful for a man who'd been losing all evening. "I eagerly anticipate my impending penury. What is that, Darcy, the fifth hand won?"

The ninth.

As the vicar knew perfectly well.

Fitzwilliam did not dignify him with an answer. Instead, he offered his companions a pleasant smile, as if he hadn't just calmly divested them of a few hundred pounds.

Grant raised his glass with a laugh. "The next hand, gentlemen?"

"And continue to fill Darcy's coffers?" The fourth man at the table stretched lazily in his chair, sleepy posture belied by a pair of sharp brown eyes. "Lady Luck must find you very dear tonight, Darcy. Or is it your bride that brings such good fortune?"

Darcy's expression remained bland. Only the keenest observer would notice his knuckles whiten around his glass of port. "Fortune is capricious at best, Trent. And I daresay marrying Mrs. Darcy cost me all of mine."

"Well worth the exchange. Pretty and lively. Makes you wonder what she's doing with such a stuffy codger."

The vicar smirked at Marcus Trent's good-natured jibe, glancing over at the ballroom through the open double doors. "I was thinking the same myself. Better hold on to her tightly, Darcy. That's the second time she's danced with Keane this evening."

As if Fitzwilliam did not know. As if she were even possible to ignore.

Instead, she lurked constantly in his periphery. Slender figure draped in scarlet silk, cheeks flushed, a gossamer curl escaping her coiffure as her head tilted back in full, throaty laughter at some witty nothing conjured by her partner.

"I will keep your advice in mind," said Darcy, all polite indifference. He examined his new hand. "Raise, fifty."

"Fold," grunted Trent.

Grant threw his cards down carelessly. "I fold as well. Knight?"

"Three hundred."

Knight was a fool. Even schoolboys knew how to size their bets, to make it expensive for opponents to stay in without betting the manor. But Darcy did not miss the sweat beading on the older man's forehead, nor his dwindling stack of chips. He cursed his earlier distraction: the Knights were rumored to be in financial straits, and he had no interest in making enemies over a trifling game.

"Fold. I'm afraid that's my last hand of the night," Darcy said, setting down his cards. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I owe my wife a dance."

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The affair could only be described as lavish.

From the glittering candelabras to the ermine drapes, the Semples had spared no expense. Crystal glasses glistened amid the light of at least fifty lanterns; plates of various hors d'oeuvres littered silk-covered tables. Closer to the orchestra, the younger gentlemen engaged their partners. The ladies whirled to the music in flurries of satin and crepe, precious stones glistening as they moved.

Elizabeth's hand skimmed her bare throat. Rather than dazzling her, the opulence merely reminded her of how far from home she truly was.

"You aren't enjoying yourself."

Her companion was irritatingly perceptive.

"I assure you I am, Miss Trent. Admiring the dancers is entertainment enough – is that the new reel that they are starting?"

"Just Felicity, please. And you are quite right. It was all the rage in town during the Season." Sly amusement glinted in the blonde's hazel eyes. "And we both know that Mrs. Semple is very careful about following London fashions, be they gowns or blue-blooded young gentlemen."

Elizabeth hid a smile behind her fan, remembering their hostess's fawning adoration of the Marquess of Redcliff the last time they had spoken. "I am sure."

"Nothing less than an earl for her daughter, I hear. Although this company seems fine enough for Mrs. Semple's standards as well – she's been pulling poor Rosaline towards every bachelor under the age of sixty. I would go and rescue her, but I only just escaped the clutches of my own mother." Felicity's voice rose to a mocking falsetto. "'Felicity, please, at least make an effort! You are not getting any younger, darling.'"

"Perhaps you should speak with the dark-haired gentleman conversing with Mr. Keane. He keeps throwing glances your way – and you would only be appeasing your mother, of course."

Felicity grinned. "He keeps throwing glances our way, you mean. Mr. Keane must be talking of you. Mrs. Darcy, I believe you have an admirer."

"I am a married woman."

"And yet he asked for two dances – and I am sure he would ask for a third, if not for the wagging tongues."

"I am married," Elizabeth repeated firmly. Color stained her pale skin. "Mr. Keane is merely being friendly. As expected, given that he is an associate of my husband's."

Hazel eyes sharpened. "The husband you are not happy with."

"I am quite content with Mr. Darcy." The words rolled off Lizzy's tongue automatically, an empty assurance she had given to every curious caller.

"And when we last spoke?"

No, she had not been content. She had also been quite blissfully unaware of her own folly. Was she any happier now that she could no longer write Darcy as the villain?

"Mr. Darcy is dancing with Rosaline," Felicity remarked, when it was clear that Elizabeth would say nothing further. "The white knight, saving the princess from her grasping mother."

Sardonically intended or not, the description struck Elizabeth as unnervingly accurate. Darcy was the knight in shining armor who had saved her and her family from destitution, if not ruin. And Rosaline would make a fine princess. No clandestine scandal in her past. No arrogant assumptions, no misplaced scorn. She and Darcy matched each other well: tall and petite, dark and light, sun and moon of equal stately grace.

Beyond them, at the edge of Elizabeth's vision, Mr. Keane smiled at her. Her husband and Rosaline were nearer, now; they dove into a twirl, just a fraction too close for propriety. Lizzy smiled back.

The last notes of the piece sang out, the lively harmony of the winds eclipsing the melody of the strings for a final crescendo. Mr. Keane started towards her. Surely he was not approaching to ask her hand for the next set. A third dance with a married woman was not merely pushing at the walls of social acceptability – it was torching them and then marveling at the rising conflagration.

"A dance, Mrs. Darcy?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Keane, I – " She stopped short. The proffered hand was larger than Mr. Keane's, the familiar glove shielding fingers longer and slightly callused from frequent riding.

"It is terrible form to refuse your husband," murmured Darcy. She thought she heard faint amusement at her discomposure in his voice. Behind him, Mr. Keane stopped in his tracks. "Shall we?"

"Of course."

A strange fluttering took ahold of her heart as he led her to the floor. One hand found her waist as the first notes of the bar soared over the hum of chatter. The stance was oddly intimate, the three-four bar unfamiliar. Her pulse careened out of rhythm. She tugged, trying to pull her fingers out of his warm grasp.

"I am afraid that I do not know this dance."

"You have never waltzed?"

A light, graceful series of arpeggios; the other couples began to shift in short, elegant steps. She smiled to cover her panic. "I recognize it, but have never learned. Perhaps I should sit out this set–"

"Hand on my shoulder."

"Pardon?"

"Place your free hand on my shoulder," he instructed, spinning her gently by the waist, out of the other couples' paths. "It's only three steps – see? Like this."

A small, rectangular pattern. Simple enough, except they were so close. Close enough that it was extraordinarily difficult to think of anything but him. That distinct smell of clean, fresh sandalwood wrapping around her. The faint shadow of stubble skimming down his jaw. Her fingers, ensconced in his firm hold, itched to trace it. Madness. But he had sought her out.

In the interest of self-preservation, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Who taught you to waltz?"

"Georgiana insisted on practicing with someone other than her dancing instructor. She thought him vertically challenged." At this moment he spun her close. The world blurred into dizzying streaks of color as she tried not to trip over her own feet. He steadied her. Another kindness to a liar.

"I did not expect you to dance with me," she said once she caught her breath, then immediately regretted it. Too honest, this time. "You have been avoiding me since we arrived."

"You were on the verge of a scandal," he said evenly. Now that she was not looking for offense, she knew there was no censure in the fine lines bracketing his mouth, only a crease of concern. "It was my duty to step in. And I was not avoiding you before. I simply prefer cards to the ballroom."

Serious, blunt Mr. Darcy, a regular at the gaming tables. She smiled ruefully.

"I've learned, recently, how little I know you. I thought you a man who prefers to leave very little to the unknown."

"You are not wrong," he said after a short pause, "I do not like the unknown. But these are games of known possibilities. The potential hands and the winnings at stake are known, and the odds are measurable. Each particular hand is unpredictable, but over a hundred hands, I know I will play quite well."

But most things were not so. In life, the set of possible outcomes was not so neat, so foreseeable. For instance, three years ago, her present losses would have been unimaginable.

She peered up at him as she finally found her footing. "Do you wish that life were so predictably unpredictable as a card game?"

He looked full at her, then. His eyes were not so steely: they were a little green near the pupils, and light like quicksilver.

"I think, Mrs. Darcy, that you know me rather too well."

The untruth of that statement made her want to laugh, then cry. "Not at all," she said, a little unsteadily.

He drew her in again, erasing the scant distance between them. She was suddenly very aware of her hand on his shoulder, and his on her waist, and the layers of superfine and silk between them. Safeguards against the brush of naked skin. She wanted them gone. When he moved, she instinctively tilted her chin upwards to meet him.

There was only silence.

The waltz was over. A fog lifted; lucidity stung. She pulled away as if scalded and saw Darcy's face shutter into his usual blank courtesy. Strangely, she felt the loss.

"I am afraid I abandoned Miss Trent to her mother," she said hastily, forcing a laugh. "Thank you for guiding me through this dance, Mr. Darcy."

And she fled.

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She breathed deeply, out, in, out, in. Her grip on the fan relaxed. This was not her. Elizabeth Bennet had never been the sort of woman whose world would tilt off-center for a man.

Except hers had done exactly that, in more ways than one.

When this night was over, when she was ensconced safely in her rooms, she would do what she must. Take stock of the facts. Plan accordingly. Until then, she only had to smile pleasantly at her acquaintances and forget about Darcy.

Easier said than done, when he stood only steps away. She turned towards the window. On the frosted glass hung a curtain of white, warmed by the glow of the candlelight inside. Beyond it, snow crystals fell thick and fast, laying waste to what browning grass remained. Winter had come early this year. If any of the guests wanted to leave tonight, they should do so now: it would not be safe to travel by carriage for much longer.

"A farthing for your thoughts, Mrs. Darcy?"

"I do not think they are worth so much," she said, plastering a smile on for Mrs. Knight. "I am only watching the snow."

"All the better then. We may not have a farthing to spare, now that Felix has gambled away half his remaining fortune at the tables. Perhaps I ought to ask you for debt relief."

Elizabeth started. Upon closer examination, it was impossible to miss the strange ruddiness of the other woman's cheeks, the slight shrill in her voice. "I beg your pardon."

"Beg? Your husband has spent the evening beggaring mine. Rather unbecoming of a neighbor and friend. But I suppose I should not blame you for it, pretty young thing that you are. And so troubled. Tell me, does he mistreat you as he did our dear, departed Anne?"

Absurd. But her lips were stiff, unmoving. Mrs. Knight took this as an invitation to drift closer. The sickly sweet aroma of Madeira wine trailed only a step behind.

"My poor Mrs. Darcy. I remember Anne's constitution was always weak, but after she married, she, too, was so terribly unhappy. Sometimes I wonder if she finally decide to end it herself – but I transgress. My apologies, darling. I can only express my sympathy for you must endure."

The thin curl of Mrs. Knight's mouth held all the smug satisfaction of the cat that got the cream. Elizabeth's fan snapped shut, a flare of white-hot anger melting away the shock.

"Save your sympathy for your wastrel husband, Mrs. Knight. I have no need of it."

She turned on her heel and left.

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Elizabeth wrapped her furs tighter to buffer against a sudden gust of icy wind. They had returned to their carriage hastily, she and Mr. Darcy, after her exchange with Mr. Knight. A wise choice given that the snow fell thicker by the minute. When they had first climbed into the safety of the carriage, the pole-light already been dim. Its pale glow now only barely penetrated the flurry of white beyond the thick brocade walls.

"Is something the matter, Mrs. Darcy?"

Nothing much, Elizabeth wanted to say. Mrs. Knight only accused you of driving your previous wife to her death. Here, in the privacy of their carriage, such frankness did not seem so misplaced. But the charge was ludicrous. Even if her opinion of Darcy had not changed – even if she had not resolved to judge him fairly – she did not think that she would believe that. Mrs. Knight had been drunk and vicious, her claims straight from a Gothic novel.

Still the words tumbled out, clumsy and unwelcome as spilled tea. "I met Anne once, when I visited Charlotte and Mr. Collins at Rosings Park."

"I did not realize you had made her acquaintance." Even in the darkness she could sense how he stilled. "May I ask what led to this sudden interest in my late wife?"

"Mrs. Knight mentioned her, earlier this evening. I think she was upset about your gains at the gaming table."

He laughed. There was a sharpness there that she did not like. "My gains at her husband's expense. Is that what you mean to say? How cruel I am, for taking advantage of an inveterate gambler. And a close associate of mine nonetheless."

"No," she managed, throat tight. "That is not what I meant at all."

"Not cruel, then. Merely willing to teach the necessary lessons. As to any compunctions about harming others with my high-handedness – well, I have none, being selfishly disdainful of the feelings of others."

The air rushed out of her. In her mouth remained a tinny, acrid taste. Regret. Not only did he remember her refusal, but it had been seared into his memory well enough that he could recite it verbatim. How he must have despised her, then.

How much she owed him, now.

"I was mistaken, three years past." When he did not reply, she steeled herself to shoulder on. "Not only that, but I abused you abominably, and you have been nothing but kind to me since. How can I think so poorly of you now?"

An interminable beat. Then a low, disbelieving rasp. "And Wickham?"

"I had only his word, and what I learned of him from our short acquaintance. What he told me of you – Your tenants and staff are very convincing, in their loyalty. It is hard to believe that they speak of the same man."

"Ah," he said, clipped and precise. He had gathered himself, evidently. "But that was not the only charge you levelled at me. Recall that I separated Bingley from your sister – that I am the person who came closest to destroying your dearest sister's happiness."

Her spine straightened, despite the strange tightness in her chest. "Yes. For that, I still await an explanation."

"I had intended to explain it all in a letter, after I saw you that day in Kent."

"And you did not deliver it?"

"I was called away on an urgent matter before I had the chance. Now I suppose it no longer matters."

She was suddenly grateful for the lack of light. It veiled her own humiliation, so much the more painful for his sangfroid: she had confessed her shame, and he was no more moved than if they discussed the weather. "Why ever not?"

A half-shrug.

"What feelings I had for you are long gone, Miss Bennet. You may think of me as you like."

A/N:

It's been years. I last updated this fic the summer after I graduated from high school, and now this year I'm about to graduate from university. I stopped writing fiction since starting college. At first it was being wildly busy, and excited to try all that being a (semi-) adult had to offer. Later, I just felt rusty, and it wasn't what I was used to doing / exposed to / knew how to do anymore. But I spent some time this winter break reading good fiction, for the first time in a long while, and realized that I missed writing.

I'm really, really grateful to those who have stuck with this piece over the last four years. I've done some mild cleanup of the previous chapters, and hope you all enjoy this one. Thank you again for your support and patience, and belated well wishes for the holidays!

-S

~~ Also, I've given up on coming up with chapter titles and am crowdsourcing, so if you have any ideas for this one I would be eternally grateful.

Update 1/9/2019:

As I was writing, I realized these last two scenes belonged better with this chapter. Also, thank you for all your chapter title suggestions! I'm pocketing them all for later use, but credit for this one goes to JRTT.