by Jesse

Rating: R - Mature audiences only.

Summary: William Darcy, dance legend turned acclaimed choreographer, has returned to Ballet Theater of New York as the company's Choreographer in Residence. When plagued with a terrible case of artist's block, he finds inspiration in a dynamic member of the corps de ballet, Elizabeth Bennet.

Chapter 25

Elizabeth stepped into the studio and suppressed a hefty yawn. She had arrived earlier that Monday morning with a purpose. Even ten minutes made a difference; the studio was almost empty, with only three other early birds stretching in scattered locations by the barre. Swallowing, Elizabeth walked to the side of the room, hiked one of the heavy metal barres up in her hands and dragged it to the center of the room. She placed it down and then sunk to the floor to begin stretching.

As the time neared nine, dancers began trickling in to the studio. Voices and the sound of ballet slippers on the wood floor filled the room. A principal dancer came to stand behind Elizabeth, offering the corps girl a simple nod and smile before beginning her own warm-up.

Elizabeth saw Charlotte and Lydia walk in. They paused when they saw Elizabeth at her front and center space, and cast her a puzzled look. Shrugging, she simply waved and went back to the Pilates exercises she had learned that weekend.

Class began as it always did on Monday mornings, but Elizabeth felt how different the experience was from one of the best locations in the room. The ballet mistress eyed her for the entire first exercise. By the end of barre, Elizabeth had received three personal corrections. She dragged the barre away once exercises were over, her leotard drenched in sweat, half-congratulating herself, half kicking herself for choosing that spot. She still had center exercises and a full day of rehearsals ahead of her, after all.

But after class ended, she felt limber and awake, ready to charge into Sleeping Beauty rehearsals that afternoon. Elizabeth wondered what had taken her so long to realize that being front and center wasn't really so bad.

Sir William glanced to the back of the room curiously, wondering at the corps girl, Elizabeth Bennet. For the past several rehearsals, she had stood in the back as he worked with the soloists, mimicking the steps they danced, watching, absorbing, as if she had deemed herself understudy for each role. Unusual behavior, indeed. Most dancers relished the opportunity to sit on the sides, giving their aching toes a break or having a brief chat with their friends.

Elizabeth was having trouble with a particular turn in the variation, a complicated pirouette followed by a whirlwind series of chaînés. The problem lay in her supporting leg; her balance was off. Pausing in the middle of his observation of the soloist in the center, Sir William watched her and then called out.

“No, honey. You supporting leg comes in, you don’t go to your supporting leg.”

Elizabeth looked up to him with wide eyes, then nodded and tried the turn again. This time, it came out better.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, smiling.

Elizabeth thanked him with a nod and smile. Strange behavior indeed for a corps girl, but then again, she knew the part and danced it well. It was that logic which influenced Sir William Lucas to cast Elizabeth Bennet, in his mind at least, as understudy for nearly all of the soloist roles in The Sleeping Beauty.

William and Charles took the stairs, discussing the logistics of ordering refurbished Snowflake tutus for that year’s Nutcracker, as opposed to new ones. It was Tuesday night, the night they usually grabbed dinner together after work.

“Okay, but it’s an investment. New tutus would cost about a thousand each, but they would last twenty years,” said Charles.

“Can the company finance the thirty grand?”

“At the moment, not really.”

“Refurbished, Charles.”

Charles sighed in the way he did when he knew William had won. Giving a resigned shrug, William looked to his friend before pushing open the door to the building.

“Well, where to this week?”

“Thai?”

William shook his head. “Not in the mood for something spicy.”

“Okay, what about that Mexican place a few blocks away?”

“Charles, nothing spicy.”

“Oh, right.” As Charles contemplated their restaurant options, the door swung open behind them. Both men looked up to see two sisters, one with a radiant grin on her face, the other in a strangled look of surprise.

“Hey, Bennets,” greeted Charles with a warm smile, mostly for his girlfriend.

“Hey, you,” Jane answered with a peck on the lips.

Elizabeth descended the steps in silence, looking at her sneakers the entire time. William’s eyes were riveted on her, his hope sinking with each second that she refused to meet his gaze.

“Are you two off to dinner?” Jane asked.

“Yes, if we can only figure out where,” answered Charles.

“Oh, we know a good place, right, Lizzy? Remember? That little Indian place up the street.”

Elizabeth smiled and nodded weakly in response. Her eyes, for a brief moment, darted to William.

“Oh, I love Indian,” Charles asserted. “Why don't you girls come along? You wouldn’t mind, Will, would you?”

If William didn’t look enthusiastic, it was because Charles had once again forgotten his request for non-spicy food. But, he reasoned, he could endure anything if it meant a chance to finally talk to Elizabeth outside of the confines of the dance studio. One glance at her, however, revealed she was not as excited.

Jane and Charles naturally paired off and cooed to each other as they walked up the block. Several paces behind them, William and Elizabeth strolled side-by-side, saying nothing to each other.

“So,” William began, in the hopes of livening up Elizabeth, “how are rehearsals coming?”

“Good. Everything’s fine.” Still, she chose the sidewalk as her focal point.

“Oh, that’s good to hear.”

Elizabeth raised the corners of her lips in an obligatory smile. William repressed a frustrated sigh. He could withstand her mockery and insolence, but this stiff silence was unbearable. Growing despondent, William feared everything they had shared in Miami had been a figment of his imagination, or a fabulous act on her part. He made a last, desperate effort to get her to speak.

“It seems you’ve become a seasoned New Yorker,” he said.

Finally, she looked up to him curiously. He noticed a hint of suspicion in her expression and, to his delight, a pinch of wonder mixed in with it. William pointed down.

“The sidewalk.”

“Yes. It is.” She eyed him as if he had gone mad.

William chuckled. “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“The longer you’ve lived in the city, the lower your gaze when you walk around.”

Any laughter on Elizabeth’s face was suddenly extinguished. “Oh, right. Yes, I remember now. But…I still don’t agree with your theory.”

“No?”

“No.” She said the word with such finality that William knew not to attempt any conversation after that. It was just as well. The quartet had just reached the restaurant. Tuesday nights in most New York eating establishments were usually quiet affairs, and this Tuesday night was no different. Aside from a lone patron sitting by herself across the room, the restaurant was empty.

“Well, this is nice and intimate,” Charles said smiling around the table. Jane returned his grin with an equally bright one. William simply nodded. Elizabeth fingered the edge of her glass.

“Lizzy, when you and I came here, what did we get? It had beans in it,” Jane said.

“I think it was dal.”

“Oh, right! Dal. That was good. I’m getting that.”

That’s when William caught her. Elizabeth, her head still turned down towards the table, raised her eyes and gazed at him. There was no reason for her to do it. It had been an innocent comment about Indian curry, and yet she had never excelled at hiding the feeling in her eyes. He could see something was bothering her. He had a sinking suspicion the reason lay in himself. Almost desperate to bring back the vibrant, cutting Elizabeth he knew so well, William decided that he would be as cheery as Charles tonight, or at least, fake it well.

“Do you like Indian food?” he asked Jane. The chipperness in his voice nearly sent him choking in embarrassment. It was so unlike him.

“Oh, I adore Indian food.”

“Have you ever been down to 1st and 6th Street? Where all of the Indian restaurants are?”

“No, never.”

“It's a experience. Every restaurant dripping with Christmas lights. And the waiters actually come outside and verbally spar against each other for your business.”

“Will thinks it’s all staged, though,” Charles interjected.

“Completely staged. I wouldn’t be surprised if every restaurant on the block was owned by the same guy.”

Jane laughed, her eyes crinkling charmingly. “We’ve never been! Lizzy we should go!”

Elizabeth wore a sour expression. She merely shrugged. Laughing uncomfortably, Jane explained, “Lizzy’s not a big fan of Indian, so we don’t go that often.”

William turned to Elizabeth, who only looked at Jane and smiled half-heartedly. “I prefer Chinese. I can’t really tolerate spicy food that well.”

Which might have explained why Elizabeth barely touched her food, but William sensed it was more than a revulsion to garam masala. As Jane, Charles, and he chatted amicably, she sat stone-faced, with her countenance growing grimmer as their conversation progressed. William wondered if she were offended. After all, he hadn’t seemed eager to have the girls come along. Straightening in his chair, he vowed to try even harder to prove that he could be affable and welcoming. And he would start with Jane, who he knew Elizabeth cherished more than anyone.

“So, Jane,” he began, “tell me your honest opinion.”

Jane smiled in response.

“Is The New York Times going to fry me over this piece, too?”

Laughing, Jane shook her head. “Don’t say that! You’re not going to be fried. It’s great. Probably even better than your last.”

William caught Elizabeth lift her eyes from the tablecloth and glance at her sister sharply.

“That’s not saying much,” joked William.

Charles laughed, too. “Someone’s fishing for compliments.”

“No, not fishing at all. I’d just like to hear one of my dancers’ opinions, that’s all.”

Hazarding a glance in Elizabeth’s direction, William nearly started at the haunted look on her face. She licked her lips, pursed them, and then went back to the tablecloth.

“Well, I love how you have the dancers walking slowly behind me in the pas de deux,” Jane offered. “The contrast in tempo is really interesting. And the movements are so gorgeous. So flowing and easy to dance, you know?”

William smiled uncomfortably, aware that this was not producing the reaction he wanted from Elizabeth.

“Yes, but is there anything that I could improve upon? Anything that’s not right?”

Knowing one of Elizabeth’s loves was criticizing him, William steered the conversation to a place that might be easy for her join in. She didn’t take the bait.

“No, nothing,” Jane said, giggling. “I think your piece is perfect.”

The shriek of a chair scraping against the floor startled the entire table. Everyone looked up to Elizabeth now standing, with her napkin balled in her fist.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m going to use the restroom.”

She returned her napkin to the table with a sharp toss of her arm. They all watched her go. Jane colored.

“I’m sorry about her,” she apologized. “She’s going through this weird phase. I think being back in New York is a lot for her to handle.”

Charles nodded sympathetically. William simply stared to where Elizabeth had disappeared, a contemplative frown creasing his forehead. He knew this was no “weird phase.” Elizabeth was livid. Looking down at his lap, William attempted to control his disappointment with himself. No matter how hard he tried, he pissed her off. It was like an indelible force between them: pungent physical attraction tempered by stubbornness and pride on both sides. William closed his eyes, wondering if things would ever be right with them. He so desperately wanted to amend all that he had done to her. Elizabeth, however, seemed unwilling to budge.

“I’m going to go check up on her,” Jane said, edging out of her chair.

Just as she stood, Elizabeth re-emerged from the bathroom. She approached the table with her gaze lowered. As she neared them, she looked up with a scorching frost in her eyes. Only, William was surprised to note, she fixed her look on Jane, and not on him.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said woodenly, returning to her seat. For the remainder of the meal, she continued to give off a “don’t talk to me” aura, and so no one did. Jane and Charles chattered happily about the intricacies of sequins on Snowflake costumes, and William sat enveloped in the same cloud of silence hanging over Elizabeth. He wondered if she felt any kind of communion with him, whether she appreciated his silence in the face of their bumbling dinner-mates. Every few minutes, he stole a glimpse at her. Her eyes and lips were set in stone. Once, however, he caught Elizabeth staring at him with a look he could only pinpoint as soulful. She quickly looked away.

The walk back to the subway station began as a silent affair. Jane and Charles were still on the subject of tutus. William wondered how two people could talk about the most insipid of subjects for such a lengthy span of time. With his hands in his pockets, he walked next to Elizabeth, his pace unbearably slow just to match hers.

Inhaling, William made one, last effort to lift her from her mood.

“Marge Phillips tells me she has a promising new student.”

Elizabeth smiled down to the sidewalk. “No, not promising at all, just inspired to improve herself.”

“Inspiration is everything,” said William. “Or so they say.”

Once again, Elizabeth only lifted the corners of her mouth in response.

“Elizabeth, I’m…glad you’ve started going to Pilates. And relieved. It would be such a shame to waste talent like yours to an ankle injury.”

Lifting her eyes, she stared at him in silence. Then, William saw her face flush. Elizabeth looked away bashfully, considered his words for a few seconds, and then her cheeks lifted into a genuine smile.

“I can’t think of any better way to waste it.”

Arching an eyebrow, William looked away and considered her quip. Here was the Elizabeth he knew; the one who would say anything simply to oppose him. “You can't? Well, there’s always narcissism. I hear arrogance is en vogue these days, too.”

“No, arrogance is so five years ago. Temper-tantrums and blackmail are all the rage for talent-wasting.”

“And you can’t forget drugs and alcohol.”

“Oh, yes. How could we forget drugs and alcohol?” said Elizabeth, with a conspiratorial grin.

William laughed at their nonsensical battle and she joined him in that sultry, throaty way that drove him crazy. It was a laugh he wanted to take possession of, that he wanted to drink in with his lips, and that made him smile with every muscle in his face.

They walked the remaining two blocks in silence again, but the cloud had lifted. William felt as if he were walking with a long-time friend, with someone who he didn’t need to speak to at every moment for there to be comradeship. He felt quietly happy, even though he knew it was fleeting. But that was what Elizabeth did to him. William had long ago accepted it.

They rounded the corner and saw the green street-lamp of the Columbus Circle subway entrance. William and Elizabeth watched awkwardly as Jane and Charles said their gooey good-byes. It was a farewell that William observed with a twinge of jealousy as he wanted to turn to Elizabeth and do the same—take her cheeks in between his hands, turn her face up to his, and kiss her swiftly, but tenderly. Being with her made his every thought seem so visceral, and he quickly looked away.

Once their farewells were said, Jane and Elizabeth turned to head down the stairs. Before the girls had completely turned their backs, William heard a small, shy voice whisper.

“Goodnight, William.”

His eyes widened and, for a moment, he didn’t understand. Once the words registered, Elizabeth was half-way down the stairwell. William stared in amazement.

That night, his head was filled with Elizabeth’s voice. Goodnight, William. It meant little, but it had been something, when for so long that had been nothing.

It just made the announcement he would have to make tomorrow all the more awful.

After reverence, the dancers applauded the ballet mistress and the pianist and were about the gather their things to leave, when the door swung open, and Sir William Lucas strode in with William Darcy behind him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stay where you are? I have a few announcements to make,” the artistic director said.

He cut William a glare before sashaying to front and center. As if on instinct, William looked around the room to catch Elizabeth’s gaze. He found her towards the side, staring back at him with the same look of wonder reflected on all of the dancers’ faces. Sir William began.

“First, Nutcracker casting will be up within the week. Charles and I have been making some final adjustments which explains the delay. Rehearsals will begin next Friday, as originally scheduled. I remind you that costume fittings for the fall program are this afternoon at three. Attendance is mandatory. That means you, Caroline...”

Light laughter was heard around the room. Rolling her eyes, Caroline turned her back towards the artistic director and walked away.

“Lastly, I have a surprising and rather sad announcement to make.” The tone of Sir William’s voice was sharply professional, and anything but sad. “We have had the pleasure of having William Darcy here for several months to choreograph for us. While he will stay for the remainder of the year to choreograph one more piece, I am sad to say that it will be his last...”

The dancers murmured to each other in shock. William didn’t care about their reaction; he could only see the change on Elizabeth’s face, her forehead wrinkling in disbelief.

“...Rest assured that this decision was made in mutual agreement. We will be sad to see Darcy leave us, but he has made the decision to start his own company, and he will have our full support—unless he starts adversely affecting our ticket sales.” Sir William laughed hollowly. Few joined him.

“Please join me in thanking him for his hard work.”

All throughout this speech, Sir William’s face remained stiff. He clapped and bowed his head to William, who returned the gesture just as rigidly—two seasoned performers in just another dance. The company applauded William politely, except one. Elizabeth remained with her arms at her side, gazing at him with an unreadable expression. When she realized that he, too, was staring at her, she looked away, licked her lips, and then followed as the company disbanded for their lunch break.

Sir William had already begun striding towards the door, and, if he didn’t want to be left alone and bereft, William decided he would have to follow. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach, as if he had just committed a sin, even though he knew the decision to leave was the most upright decision he had made since he’d arrived at Ballet Theater. It was simply hard to remember that when Elizabeth Bennet stared at him with those glacial eyes that he remembered so well from all those months ago.

“Freaking tragic,” declared Lydia, in the dressing room after work that day. “Now whose ass am I going to stare at when rehearsals get boring?”

“Oh, no. You may have to actually pay attention,” teased Katherine.

“I know!”

“Jane, did you know anything about this? Were you holding out on us?” Lydia asked.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it, too. But, wow, his own company. That’s awesome.”

“Well, I know who will be the first in line at his auditions,” teased Charlotte, with a playful pinch to Elizabeth’s arm. “Lizzy, you’re not going to let your all-time favorite choreographer slip away so easily, are you?”

Elizabeth clenched her jaw and stuffed her tights into her dance bag. “You’re hysterical, Charlotte.”

“Oh, look!” laughed Lydia, “Lizzy’s pissed! Aw, Lizzy, don’t cry. If you’re lucky, he may keep his company in Manhattan.”

Slamming her locker shut, Elizabeth glared at her friends. “Thanks,” was all she said, before hefting her dance bag over her shoulder and storming out of the locker room. Some friends.

There was no one in the halls; she was the first one out of the dressing room and up the stairs. Elizabeth felt her chest shaking with an inexplicable fury. As she took the stairs two at a time, she heard herself breathing raggedly. She burst outside, ran down the front steps, and was about to turn downtown to head for the subway, when a voice stopped her.

“Ms. Bennet.”

Halting, Elizabeth looked up in surprise to see a man standing rigidly by a black limousine. He wore dark aviator sunglasses. She didn't know who he was.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Elizabeth Bennet?”

“Yes.” She frowned in confusion. Why did this stranger know her name?

“Ms. Bennet, Ms. Boroughs would like a moment of your time.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Ms. Catherine Boroughs.” Saying nothing else, the chauffeur opened the back door of the limousine. Elizabeth peered in, seeing nothing in the dark interior of the car except a bourgeois hand, holding a long, thin cigarette in between the second and third fingers. Swallowing, Elizabeth remembered the childhood warning—the one about getting into cars with strangers. Most strangers, however, did not approach their victims in sleek, dark-tinted limousines accompanied by sunglassed chauffeurs. They also weren't one of the wealthiest and most public women in the city. Forcing down her dread, Elizabeth reluctantly ducked into the limousine and found herself sitting across from the infamous Catherine Boroughs.

She wore an immaculate gray suit, Ferragamo heels, and blood-red lipstick on her thin lips. Although she looked to be nearing sixty, Catherine had not a wrinkle. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, giving her face a taut, unsmiling look. Inhaling from the Virginia Slim in her fingers, Catherine Boroughs looked to Elizabeth with a supercilious raise of the eyebrow, and then smiled. The gesture only reached her lips.

“Do you mind?” she asked, holding up the cigarette.

“No. No, go ahead,” Elizabeth stammered in response.

Catherine took another long drag from her cigarette and began.

“Miss Bennet, I do apologize for the inconvenience of this meeting. It's not usually how I do business.”

Elizabeth nodded and smiled nervously, unable to believe that the same blood ran through the veins of the proud woman across from her and her silent, disaffected friend, Anne.

“You probably don't know who I am.” There was an unmistakable conceit in her voice. She expected to be unknown—not by any deficiency on her part, but rather, from a lack of worldliness in the mere corps girl. Elizabeth bristled immediately at the tone, and raised her chin defensively.

“No, in fact, I do know who you are,” she answered, causing Catherine to smile slightly. “You're my friend, Anne's, mother.”

The smile wilted.

“Yes, I'm that, too. It's coincidental that you would mention your 'friend,' Ms. Bennet. I've come to talk to you about just that.”

“About Anne?”

“Amongst other things.”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in the plush, leather seat. She wondered if Catherine was here to wrench a confession from Elizabeth regarding Anne's sexual preference.

“Is everything okay with Anne?” Elizabeth began, softening her tone.

“Miss Bennet, I am well known amongst my friends and acquaintances for my frankness, and I won't mince my words with you. I want to know why you've done it.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Done...what?”

Catherine smirked and inhaled her cigarette again, before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Why you cost William Darcy his career.”

Elizabeth's eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“No need for theatrics here, Miss Bennet. I know your game, but I simply can't figure out why you've played it this long. You do know you're shooting yourself in the foot?”

Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows. “I'm sorry, I really don't know what you mean.”

“You don't? One would think that to get your way with Darcy, he would have to actually be around.”

“My way with Mr. Darcy?” repeated Elizabeth defensively, the woman's meaning slowly becoming clearer.

“You won't deny it, will you? I have it on good authority that you and William Darcy are having an affair.”

Starting, Elizabeth frowned deeply. She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off.

“I refused to believe it myself, at first. I could scarcely believe William Darcy would be interested in a woman like you. But then, well, how could I deny it? After he gave that role to your sister...and after what it cost him! And for what?” Catherine swept her eyes down Elizabeth, censure bubbling on their surface.

“That's a good question,” Elizabeth replied ironically, which Catherine missed totally.

“It is a good question. You must know that William is already engaged to my daughter—your so-called friend. He's an extremely loyal fiancée; they've been together for years. And I know he's not usually so easily tempted by girls like you. So you can see how I would dismiss the rumors for as long as I did.”

Elizabeth bristled. “Yes, well, you had two very excellent reasons to do so.”

Catherine did not miss the tone in Elizabeth's voice this time. She glared with poisonous eyes at the corps girl and then slowly reached into a sleek, leather bag lying beside her and pulled out a silver cigarette holder. Plucking a cigarette from within, Catherine lit it, inhaling long and thoughtfully, and then blew a stream of smoke straight into Elizabeth's face.

“I know about you, Miss Bennet.”

“And what exactly do you know?”

“I know that you were in Mr. Darcy's piece. I know you rehearsed privately with him. And I also know that your sister lost her promotion to Anne. What scheming, little corps girl wouldn't want to exact revenge? I've been in the arts for years. I know all of the games dancers play. And I know that trading sex for professional favors isn't below many a corps girl.”

Elizabeth could only glare at the woman across from her, so furious and insulted at all of her implications. “Yes, you're right.”

Catherine waited for a continuation. When she received none, she narrowed her eyes. “And that's all you have to say for yourself?”

“I don't think I have to say anything for myself! I don't see how my sex life affects you at all.”

“Might I remind you that I pay good money to ensure that Ballet Theater remains the best ballet company in the nation, uncompromised by anything less than the highest artistic standards! I do not look kindly upon women who are so willing to tarnish those standards to further their own ambitions. Frankly, I find you vulgar, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Vulgar?

“Would you describe using sex to get your way any differently?”

“It’s an apt word to describe using money to get your way, too. Don't you think?”

The grand dame's face went black. She took another long drag of her cigarette. “You cannot truly be insinuating that supporting the arts and sleeping with the choreographer are the same thing!”

“According to you, I'm also doing my part to 'support the arts,'” Elizabeth retorted with the same black glint in her eyes.

Catherine sneered. Elizabeth noticed her color change, and knew the old bitch was pissed. “Vile! You call that 'supporting the arts?' You saw what happened with his last piece. We all know how that ended. It was a critical disaster! And now you're doing it again! Only this time, you've gotten him fired. Do you want to ruin him, Miss Bennet? He'll never be able to choreograph anything of worth in that silly, little company of his.”

Fired? thought Elizabeth. Knowing that surprise would give Ms. Boroughs the upper hand, she hid her reaction and continued calmly. “I don't hand out the pink slips, Ms. Boroughs. Unless you think I'm sleeping with William Lucas, too.”

Catherine snorted, slowly losing her self-control. “You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Who convinced Darcy to go modern, who convinced him to cast your sister as the lead in his piece? You must have woven quite a potent spell over him, Miss Bennet. Not even Lucas could change the man's mind. And look what you've cost him. Look what you've cost the company! I can't possibly support a dance company that’s filled with dancers like you—coarse, common, amoral. I don't like modern pieces, and I especially don't like it when senior dancers, like my daughter, are passed up for roles because of people like your sister!”

Elizabeth slowed her breathing and studied her nails with mock indifference. “I still don't see how I got Mr. Darcy fired.”

Catherine snorted. “Well, what else was Lucas supposed to do? Darcy refused to cast prudently, and I refused to support such reckless, unprincipled artistry. Fortunately, Lucas is a man of sense. But I can hardly imagine a reason why Darcy would go mad and throw all rationality out of the window, with merely the 'inducements' you're giving him.”

Stunned more by the contents of Catherine's account, rather than the bile behind her words, Elizabeth breathed deeply once, then twice, before she answered.

“Your money doesn't buy his principles.”

“What?” Catherine seethed.

“Mr. Darcy isn't the kind of man who allows others to decide for him.”

Catherine snorted, her control slowly uncoiling in the face of Elizabeth's facade of calm. “If that's the case, how did someone like you manage it?”

The accusation, the disbelief, the horror in Catherine's voice set off something in Elizabeth. She smirked, narrowed her eyes, and then licked the corner of her lip. “It’s simple. I have no gag reflex.”

“No g...!” Catherine began. Then, the words sunk in, and her mouth fell open. For the first time since she was a teenager, Catherine Boroughs blushed scarlet. She sputtered, paused, gulped in a breath of air, and then turned a regal shade of violet.

“Miss Bennet!” she gasped, dramatically thumping her palm over her chest, “I am horrified! Have you no shame!? I don't think I've met a girl as vulgar as you in all of my life. You call yourself a dancer? An artist?! You’re no more than a common prostitute.”

Elizabeth's smirk had morphed to a fiery glare. Catherine finished her rant with a exaggerated fling of her arm.

“Since you're such a fan of being blunt,” Elizabeth replied, in a voice filled with acid calm, “then here it is. I don't care who you are, how many companies you donate to, how many artistic directors and finance directors and managers and 'artists' you have chained to you and your money. It doesn’t matter to me. The only reason I'm talking to you at all is because I like your daughter. I don't want it passed around at some bajillionaire soirée that I'm a whore who will screw over my friends to get what I want, and I'm not sleeping with William Darcy.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “But you have slept with him.”

“Maybe I should be more explicit. I don't have sex for roles. And this conversation is over.” Scooting over on the leather seat, Elizabeth grabbed the door handle. Catherine's arm shot out to still her wrist.

“You haven't been dismissed,” she hissed. She smelled of stale tobacco mingled with Chanel No.5. Balling her fist, Elizabeth swallowed down an explosion of rage and answered in a voice so deadly calm, it made Catherine's grip falter.

“This. Conversation. Is. Over.” Elizabeth yanked her hand away and pushed open the door.

“Miss Bennet!” she heard the old woman yell. Leaping out of the car, Elizabeth's feet hit the pavement, and she slammed the door, startling Catherine Borough's chauffeur from his halcyon cigarette break.

Chapter 26

Elizabeth thundered up the block with Catherine Borough's voice booming in her head. Frankly, I find you vulgar... You've gotten him fired...You’re no more than a common prostitute.

“Dumb bitch!” Elizabeth cursed. She had never felt so assaulted, so insulted. Anything William, or even Caroline, had ever said or done to her paled in comparison to this tirade. Sleeping with William Darcy so that Elizabeth could get a better part? The irony was that she had slept with him, wished she'd never done it, and then had herself made an outcast for it. Sleeping with William Darcy to get her sister a better part? The greater irony was that Jane now had a better part, and Elizabeth wanted to wring her neck for it. She should have told Catherine that! The old hag would have choked on her Virginia Slim.

And William fired from BTNY? That was simple insanity. Everyone in the company knew Darcy was the golden goose; Lucas would never fire him. Truly, Catherine Boroughs must have been suffering from a mental disorder—schizophrenia perhaps, or drug abuse. Any other way of looking at the situation turned slapstick in its absurdity.

Suddenly, Elizabeth felt very sorry for Anne. To live with such a woman! To have been raised by such a woman! It explained a lot in her friend's personality; one would have to become cold and detached to keep her sanity around such a mother—presumptuous, intrusive, bigoted bitch that she was.

But at least Elizabeth had stood up to her. She hadn't trembled in intimidation, or meekly protested her innocence. She had taken the flames from the dragon's mouth, and for that, she could be proud of herself. Not many corps de ballet dancers—hell, not many people—could say they had gone up against Big C and come away unscathed. Of course, Elizabeth could only wait for what professional consequences might come from this altercation. She would probably be fired, perhaps even blacklisted from other dance companies in New York. Elizabeth should have been quaking with fear and regret. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but she couldn't find the fear. She had withstood Caroline Bingley and William Darcy. What was one more self-righteous millionaire to her?

That made Elizabeth smile—a genuine, satisfied smile—one that had recently been too infrequent a visitor to her face. Then, she chuckled to herself and balled her fists. She felt like punching the air around her like a triumphant boxer. She only needed an endless series of steps, and she probably would have dashed up them Rocky-style, raised her arms up to the sky, and then thrown air punches around her.

She would probably be fired tomorrow, cut off from the dance world before she had even plunged into it, but she had looked the grand dame of New York's art world in the face, laughed, thrown a few solid, sucker-punches, and come out, well, if not victorious, at least not knocked out. And there weren't many people, corps dancers or otherwise, who could say that.

Elizabeth went into work the next day expecting a summons from Sir William Lucas. It never came. Elizabeth was not fired that day, or the day after that. The remainder of the week passed by normally—classes, rehearsals, costume fittings. She went out to dinner with Anne and Mariah, and no mention was made of the spat with the older Boroughs. No one glanced at her strangely. She did not hear her name whispered in the halls. Even Caroline, normally foaming at the mouth, ready to sink her teeth into Elizabeth, barely glanced at the corps girl.

The fall season premier was several weeks away, and after that, Nutcracker. In the halls and locker rooms of BTNY, dancers hummed with the same casting speculations as they always did. Rumor had it Louisa Hurst wouldn't be dancing Sugar Plum this year. Jane Bennet was pinned for Arabian. Everyone wondered if Caroline would be healthy enough after the “injury” that had kept her from dancing in the fall season.

Once Elizabeth had gone on tour, the company forgot about her. She came to class, fell in line in rehearsals, and went back to the locker room to change, free of stares and whispers. The rumor mill churned out new gossip every day, but nobody talked about Elizabeth Bennet very much at all, and this, she realized, was exactly the way she preferred it.

Elizabeth trudged downstairs with Jane and Charlotte following behind her.

“Ow, ow, ow,” chanted Charlotte, as she descended each step.

“What's wrong?” asked Jane.

“I have a blister the size of Wyoming on my big toe.”

“I've become desensitized to those by now,” remarked Elizabeth. “They have to be the size of China to get any attention from me.”

“I have sensitive toes,” Charlotte pouted.

The trio undid their pointe shoes and threw on their street clothes. They had decided to go buy their lunch at the deli down the block. Elizabeth took just enough money for a turkey sandwich and a juice. Since starting Pilates, she had been forced to cut back on her outings to the deli and Starbucks. Today's lunch would be a treat, and she intended to enjoy her hefty turkey sandwich to the fullest.

Charlotte, Jane, and Elizabeth chattered on the way out of the studio about the impossible series of jumps the ballet mistress had taught that day. They ordered their sandwiches in the deli and headed back to the studio. On the way, Charlotte turned to Jane, eyes dancing with curiosity.

“So, Jane, I'm just dying to know...what are Mr. Darcy's rehearsals like, now that he's gotten the pole out of his ass?”

Elizabeth turned her eyes down to the sidewalk upon the mention of his name, feeling her insides begin to churn with envy. She tried to avoid the topic of Mr. Darcy's new piece. After nearly a month back in New York City, it still stung, and the pain made her turn on Jane.

Jane laughed. “He never had a pole up his ass, Charlotte!”

“Okay, whatever. Since he started smiling. What are they like? Come on, Lizzy and I want to know.”

Elizabeth smiled stiffly. She really didn't want to know.

“They're just normal,” said Jane. “He teaches the steps, we dance them. Same as his last piece.”

“Oh,” Charlotte sighed, with a hint of disappointment in her voice. “So what's the piece like?”

“Um, slow-ish. Kind of different than his last piece, I guess.”

“You guess?” repeated Charlotte.

“Actually, he hasn't let us hear the music yet.”

“Huh?”

“He says he wants us to know the dance in our bodies before he lets us dance with the music. He says the music will bias us.”

Elizabeth snorted. “That's so typical. So when is he going to let you hear it? The day before the show?”

Jane licked her lips nervously, jarred by Elizabeth's sudden mood swing. “Well, I'm not sure really. Maybe when he's finished choreographing the piece. On Tuesday, he mentioned that it might be soon.”

Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth muttered inexplicably under her breath. Charlotte and Jane shared a knowing look and returned small shrugs. Jane glanced to her sister uncomfortably, puzzled and hurt by Elizabeth's defensiveness as of late. She saw a bone in Elizabeth's jaw shift as she stared stonily ahead. They reached the steps up to the doorway.

“I'm going to sit outside for a while,” announced Elizabeth. “Enjoy some of this cool weather.”

“Okay. Want company?” asked Jane.

Elizabeth shook her head. “That's okay. You and Charlotte go inside.” She sat with an air of finality. Waiting for a helpless second, Jane looked at Charlotte, and then the two went inside.

“I don't understand her,” said Jane. “She's been like this since she got back from tour.”

“Did anything happen while she was away? Did she say?”

“I don't know. We barely talk anymore. She's never home, and when she is, she just stays in her room.”

Charlotte frowned. “Maybe she feels there's a reason she can't open up to you.”

“We tell each other everything, though. I just don't understand.”

They trekked upstairs to eat lunch in the hallway outside of the studios. Sitting in an unoccupied corner, they unwrapped their sandwiches and continued the conversation.

“Jane, do you think...,” Charlotte hesitated, “there's a reason she isn't confiding in you?”

“What kind of reason?”

Charlotte sighed. “Do you think she's jealous of you?”

“No. No way.” Jane stared at Charlotte as if she were crazy.

“Think about it. You got promoted. You got a prime role is Darcy's piece. She might be jealous of you.”

“No, Charlotte. She's not. This isn't the first time I've gotten a better part than Lizzy. She's never gotten jealous before.”

“Okay, but what if it didn't have to do with dancing?”

Jane stared at her friend suspiciously. Charlotte took a sip of her soda and lowered her voice.

“Do you think it might have to do with Mr. Darcy?”

“What about Mr. Darcy?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. A while back, I heard some rumors that...”

“You shouldn't trust rumors,” warned Jane.

Charlotte sighed. Here it was again, that instinctive Bennet urge to protect the other members of the clan. Smiling in resignation, she took another sip of soda.

“Yeah, I know. Lizzy's just in a funk.”

Jane nodded, but her expression wasn't convinced. However, she didn't have much time to ponder the issue, as her thoughts were interrupted by an excited cry from down the hall.

“Hey! Nutcracker casting's up!”

Elizabeth pushed herself off from the steps and took a deep breath before entering the building. The lobby was quiet. Before turning up into the stairwell, she glanced over her shoulder at the poster of William Darcy in La Bayadere. She shook her head and shuffled down the stairs to the locker room.

As she pulled open the door, two fellow company members were on their way out. They smiled at her. One patted her shoulder.

“Nice one, Liz,” she said, before continuing past her up the stairs.

Elizabeth frowned in confusion. Afternoon rehearsals were about to begin, but there were few dancers left in the locker rooms. Quickly shucking out of her street clothes, she grabbed her pointe shoes, warmers, and water bottle. Another late dancer ran out from the bathroom, smiled at her, and called out, “Congrats!” before streaking out of the room, so as not to be late.

Elizabeth's heart began beating an allegro rhythm. Something was up. She walked slowly from the dressing room and into the hall. No one was around. Checking the clock, she wondered where everyone was. Rehearsal would start soon, but usually dancers were still milling about at this time.

Just then, Anne Boroughs ambled down the stairs and stopped when she spied Elizabeth.

“Hey,” she said, smiling uncharacteristically, “I bet you feel like a million bucks.”

“Uh, no,” Elizabeth replied, “I feel like crap, and I want to know why everyone keeps smiling at me.”

“They're just being nice, Elizabeth. Would you rather they take a crowbar to your kneecaps?”

“Huh?”

“Huh? Have you even seen the board?”

“No.”

“Nutcracker casting is up.”

Suddenly, Elizabeth understood. Her eyes widened, and she straightened her spine as if a bolt of electricity had just coursed through her. Without a word of good-bye, she pushed past Anne and took the stairs two at a time. Anne watched her go with a smile and shake of the head.

Elizabeth saw a small crowd gathered in front of the company message board. Her heartbeat felt heavy in her throat as she approached, at once excited and terrified. She began scanning the list from the bottom up, as had become her habit to avoid disappointment.

She found her name towards the bottom of the page, in a cluster of corps dancers' names, for Waltz of the Flowers. She had also been chosen to understudy the Dance of the Reed Pipes. Elizabeth smiled; she had not even been in Act Two the year before. She looked further up and found her name under Waltz of the Snowflakes. As she suspected. Maybe a little better. Certainly no reason for all manner of felicitations to be spouted her way. About to turn away from the board, she gasped in surprise when Lydia catapulted onto her and nearly broke her neck in a huge hug.

“You fucking rock!” she cried.

“Thanks,” Elizabeth sputtered. “You're fucking choking me.”

“Sorry.” Lydia giggled, releasing her. “So, how many times did you have to blow Lucas to get that part?”

Elizabeth guffawed. “First, that's just sick. Second, fuck you. And third, you're in the same dances as me.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lydia looked at Elizabeth strangely. She pointed at the list. “Why don't you take another look, Lizzy.”

Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth turned around and skimmed the list again. She ran her index finger up the list of names for Waltz of the Flowers. She saw herself and nodded. Continuing upwards, she saw that her sister had been cast in the Dance of the Reed Pipes, as well, and as understudy for the Arabian pas de deux. Caroline's name was listed under Sugar Plum Fairy, along with two other principals. Elizabeth's finger continued the journey upwards to the cast list for Act One. The list for Waltz of the Snowflakes took up an entire page in itself. Elizabeth found herself and nodded again. Finally, simply to be thorough, she looked upward to the cast for the opening Christmas party scene, comprised of mostly children and retired dancers playing party revelers.

And then her finger stopped.

“You're kidding,” she exhaled.

But there it was, in that staid, Times New Roman font, the one she had always hated. Her name written under the heading “Doll,” a one-minute soloist role danced early in the first act. Elizabeth gawked in disbelief and whirled around to stare at Lydia, who simply stared back smugly. Turning around, Elizabeth looked again, studying the words “Elizabeth Bennet.”

And then, she smiled. She shouldn't have, but she did anyway. Elizabeth felt everything in her body turn warm and light. Jane had also been chosen to dance the role, most likely in a different cast, because it was a part for one. Nevertheless, Elizabeth grinned and then laughed in disbelieving bliss. It was a fluke, alphabetical serendipity, but there it was. In spite of rank or experience, for the first time ever on any cast list, it was the name of Elizabeth Bennet which came before that of her sister, Jane.

After the last of the company had gone home, William meandered up the stairs and down the hall to studio B, his favorite—the one with no windows. The last minute of his piece was giving him trouble, and he needed to put in the overtime to tweak a few transitions and phrasings. Not exactly the way he wanted to spend his evening, but the piece needed to be finished.

Everything had begun so well. After Miami, he had raced back to New York City and choreographed the first two minutes of the six minute work in an evening. And then, his inspiration slowed, drying up to the caked, cracking desert where he was now wandering blind. William regretted his decision. At the time, the choreography had seemed so fresh, completely opposite to anything he had ever created. He had made the decision during a fit of creativity; everything, all six minutes of his piece, had seemed so clear to him then. What had happened?

In any case, he would have to struggle through the last minute of the song. Tonight, he decided, if the dance still didn't work, he would change the music to something he was more comfortable with, simply to get the damn piece done. Fortunately, he hadn't let the dancers hear his selection yet, covering for his cowardice with an excuse about “feeling the dance in their bodies.” If he did decide the song wouldn't work, at least he could still save face.

As William crossed the empty hallway, he heard the clod of pointe shoes break the silence. Someone was in his studio. Frowning, he checked his watch. It was half past five, late, but not late enough that all of the dancers would have gone home. William approached the door to Studio B and peered through the thin strip of window on the door. His stomach lurched.

Inside was Elizabeth, slowly marking through a series of steps and turns. Her legs walked through the dance, but her arms and face performed full-out. He noticed her fingers closed stiffly, her arms rigid as she danced. It was the characteristic posture for the Doll variation in the first act of Nutcracker. William smiled, feeling a warm pride tingle through him. He could claim no credit for Elizabeth's getting that role, but it satisfied him nonetheless. Now that she was more conscious of her dancing, it showed to everyone, ballet mistresses and artistic directors alike. William and Lucas still weren't speaking, but he heard enough from Charles to know the old man was impressed.

He could have watched longer, but his CD was inside, and he would have to interrupt her to retrieve it. Knocking softly, he pushed open the door and was met with her surprised countenance, which quickly morphed to embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he said, “I just need to grab my music.”

“Oh, no, that's okay,” she replied, as he walked in the studio. “I'll be out of here in a few seconds.”

“No, stay. I can work in another studio.”

“Really, it's fine. I've been in these shoes too long anyway. My toes are killing me.”

William looked at her, and then chuckled. Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

“We've made a real 180, haven't we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Arguing over who can be more courteous to the other.”

While he'd meant it as a joke, Elizabeth's face fell palpably. She recovered with a weak smile and then turned and shuffled towards the side of the studio to grab her water. Feeling awkward, William tried to bring back a lighter atmosphere.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

She took a long sip of water and then smiled. “Thanks. I don't know what Lucas was thinking, though. I'm not up for this role.”

“He wouldn't have cast you if he didn't think you could dance it.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I can't get any of the turns when my arms have to be as stiff as poles the whole time.”

“You don't turn with your arms.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said, with a lopsided smile, “but I cheat. I can't help it.”

William considered her words with a smile of his own. “How's the ankle?”

“Better. The Pilates is really helping, I think.”

“Good, then you should be able to plié more. That should get you around for the turns.”

Elizabeth grinned. “You and your pliés.”

“It's all in your supporting leg.”

Placing her water down on the floor, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Let's see about that.” She walked to the center of the room and picked up dancing from the middle of the variation. Preparing for the series of turns that ended the solo, she called out, “Okay, here's your plié.”

William smiled and rolled his eyes, but then watched in self-satisfaction as Elizabeth landed each turn crisply. She seemed surprised herself. After the series finished, she looked at him in mirror and grinned.

“See? I told you. It's all about the plié. And the supporting leg,” she joked.

“Ah, now I get it.” He returned her quip with equal ease.

“You should listen to me more often, William.”

He raised his lips in a soft smile of acknowledgment. “I've already figured that out.”

Blinking twice, Elizabeth stared at him, searching him, and he willed his expression to open to her, so that she would find whatever she was looking for. She returned his smile.

“So,” she began, “when are you starting this company of yours?”

Disappointment bit at him. He didn't like that she had steered their conversation away from where he wanted it to go. “Well, I have to finish out my contract here. Then I'm thinking about going down to Miami for a few months, to spend some time with G. Maybe I'll hold auditions next spring.”

Elizabeth nodded. “That's...great. You must be excited.”

“I am.” He didn't sound convincing. Once again, Elizabeth grew quiet. He waited for her to speak. Moments later, she smiled and went back to retrieve her things.

“Well, we're going to miss you,” she said, flinging her towel over her shoulder. “Who else is going to scare us all into submission?”

William felt his heart crack. This was the part where Elizabeth was supposed to burst into tears, confess her love for him, and beg him not to go. Instead, she was once again teasing him at his expense. He couldn't return her jab this time. He merely shrugged.

When Elizabeth realized she would get no reaction from him, she sighed and chuckled once. “Okay, well, the studio's all yours.”

“Thanks. Sorry to interrupt you.”

Elizabeth waved his apology away and then left the studio with a soft good-bye. William listened to the sound of her retreating pointe shoes for as long as he could, and then closed the door, hollowed with solitude. Looking around him, he sighed, rubbed his eyes, and muttered a curse. Melancholy seeped through him like water through a bag of strong, dark tea.

His feelings from before paled in comparison to this powerful, coursing ache. If Elizabeth had been intriguing several months ago, as the surly, head-strong dancer in his piece, she was intoxicating now, as the bright, teasing woman. William stood in the center of the studio for several ageless minutes, regretting. Then, he decided no matter how big of an idiot he was, he would never finish his piece if he kept on with those thoughts. He paced to the stereo and turned on his music.

The slow piano introduction only served to heighten his melancholy. Staring at the wall, he let Billy Joel's song waft through him, thinking of how perfect everything had seemed when he'd heard it with her. Her suggestion had hit something in him, like a spark on gasoline. Everything about this song was Elizabeth.

Pacing to the middle of the room, William let the music take him. The steps came, finally. He only paused to scribble them down in his notebook. His movements were languid and blue. But, that was what he felt. Instead of fighting down his heartache, William let himself steep in it. Before, it had been lust. Now, it was sadness. But, both times, it was all because of Elizabeth.

When William next looked up at the clock, it read 9:23, and he had finally finished his piece.

“Okee dokee, ladies and gents. That's all for this week,” announced Sir William. “Have a lovely weekend, soak those feet, and we'll see you back here on Monday.”

The dancers offered light applause for the artistic director and then in a whirlwind of voices and laughter, gathered their things to leave.

“So, are we still on for tonight?” Charlotte asked Elizabeth, as she pulled off her leg warmers.

“What time?”

“The place opens at eight. Band starts at eight thirty.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Might as well. I'm not doing anything else tonight.”

“Gee, Lizzy, way to make a friend feel loved.”

“You know I love you, Charlotte.”

“Lyd, you coming?” Charlotte asked, turning to Lydia.

“You know I don't do bands.”

“Yes,” interjected Elizabeth, “Lydia doesn't listen to anything that doesn't have a synthesizer in it.”

Beaming because it was the truth, Lydia nodded. “I'm going to a rave in Jersey City.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Raves are so nineties.”

“I know. But the DJ's yummy.”

The trio gathered their things and walked to the door of the studio.

“Liz, does Jane want to come tonight?”

“She can't. She's off to Charles' ranch upstate.”

Lydia sighed. “I wish I had a rich, cute boyfriend who owned real estate.”

“I'd settle for just a boyfriend,” Elizabeth said.

They left the studio behind and moseyed into the hall, where several other dancers lingered. As they neared Studio B, Lydia frowned and made a face.

“Ugh, I hate this song.”

Charlotte perked her ears up to listen. “What! I love this song! Just because it doesn't have a synthesizer.”

Laughing, Charlotte looked to Elizabeth to join in on the jibe, but the latter's face had gone completely still. Several company members were huddled around the narrow strip of window of the door to Studio B, gazing in to William Darcy's rehearsal, curious at his choice of music, at long last revealed. Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows in concentration, blinking rapidly.

“Lizzy? You okay?” Charlotte asked.

“Hold on,” she said, “I want to see this.”

Pushing her way over to the door, Elizabeth rose onto the tips of her pointe shoes to glimpse into the studio over the heads of the dancers in front of her. Her heartbeat stilled.

Over the one-month course of William Darcy's rehearsals, Elizabeth had never wanted to look in. It stung too much, seeing her sister in the center of the studio, where she should have been. Unlike most of the company, Elizabeth absolutely did not care about his choreography. She didn't care about the mystery piece of music William had refused to let his dancers hear. She didn't care about any of it, because she cared too much. So, she had stayed away.

Now, as she stood on her toes, gaping as the dancers in his piece moved to “New York State of Mind,” the very song they had listened to that night in his BMW in Miami, Elizabeth felt like movement and even time had stopped. She watched as a group of dancers in the background of the piece moved inconspicuously like two crowds on opposing sides of the street, meeting in the middle.

...That feeling, when you're about to cross the street and there are a dozen people standing on your side, and a dozen on the other. That moment, when you meet in the middle of the pavement. That energy. That's New York to me...

Elizabeth swallowed hard, feeling her pulse pound in her throat, her fingertips, her chest. Aware that her fingers were trembling, she could do nothing to stop them. She simply watched. Jane spun in the fingers of her partner, extending a graceful leg, reaching for him, and then pulling away. Elizabeth bit her lip, suddenly understanding.

She had believed Catherine Boroughs insane, but, Elizabeth thought sardonically, the old biddy had been right.

Who convinced Darcy to go modern, who convinced him to cast your sister as the lead in his piece? You must have woven quite a potent spell over him, Miss Bennet.

In a surge of realization, like a light bulb exploding in its socket, Elizabeth understood now the desperation in Boroughs' voice during that tête-à-tête.

This piece, it wasn't about Jane, at all. It wasn't about a salary or a contractual requirement. William Darcy didn't do pop music. Elizabeth's jaw fell open as she saw Jane tumble gracefully to the floor and roll. William Darcy didn't do rolls. He didn't cast haphazardly. There was a reason why he had chosen Jane, and suddenly Elizabeth knew that the reason wasn't Jane. There was also a reason William had chosen this particular Billy Joel song, and that reason wasn't to experiment with contemporary dance.

Idiot, Elizabeth thought, cracking a crooked smile at her stupidity. As many times as she had read his letter, as well as she thought she had memorized it, how could she have forgotten that crucial line that came bubbling up in her memory now.

You won’t believe this, but your dancing inspired my choreography like no one ever has. It was something mythical and special.

The reason, for everything, was her.

The song and William's rehearsal finished, and the curious group of dancers edged away from the door. Elizabeth remained, chewing on her lip, staring into the studio. The first dancer in William's piece flung open the door and exited with a tired sigh. The rest of the dancers followed. Elizabeth saw Jane approaching her, too, but she stared past her sister to the man in the center of the room, whose eyes had landed on hers as soon as the door had opened.

Elizabeth gazed at William, the length of a studio separating them. He looked to her openly, holding her eyes and refusing to look away. Still stunned by her revelation, Elizabeth could do nothing but blink in response. She couldn't even smile.

Jane reached Elizabeth at that moment. “Hey, Lizzy. Whatcha doing?”

Pulling her gaze away from William, she looked to Jane. “Nothing.”

“Ugh, I'm pooped!” Jane linked her arm in her sister's, and greeted Charlotte and Lydia, who stood further back against the wall.

“So, he finally revealed the music,” Charlotte said.

“Yeah, unexpected, isn't it?” answered Jane. “Ow, my legs are killing me.”

Perhaps the girls continued to talk— Elizabeth couldn't be sure. Her thoughts were stuck on the music, the dancing, the way William had stared at her, and the conclusion to which, Elizabeth was certain, they all pointed.

He still loved her.

Of course, if she thought rationally, Elizabeth might have concluded that he had just plagiarized a few of her ideas. Or, perhaps he needed a change from the stiff, classical stuff he always choreographed. But, in her gut, Elizabeth knew this was one of those times when reason seemed too outlandish to be possible. He still loved her, or at the very least, she could make him love her again.

The quartet had reached the stairwell, echoing with the laughter and chatter and footsteps of nearly a dozen dancers. Jane released Elizabeth's elbow, and they descended they stairs. With every step down, Elizabeth felt pulled further back.

No, she should wait, Elizabeth chastised herself. She should reserve the weekend to think, to strategize, to analyze this revelation more fully. It wouldn't be prudent to run back there and throw herself at him. That would be desperate. Yet, despite all of the protests of her brain, Elizabeth's body stopped half-way down the flight of stairs. Jane nearly crashed into her.

“Lizzy?”

Spinning around, Elizabeth grabbed the banister on the other side of the wall and strode up to the landing.

“I'll see you at home, Jane.” She was about to bolt up the next flight of steps when Jane called out to her.

“Lizzy!”

Elizabeth paused, holding up a line of dancers attempting to pass her on the way down.

“I'm not going to be here this weekend,” Jane said, exasperated that her sister had forgotten again, for nearly the third time since she had told her on Wednesday.

“Oh,” answered Elizabeth. If Jane expected an elaboration, she was to be sorely disappointed. Elizabeth merely turned on her heel and charged up the flight of stairs.

“That girl forgets her water bottle more than she remembers it,” said Lydia, shaking her head.

“She forgets everything lately,” grumbled Jane.

“Well, she'd better not forget that she promised to go see this band with me tonight,” Charlotte added.

Unfortunately for Charlotte, Elizabeth had completely forgotten.

Chapter 27

After the last of the dancers had left and the halls quieted, William paced to the chair at the front of the studio. He sighed into it and cast his head back against the mirror, closing his eyes and simply breathing, simply trying to calm his chest after that look.

Remembering Elizabeth's face, his heart began beating furiously again, strangely excited and fearful at the same time. She had seemed astonished, yet she had seemed to know. William had seen the understanding dawn in her eyes. Everything about her had been calm, except for the thoughts mirroring themselves in those wide, hazel eyes. Her surprise surprised him. How could she not know his feelings? And yet, if there was one thing at which the two of them excelled, it was misunderstanding the other.

The sound of vigorous footsteps broke his reverie. Opening his eyes, William sat up straight in the chair when he saw Elizabeth standing at the threshold of the studio, clutching the door frame. Her chest moved in a light pant, and she had a curious half-smile on her face.

“Hey,” he said, in a trite greeting to cover a surge of nervousness.

“Hi,” she said, slowly and brightly. She stayed there, saying nothing else. William licked his lips and waited for her to continue. She wore the look of someone wanting to say something, and William's heart jumped at the thought of what it might be.

“Are you finished for today?”

He shook his head and stood. “I still need to smooth a few things out in the pas de deux.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth wrinkled her forehead and looked down to the floor. Her breathing still came rapidly. Then, she raised her eyes, leaned into her hip awkwardly, and cocked her head to the side. “Can I help?”

William did not answer, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

“I mean...I know I'm not in the piece, but...”

“Sure,” he answered.

When she closed the door to the studio softly behind her, William's face went molten, and his heart rocketed to his throat. He turned sharply away, walking to the stereo.

“I like your choice of music,” commented Elizabeth. He couldn't see her face, but he heard the lightness in her voice.

He attempted to answer calmly. “You're about the only one.”

“Am I?”

“Lucas detests it, and I haven't heard the end of it from Charles.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I thought Charles liked whatever you did.”

“No. Actually, it turns out he has a mind of his own.” Cuing the music, William faced her again and smiled. “You really don't have to do this.”

She smiled. “It's okay. I want to.”

Swallowing hard, William stared at her for a long moment. He forced himself to think rationally. She isn't here to throw herself at your feet. Calm down. Calm down. But, with her face flushed from more than exercise and her eyes almost wild in their brightness, William was having a difficult time restraining the speculations of his heart.

He approached her where she stood in the middle of the studio. “All right. If you don't mind, there's a transition after this particular lift that your sister is having trouble with. I think it needs re-working.”

Elizabeth nodded perfunctorily. “Okay.”

They stared at each other, each too awkward and nervous to move. William cleared his throat. “It, uh, begins in a fish dive.”

“Oh. Oh, right.”

Elizabeth skirted in front of him and popped up onto the tips of her pointe shoes. William braced himself, knowing the feel of her smooth back under his thumbs would once again do things to him that he couldn't control. The lift went well enough. Held with her nose merely a foot from the wooden floor, Elizabeth asked, “Now what?”

“Okay, you're going to kick your right leg back and around. I'll pull you back up so that you're facing me.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“I'll be carrying you. Like, uh, like a man carries a woman over the threshold.”

Elizabeth let a silent moment pass before she answered. “Oh. Got it.”

Inhaling, she prepared to be hurled up and around. The first attempt failed, as William figured it would. They tried again. Elizabeth dived into the first pose and then used her downward momentum to flip herself up and around, grasping William's neck tightly when she was at last safely in his arms.

“Yes, something like that,” murmured William, still holding her, trying to ignore the berry stain across her cheeks and chest. “Then, you kick up and back, and with that leg, piqué back into an arabesque.”

A simple enough request, Elizabeth performed the series and waited with her leg held behind her for her next set of instructions.

“This is where Jane has problems. She's supposed to drop to the floor, roll, and essentially finish in the same pose just on the other leg. I think the momentum of the roll gives her trouble.”

Elizabeth's lips parted into a bright grin. “Ah, well, then it's good you have help from someone experienced in the finer points of flailing around on the floor.”

“How fortunate.”

“But I will tell you that it's nearly impossible to drop into a roll from standing on pointe. Unless you intend to ruin Jane's ankle along with her knee, this time.”

“No, I didn't have those intentions.”

“What if she pulled back, rolled off of her shoes, and had Dan pull her forward a bit into the roll? That would spare her legs and also give her a bit of momentum for the next transition.”

Considering the suggestion, William nodded slowly. “Let's try it.”

It worked. Such a simple change really, yet it made the entire phrase fluid and right. Or, perhaps it wasn't the step. Perhaps it was Elizabeth that made it right. Jane's movements, while supple, lacked the nuance of her younger sister's dancing. Elizabeth did just the right thing with her fingers, her wrists, her chin, her feet, and those vivid, hazel eyes which moved with her body as if they were appendages themselves. William realized then that, in choosing Jane, he had cast better and more principled, but that he had still not made the right choice.

“Well,” he said, “let's try this one more time and then get going. The last place I want to spend Friday night is a dance studio.”

Elizabeth tittered uncomfortably. “Right. Well, I guess you have big plans for the night.”

Something in her voice, the false cheeriness, perhaps, or the whiff of desperation, gave William pause. He answered cautiously. “No, not really.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ah. I see.” Nodding, she moistened her lips and lifted the corners, making her cheeks apple. “All right. Let's try this one more time.”

With his back to her, William cued the music, breathing smoothly and deeply to calm himself. He sensed that Elizabeth had not come here to dance. He wanted to imagine what she had come here to do, but he wouldn't let his mind wander far into the deep. It might crush him, to have her leave with nothing more than a cheery good-bye. For the first time since he had been fired, William didn't regret leaving Elizabeth behind. He wasn't normally one for self-sacrifice, but then again, William didn't think his emotions, or his libido, could take much more of her.

The troublesome phrase neared, and William turned away from the stereo and towards Elizabeth, who had her eyes fixated on him. He cursed himself. He was too old for his heart to skip upon the mere sight of a woman.

“Ready?” she asked, with a small smile.

William nodded. “Let's go from the dive.”

He counted out the music and Elizabeth stepped into the phrase, with a succinct piqué. They danced close, far closer than William danced with Jane, or any other dancer of his past or present acquaintance. Their bodies were inches apart, and William longed to slip his hands around her waist and press her to him, as he had in his last piece. Elizabeth's movements were in-time to the music and still as supple as ever, yet William sensed a hesitance in her body. She held his gaze in the mirror, and he spied that reluctance, and something else there as well.

Then, Elizabeth plunged into the dive and, with his assistance, flipped herself around, the weight of her back and knees falling into the crooks of William's elbows. Her hands encircled his neck, bringing them closer. The phrase should have continued into the next arabesque, but Elizabeth stayed, her nose a breath's length apart from his. She raised her eyes. The music continued.

They were so close. William's gaze dipped to her mouth, contemplating a kiss, but he stopped himself. Perhaps she had stopped because she had forgotten the steps, perhaps her ankle hurt...but, no. Elizabeth drew herself closer to him, her eyes dipping to his lips. He felt the warmth of her breathing on his mouth. They were so close—almost touching—and then, they were.

Elizabeth's lips moved softly, hesitantly under his, and everything in William froze. She pulled away soon after, her eyes flitting down in embarrassment.

“I'm going to put you down,” William murmured. Elizabeth nodded, her face turning red. She looked away, and whispered, “Sorry,” once her feet had touched the floor.

“Don't misunderstand me, Elizabeth,” said William, weaving a hand around her waist and pulling her to him. “I just didn't want to drop you.”

She turned her face up to him in surprise, and William seized the opportunity to take her lips again. They came up for air some time later, panting, wild-eyed, flushed. With the task of breathing out of the way, they dove back into each other. Elizabeth rose up on the tips of her pointe shoes to reach his mouth, pressing the length of her body into him. William relished the pliancy of her breasts against his chest, her hands cupping the sides of his face, and her lips opening eagerly under his. Once the music had faded and the room went quiet, they parted.

Breathing hard, Elizabeth looked up to him, eyes glittering. “That's not going in your piece, is it?”

William could barely find his voice. “No.”

“Oh.” She seemed pleased by that answer. “Want to come over for dinner?”

“Sure. When?”

“Tonight?”

“Sounds good. Let me get my stuff.”

“I'll go get changed.” Elizabeth tore herself away from him, her eyes dancing with disbelief and delight.

“Meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes?”

She nodded, and answered with the widest, happiest smile he had ever seen on her face. Watching her go, William turned towards the stereo and stilled. He saw a person in the mirror, beaming, eyes crinkled and light, goofy with joy. It took a fraction of a second for William to realize that it was him. He chuckled, shook his head, and simply let it be.

In retrospect, Elizabeth realized she had made a hasty, foolish, and irrational decision.

How was fifteen minutes enough time to pretty herself after eight hours of dancing? She should have said twenty.

“Dammit!” she cursed, trying to run a comb through her wet hair. She was now at—she checked the clock on the back wall—seventeen minutes and counting. Knowing how William hated tardiness, Elizabeth sped up her pace. Just a dab of lipstick, a spray of body splash, a comb to get the tangles out. Lurching for her dance bag, she stubbed her toe on the bench.

“Ow, fuck!” Throwing her dance clothes into her bag, she tossed the strap onto her shoulder and sprinted from the dressing room, up the stairs, and into the cool evening air. William stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the rail. His clothes, his posture, his air of calm all unsettled Elizabeth further. Looking at him, she couldn't believe she had kissed him. It all came slamming back to her. But, there was no time for recriminations now.

“Sorry,” she said, breathing heavily from her run, “I'm late.”

“That's okay,” William said, giving her The Look—the one that she had thought so many months ago was an expression of his disapproval. The one that she realized now was exactly the opposite.

“Is my place okay?” she asked.

“Your place is perfect.” His voice made her stomach weak.

“Cab?”

He nodded, and they hailed one. Once inside, they sat in an awkward, expectation-heavy silence.

“So, what do you plan on making?” asked William.

“Making?”

“For dinner.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. She hadn't gone grocery shopping in a week. The only food they had in the house was a variety of condiments and cereals, leftover pizza, and three eggs in the fridge. “Um...well. I hadn't thought it through that far.”

Unexpectedly, the comment made William smile. He said nothing, however. The remainder of the cab ride was spent in silence. Elizabeth tried to form a mental picture of the state in which she had left the apartment that morning. Cringing, she remembered that her bra and underwear from the day before were still crumpled in a pile on the floor in her room. Neither she nor Jane had done dishes in two days. She hadn't dusted the coffee table in months.

Instructing the taxi driver which building was hers, Elizabeth dug through her bag to find her wallet, but William had already snapped a crisp ten dollar bill from his. He handed it over with a command for the driver to keep the change.

Elizabeth fumbled nervously for her keys and opened the door to her building. As she climbed the stairs, she realized for the first time how dingy and unimpressive it was. Uneven tile, fluorescent lights, grimy walls, no elevator. She remembered William's palace and was suddenly gripped by nervousness. He continued to say nothing.

Reaching the third floor, she looked back at him and smiled timidly. He smiled back.

“Well, here it is. I'm warning you, it's not much,” she said, unlocking her front door and letting them both in. As Elizabeth feared, they walked into a scene of several days’ worth of bowls and mugs piled haphazardly in the sink. Elizabeth winced.

“Jane and I don't get much time to clean,” she explained. William merely smiled and shrugged.

“Okay, so let me give you the tour. You've already seen the kitchen...unfortunately. And this is our living room.”

“It's very...blue.”

“Yeah, Jane painted the walls when I was on tour.” Elizabeth wondered if she shouldn't have mentioned tour. William looked around noncommittally.

“And this is the bathroom...that's Jane's bedroom. Down there is mine. And that's about it. It's small.”

Nodding, William looked around, shoved his hands in his pockets, and said nothing. Elizabeth felt an embarrassed burn rise from her chest to her neck and face.

“Uh...make yourself at home. I'll be, uh, right back.” About-facing, Elizabeth scurried into her bedroom, shut the door softly, and then raced around the room, hiding her dirty clothes and straightening the clutter on her dresser. She cursed herself and truly regretted bringing him here. They should have gone out to dinner! To one of those fancy places that he liked, as opposed to Chez Rat's Nest, also known as her apartment.

“Ugh,” she groaned, running her hands over her face. She had not thought this through. Counting to ten and breathing deeply three times, she opened the door and strode down the hallway, expecting to find William sitting uncomfortably in her living room.

He was standing, however, leaning one arm against the wall. Turning his head towards her approaching footsteps, he grinned. Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, speechless at the unexpected greeting.

“I love your choice of artwork,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the tack board where Jane and Elizabeth hung their calendar, reminder notes, important phone numbers, and...

Elizabeth's mouth fell open, and she went crimson.

“Oh, God!” she cried, dashing over to the board and ripping down the slightly crumpled magazine clipping of Perfection by Hermes.

William laughed. “No, I like it! You should keep it up.”

“Oh, God. Will you shut up! Oh my God, I'm literally going to die of embarrassment.”

“No, I like it!”

William darted his hand out, trying to snatch the photo from her. Elizabeth scurried aside and hid it behind her back. Grabbing her arm, William tried to wrest it from her. Elizabeth screeched, laughed, and backed up against the wall, to prevent him from seizing it. He then pressed both hands on either side of her head, effectively trapping her. She grinned lopsidedly and giggled.

“Elizabeth,” he teased, with a warning tone, “give me the picture.”

“And if I don't?”

“Good things await you if you do. Trust me.”

Arching an eyebrow, she produced the cutout from behind her back. “You'd better make it worth my while.”

William plucked the page from her hand, balled it up, and threw it off to the side. Elizabeth looked on in dismay. He then wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

His breath tickled the wisps of hair around her ears as he whispered, “I have the negatives from that photo shoot at home.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth murmured, feeling her breath catch in her throat. William traced his lips in little kisses along the line of her jaw, and then, their mouths were on each other's again.

Being pressed up against the wall worked to Elizabeth's advantage; her legs had gone rubbery and weak, her head was spinning, and if it weren't for the solid mass behind her, she probably would have collapsed onto the floor in a heap of molten desire. William's fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt, floating lightly up the skin of her stomach. Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth groaned into his mouth. For no apparent reason, he pulled away. William took a step back, looking to the ceiling, his chest heaving furiously.

“What's wrong?” Elizabeth tentatively asked.

He inhaled and then exhaled slowly, finally looking at her. “Nothing. I, uh, think we'd better eat dinner.”

“Oh.” Disappointment pounded her in the gut. It took her a moment before she could speak. “Um, okay. What do you want?”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, William sighed. Then, he looked back at her, his eyes boring into hers, the color in them unmistakable—he wanted her. William was giving her a choice: They could calmly eat dinner, calmly chit-chat about the weather or work, and then calmly say their good-byes for the evening. Or, they couldn't.

Elizabeth chose the latter.

“Fuck dinner.”

William agreed wholeheartedly, seizing her by her lower back and pressing her to him. Seeing an opportunity, Elizabeth jumped into him, wrapping her legs around his waist. They kissed messily, too excited by the other to concentrate on balance. William pulled away again.

“Bedroom,” he grunted.

“That way,” she pointed, before crushing her lips down on his again.

Once there, William set Elizabeth down gently, before sweeping his shirt off in one fluid gesture. Elizabeth bit her lip, running her eyes across him lasciviously. Touching him with the tip of her finger, she traced it down the groove of muscle in his abs. He sucked in his breath.

“Later,” he commanded, stilling her hand. With the same gracefulness he had used to remove his shirt, William took off hers. He eyed her with a similarly greedy look with which she had stared at him. Taking her face in his hands, William kissed her gently, which didn't last for long. Soon, his hands moved from her cheeks, to her neck and collarbone, and then lower, to cup her breasts, making Elizabeth moan.

Mid-kiss, William's hands snaked around to unclasp her bra. Maddening seconds later, his hands still fussed with the silky material. He broke away, frustrated.

“Okay, how do you get this thing off?”

Elizabeth giggled. “It hooks in the front.”

“And when were you planning on telling me that?” he asked crossly.

Arching an eyebrow, she replied, “I like to see you suffer.”

He arched his eyebrow in response. “I'll have to remember that for later.”

With the dastardly bra finally out of the way, Elizabeth and William fell onto her double bed. Soon after, no clothes remained. His mouth began a slow descent from the column of her neck to her collarbone and lower. Kissing the soft underside of her breast, William delicately took a nipple in his mouth and rasped it with his tongue. Running her fingers down the length of his solid torso, Elizabeth closed them around the base of his arousal and gently caressed him, making him moan even as his mouth was enclosed around her. They were hot and numb with lust, touching each other frantically, with mouths, with hands, with the entire lengths of their bodies. Soon they reached the point where even those ministrations were futile and frustrating, and they took the final plunge into each other.

Elizabeth had fuzzy memories of the last time they had been together. Now, with him on top of her again, inside of her, Elizabeth wondered how that could have been, when this time, she sensed everything as keenly as a night animal. William's skin smelled faintly of spicy, exotic cologne. Elizabeth inhaled long, trapped by the scent. Her fingers clutched his skin, as hot and clammy as hers. With each thrust, her brain was hurled into blinding lucidity. She arched into him, wild, out of control.

Elizabeth heard herself gasping, crying out in time to the rocking movement of his pelvis. She squeezed her eyes shut, engulfed by blackness, and only opened them when William groaned in her ear, “Stay with me, Elizabeth.” She felt everything about William—his strong torso, his hungry lips devouring her mouth, the timbre of his voice panting words into her ear, his heavy breathing, the slick of perspiration on the hard planes of his shoulder blades.

William slowed his rhythm, bringing Elizabeth back to him for a kiss that reached the depths of her mouth. Then, his tempo changed—sharp, swift—signaling that the final coda was near. Clutching his neck, Elizabeth succumbed, with William soon following.

Moments later, they were panting, spent, and silent. William rolled over and gathered her into his arms, stroking her hair, and placing soft kisses onto her dampened forehead. They stayed that way for a long while, with no sound between them except for their breathing. He was stroking her hair, less out of affection and more out of nervous gesture. Gazing up to him, Elizabeth saw a worried look cross his face. He looked down to her and smiled, a troubled, half-hearted smile. Elizabeth propped herself up on an elbow and looked to him quizzically.

“I have to ask a question,” he said then, his voice filling the silence of the room.

“Yes.”

“What was that?”

Grinning lopsidedly, she replied. “Do you not know?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you see, William, when a man and a woman like each other a lot, they want to be close. And they touch a lot and then the man gets excited and his...”

“I know that much,” he said, laughing. His face grew serious thereafter. “Is this...Do the man and the woman like each other a lot? Or, is this just sex?”

Elizabeth grew serious. “I don't know. The woman does like the man. A lot. But. She also realizes that they have a lot of unresolved issues between them. Up until now there's been almost nothing between them except misunderstandings and prejudices, and those aren't the best beginnings for a healthy relationship.”

William sighed and rubbed his eyes. Seeing his reaction of despair, everything in Elizabeth went tender.

“But, the woman isn't stupid. She knows that the past is the past. Despite it all, these two could be good for each other. The girl isn't so dumb anymore, and the guy has a lot of good things going for him, too.”

William cracked a weak smile. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Um, let's see. He's kind, even if he comes across as a little severe at times. He's upright and honest. Loyal to the people he loves. A creative genius, but never satisfied with less than perfection. Plus, he's loaded and has connections to all of the major players in the New York dance world.”

William threw his head back and laughed. “You left out the great sex.”

Elizabeth shrugged nonchalantly. “I've had better.”

Then, William reared up and pinned her under him, making Elizabeth giggle. “That's a lie, and I don't like liars.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“I intend to force a confession from you,” he said, grinning wickedly, inching his hand down to part Elizabeth's legs.

“You don't intimidate me, William,” giggled Elizabeth.

“Ah,” he said, as his fingers stroked the inside of her thighs. “But I had no intention of intimidating you, Elizabeth.”

A little later on, William got his confession, screamed loud enough for all of the neighbors to hear.

The food came sometime around nine. They ate on the living room floor, spreading out boxes of Chinese food on the newly dusted coffee table. They were still dazed from what had just taken place, and thus, not much was said between them. Yet, a question gnawed at Elizabeth. Hesitantly, she placed down her cashew chicken and cleared her throat.

“Perhaps it's wrong of me to ask this, so let me know if you don't want to answer.”

William nodded.

“Um, okay. Why...why wasn't I cast in your piece?”

Tilting his head, William looked at her in confusion. He set down his chopsticks. “You said you didn't want my attention. That day...in the studio. You said you didn't want me singling you out.”

Elizabeth flushed. “Yes, but you said that I inspired you.”

“You did. You do. But...I just couldn't bear your hatred again.”

“But I didn't hate you! Couldn't you tell from Miami?”

William shrugged and stared down to the floor. “Elizabeth, I had imagined so much before. I couldn't be sure...and you were just so...silent.”

“I was hurt! I wanted to be in your piece, and you had chosen Jane instead.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “I only chose Jane for you! I wanted to redeem myself. Don't get me wrong, your sister is an excellent dancer. But she's not you.”

Elizabeth smiled then.

“But that's not the whole truth, either. I also felt guilty about taking away her promotion.”

“You didn't take it away. Boroughs did.”

William shook his head. “No. I convinced Charles to throw away his principles. Jane deserved that promotion, not Anne. I convinced him to make a wrong decision. I needed to prove to myself that I had stronger convictions than that.”

“But you didn't have to get yourself fired over Jane,” Elizabeth insisted gently.

William stilled, his whole face tensing. “How do you know about that?”

“Catherine Boroughs told me.”

“Catherine Boroughs?”

“We had, uh, an altercation a couple of weeks ago.”

“An altercation? What does that mean?”

“She pulled me into her limo and accused me of sleeping with you to get Jane a better part.”

“She did what?” he asked coldly.

“You heard me.”

William frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing and growing fierce with anger. He stood sharply and walked away.

“William?”

He had gone to his bag on the other side of the room, pulling his cell phone from within. Elizabeth leapt up.

“Who are you calling?”

Putting the phone to his ear, William ignored the question. Elizabeth heard the phone ringing. “Anne? Put your mother on...”

She wrenched the phone from him. “Hi, Anne. He'll call you back.” Elizabeth hung up the phone and glared at him.

“What the hell!” she yelled.

“Boroughs thinks she runs this city! She has no right to tell you or any...”

“I know that! That's why I told her to fuck off!”

William stared at Elizabeth, speechless for a moment. “You told who to fuck off?”

“Boroughs!”

He blinked. “You told Catherine Boroughs to fuck off?”

“Yes, that's what I just said.”

“And what did she say back to you?”

“Oh, I don't know. How I was going to hell for fucking the choreographer or something like that. I told her it was none of her damn business what I did in my personal life and that was that.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago. Right after you'd announced you were leaving.”

Then, William laughed. “That must have been why she called me.”

“She called you? What did she say?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. I hung up on her.”

Elizabeth smiled, feeling just how similar they were in all of their dissimilarities. “Come on, our food's getting cold.”

They returned to the coffee table, William staring at Elizabeth with a look she could only describe as goofily impressed.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I have no words.”

Elizabeth smiled triumphantly and bit into the edge of the second egg roll she had ordered that evening.

William woke up with a stiff back. Dazed, he looked over his surroundings—avocado walls plastered with pictures of dancers and New York City, neatly arranged clutter on a white wicker dresser, ivory curtains on a window that looked out to a neighboring building. Rolling onto his side, he smiled down at the woman next to him. Half of her face was hidden in the pillow, her bare shoulder peeking out of the sheets, her breathing slow and even. He remembered the night before, still disbelieving what had happened.

She liked him. A lot. That's what she had said. They had stayed up talking until two in the morning, ironing out the many misunderstandings between them. He had told her everything—why he had chosen Jane, how Catherine Boroughs had been furious and threatened to withdraw her money unless he reneged, how he had refused and been subsequently fired by Sir William, desperate to keep Boroughs' money with the company. Elizabeth had seethed with rage at the idiotic artistic director, but as William had told her of his dreams for his new company, she calmed and listened eagerly.

They had stayed up later, laughing at their stupidity, kissing, and making love one more time before, truly exhausted, they had fallen asleep naked on her bed.

That had been only six hours ago, William realized, checking the clock. Yet, he not merely felt awake, he felt alive. He ran his fingers across the smooth strands of hair falling over Elizabeth's shoulder. Moaning softly, she sighed deeper into the pillow. William kissed her exposed shoulder and slipped from the bed, donning his clothes.

He wondered briefly where Jane was and then remembered Charles had mentioned something about his parents' ranch that weekend. William grinned like a cat. Silently leaving Elizabeth's bedroom, he pattered down the hall, sizing up his weekend now that Elizabeth would be in it.

The clock on the microwave read 8:21. Elizabeth might sleep for another hour or for another three hours. He realized he knew next to nothing about her daily habits, but now, hopefully, he would be afforded the chance to learn. Suddenly, he realized she would be sizing him up as well, and he didn't exactly paint a pretty picture. William was still wearing yesterday's clothes. He hadn't shaved. Nor did he have a toothbrush. Frowning, he rubbed his stubbly chin and realized he was in no condition to begin his first day of being with Elizabeth.

Calculating the driving distance between Spanish Harlem and the Upper West Side, William figured it would take him thirty minutes tops to get home, get a change of clothes and some toiletries, and get back to Elizabeth's apartment.

Grabbing his bag, William made for the door and then realized that Elizabeth might wake up and think she had been deserted. He returned to the living room, grabbing a sheet of paper from a notepad, and began penning a quick memo detailing his whereabouts. Just as he signed it “Love, WD,” he heard a loud thud from Elizabeth's room and a subsequent cry of curse words. William set the pen down, peering in the direction of her bedroom curiously. Suddenly, she flung open the door and charged out in a mismatched t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, and sneakers half on her feet. Elizabeth beelined to the kitchen area, completely oblivious that he still stood in the living room.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered to herself. “Where are my fucking keys?”

William looked to the coffee table, where Elizabeth's keys lay next to the remote.

“On the coffee table,” he replied.

Elizabeth's mutterings went silent, and she raced back into the living room, her hair wild around her face and her eyes wide.

“I thought you left!” she cried.

He shrugged. “I'm here, as you see.”

Elizabeth's shoulders slumped visibly and she rubbed her face, groaning into her palms.

“And where were you off to so early this morning?” he asked.

“I was off to chase you down!” she yelled, not from irritation, but from diminishing fear. “I thought you'd left.”

William was about to protest that he wouldn't have left her alone, when he realized that was what he had, in effect, done after their first night together. She looked at him with hurt eyes.

“But you're about to leave.”

“I have to go home,” he explained.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, her face going glacial. “Fine. Leave. Bye.” She turned and disappeared back into her room.

Unable to help himself, William laughed. What a talent they had for misunderstandings! Following her to her room, William leaned against the door frame and raised an eyebrow at her. She sat on her bed, staring catatonically at the floor.

“Aren't you going to ask why I'm going home?”

“No doubt I did something in my sleep that wasn't up to your rigorous standards.”

William laughed, producing a glare from Elizabeth. “Well, maybe. Either that, or I didn't want to spend the rest of the weekend in the same dirty clothes.”

Elizabeth snapped her eyes over to him, glancing at his clothes. She opened her mouth to reply, but didn't, simply blinking mutely. Then, she groaned and flopped back onto the bed, covering her face with her hands. “Oh God, I'm so stupid!”

“No,” chuckled William, “I should have told you where I was going.”

Uncovering her face, Elizabeth frowned at him pathetically. “Any other normal person would have asked! Why do I always do this? Are you sure you want a girlfriend who's this stupid?”

It was the first time any mention had been made of the word “girlfriend.” William's heart lurched at the word. “I'll take whatever you can give me, Elizabeth.”

She half-smiled. “So are you saying that I'm stupid?”

William laughed and joined her on the bed. “No, I'm saying that being with you is going to do wonderful things for my interpersonal communication skills.”

“That's so romantic.”

“I try.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Communication skills, huh?” She smiled sheepishly up at him.

William returned the smile. “Would you like to come home with me? We could grab brunch, maybe take a walk through Central Park, then come back here?”

Her eyes brightening, Elizabeth nodded and bounded up from bed. “Do I have time to get ready?”

“Of course.”

“Great, I'm going to take a shower,” she said, breezing past him. He followed her with his eyes. Suddenly, she stopped in the doorway and turned, smiling coyly. “Wanna come?”

William smiled back in assent of an offer he couldn't refuse.

Idly stroking Elizabeth's waist as she dozed in front of the television, William finally began to feel his own content exhaustion from the events of the weekend. It was Sunday evening, normally the night he sprawled into his leather recliner, listening to Coltrane, in his plush, finely decorated den, reading The New York Times.

That night, he lay cramped into a sofa, barely big enough for one, much less two, watching a fuzzy episode of The Simpsons. Yet, William wouldn't have traded that moment in a small, cluttered Harlem apartment for anything.

That weekend, he had discovered the joys of small beds, cramped shower stalls, and eating meals on the living room floor. Despite priding himself on his orderliness and punctuality, William had found the utmost pleasure in waiting for a woman he adored to get ready in the morning.

If he had been charmed by the small part that he knew of Elizabeth before, William was now captivated by the promise of seeing the more intimate goings-on of her life. He had listened, fascinated, as she'd bubbled on the phone to Charlotte, apologizing for her suspicious absence on Friday night. Elizabeth talked to herself often and hummed. William liked watching her brush her hair, the almost erotic way she cast her head back, the look of pure bliss that swept across her face as the brush went through her hair. She smiled and chatted with cashiers at the deli, almost unheard of in his circle of New York natives.

William called New York home. Except for summers in Miami, and the few years he had spent choreographing in various cities, he had never lived anywhere else. He felt he knew every nook and cranny of the city, every cafe, every bench in Central Park. Yet, being with Elizabeth that weekend had made him see his city differently. William had been so aware of Elizabeth's every expression and reaction that he felt as if he were experiencing New York through her eyes.

They had lazed on the Great Lawn in Central Park after brunch on Saturday afternoon, making out, something he would have never done months ago. Elizabeth had forced him to take the subway back to her apartment and teased him relentlessly the entire way there, laughing as he gawked like a tourist at the train evangelist, making his way down the aisle preaching redemption. They had made spaghetti together. Rather, Elizabeth had done most of the cooking. William just made the garlic bread and then stared at her with puppy eyes as she chopped onions and garlic like a cooking show hostess.

And, of course, there had been sex—the gut-shaking, seeing-stars kind and the whispered, reverent kind, too. William's knees still burned from their last go on the carpet several hours ago, the consequence of which, now had Elizabeth dozing on the couch, curled into the shape of his body, breathing slowly. Her hair fell over his forearm, and she smelled like green apple body lotion. In her t-shirt and sweatpants, she was the sweetest thing he had ever laid eyes on, and it made him smile like a cat on a sunny windowsill.

William heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. Moments later, the door opened, and he heard a loud exhalation followed by the lugging of bags.

“Lizzy?” Jane called. “Oh my God, I have enough apples to last us until next year.”

Elizabeth didn't stir, and William didn't want to wake her. Kissing her hair, he bid farewell to their enchanted weekend, but glowed with the anticipation that there would be many more to come. He heard Jane heft up a plastic bag onto the counter, the sound of hard apples thudding against each other.

“And, Charles' place was so nice. They had horses and everything. Oh, thanks for doing the dishes. I'll do them next time.”

Still, Elizabeth did not awake. William wondered if he should wake her, or at least answer on her behalf.

“Lizzy?” Jane called out. William heard her footsteps on the tile before she appeared in the doorway of the living room. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“Oh! Mr. Darcy!” Her face took on a tinge of bafflement as she saw the choreographer curled up so intimately with her sister on the sofa. William merely smiled, put a finger to his lips, and then pointed down to Elizabeth.

Still frowning in confusion, Jane nodded slightly. She stared at the scene for a few seconds longer and then retreated to the kitchen. William let her go, figuring all of the explaining could come later. Right now, he had only a few minutes more of a sleeping Elizabeth to enjoy, and he intended to enjoy them thoroughly.

Chapter 28

William sighed in frustration, stared down to the carpet, and then swept the red, lacy bit of fabric from the floor. Frowning, he strode down the hall, down the stairs, and into his den, where Elizabeth reclined with her feet on the arm of his leather sofa, with Austin dozing blissfully on her stomach.

“We have a problem.”

Lowering the crossword puzzle of Thursday's New York Times, Elizabeth peered curiously at William. He waved her underwear in his hand.

“You didn't say that last night when you were taking them off of me,” retorted Elizabeth, with a fine arch of her eyebrow.

William sighed. “You know it's a pet peeve of mine...”

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth cried, in mock-horror, “something in William Darcy's life isn't tidy and in order. The world has begun to spin backwards on its axis!”

Rolling his eyes, William walked into the den and stood over Elizabeth. He hooked a finger under her impertinently raised chin, and lowered his face down to hers.

“Little girl, do you know what the consequences are of not cleaning your room?”

“Ooh, yes, please,” moaned Elizabeth.

Glancing quickly down to the crossword puzzle, William smiled devilishly. “48 across—Derbyshire.”

“William!” Elizabeth cried. “I told you to stop doing that!”

“Next time, pick your underwear up off of the floor,” William said, straightening himself.

“Next time, I won't even let you take them off of me.”

“Empty threats.” William laughed, walking to the door.

“You won't be saying that when you're forced to sleep in an empty bed!”

Chuckling to himself, William strolled out of the den, his irritation dissipating. Staying mad at Elizabeth was an exercise in futility, and he had learned to give that up a long time ago. Crossing the hall and going back up the stairs, William returned to their room. He paused. They didn't even live together, but it was their room. Since when had it ceased to be his? With his hands on his hips, he scanned the master bedroom. Perhaps since she had painted the wall behind the bed the same avocado color as her bedroom. Since she had bought him the fabulous purple orchid sitting on his nightstand. Since they had gone to Saks together and bought colorful throw pillows. Since she stayed over so often that two drawers in his armoire had become filled with her socks, t-shirts, and jeans and a corner of his bathroom counter had become occupied by her moisturizers and makeup. And since he started finding her panties strewn on the floor.

He was just nearing the point in their relationship where the sight of her lacy underwear, either on or off, didn't turn him into a slavering sex-fiend. Things had been good from the beginning, but especially since the New Year, William and Elizabeth were finally growing comfortable with each other.

It had taken a while, however. Their first meetings at work after their weekend together, especially, had been awkward situations, with two of William's core principles warring against another. He hadn't known how to reconcile his distaste for disguise with his staunch demand for professionalism. How should he have faced Elizabeth in the halls? Should he have kissed her or nodded coolly? Both had seemed wrong.

On Tuesday, he knew they would meet. On Monday, he strategized. William had decided on a warm nod and smile. That would communicate enough to her without being sappy or inappropriate.

And then he had seen her, walking down the hall, laughing with Jane and her chatty friend, Lydia. Elizabeth didn't notice him at first, but when she did, the words died on her lips, and she smiled at him. Jane stared smugly, Lydia strangely, and he, like a fool.

They had greeted each other shyly, and then Jane, angel that she was, had pulled a slack-jawed Lydia away.

“What are you doing after rehearsals?” he had asked her, feeling very much like a cotton-mouthed teenager.

“Having dinner with you,” Elizabeth grinned.

“Great. Five thirty, then?”

“Five thirty it is.”

Then William realized the fatal flaw in his strategy: He didn't want to nod, he wanted to kiss her. And so he did. Right there, in the hall, in front of all of the company. The dancers around them stared in incredulity. William didn't care, and Elizabeth didn't seem to, either. That evening at dinner, she told him that the gossip had reached the locker room before she had.

William smiled and shook his head. What had he been doing? Nodding, he remembered that he had come upstairs to search for his bow tie and cummerbund. Now that Elizabeth had all but moved in and replaced his things with hers, he didn't know where he kept anything anymore.

He heard the doorbell through the bedroom intercom. Seconds later, Elizabeth, who refused to use the expensive room-to-room intercom system, bellowed from below, “I'll get that.” William frowned. It was Saturday morning, and they weren't expecting anyone. Leaving the bedroom, William stood on the landing to the stairs, listening for who was at the door. He heard Elizabeth open it and gasp.

“Oh my God, Jerome, what are these?” Jerome was the ancient doorman, who had worked in the Darcy Building since William's boyhood.

“Card's addressed to you, darlin'. They were just delivered.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you.”

“You have a good day, now.”

“Yes. Yes, you, too.”

Nearly bursting with curiosity as to what had produced such a reaction from Elizabeth, William descended the stairs and made his way into the foyer to find Elizabeth, her torso, mouth, and nose hidden behind a mountain of lilies. From the shape and light of her eyes, he could tell she was beaming.

“From G!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

William smiled. “That was nice of her. Is there a message?”

Setting the enormous arrangement on the kitchen counter, Elizabeth plucked a card from atop of the flowers and read.

Dear E,

Congrats x 1,000,000! Sorry I couldn't come tonight, but I'll see you and Dub soon for spring break.

Love,
Georgiana Inez Darcy (aka G)

P.S. Did you like the CD?

“That was so sweet of her. I should call to say thanks,” said Elizabeth.

“I'm sure she'd be happy to know you liked them.”

“Where should we put them?”

“Up in the bedroom?” William offered.

Nodding, Elizabeth grinned and lifted the arrangement. William followed her up the stairs and into the master bedroom, where Elizabeth sat the flowers on the dresser.

“All of this fuss being made over me,” giggled Elizabeth.

“You deserve it.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Do I? I feel bad that Jane never got the same treatment.”

“She had bad timing.”

“And a less than god-like boyfriend,” she said, approaching William and slipping her arms around his neck.

“God-like?” he teased, flashing a smile.

“You haven't been chosen for the pantheon yet, Dub.” Elizabeth pecked William on the lips and then unraveled herself from his grasp. “And I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes. Eek! I'm so excited! It's like the prom I never went to.”

William couldn't suppress a smile. “Okay, Prom Queen, you'd better go before you're late.”

“Oh! Yeah. See you at seven.” Snatching her bag from the chair in the corner, Elizabeth kissed him quickly on the cheek before calling out her good-byes. William listened as she cooed farewell to Austin and then closed the door softly behind her. Sighing, he looked around his very green room and smiled. It was the first time in his nearly thirty-year dancing career that he was looking forward to a Netherfield Gala.

As her hair stylist pulled out another hot roller, Elizabeth smiled dreamily into the mirror. The night promised to be perfect. Perfect dress, perfect weather, perfect career, perfect boyfriend. The dopey grin hadn't left her face since she had awakened that morning.

For the past six months, since she had begun seeing William, everything had been perfect. The beginning had been strange—growing accustomed to the fresh wave of locker room whispers, the confused stares of William's upper-crust New York acquaintances, and her own amazement at dating a man whom she had idolized for years, loathed passionately for months, and pined for secretly for several more months thereafter.

In all honesty, in the beginning, she had not expected them to work so well together. Elizabeth had believed it would take tremendous effort to lighten him up and that their day-to-day lives would clash like French fries in a French restaurant. She had thought William could never withstand her teasing, her casual good humor, her propensity for the dramatic. But to her surprise, he adored best all of those qualities which Elizabeth had believed she would have to hide from him. William met her silliness with understated wit, her fits of exaggeration with reasonableness, and her bubbling eagerness with a sedate air of contentment. She made him laugh, and he made her think.

Not that William was all level-headedness and logic. With choreography, especially, he often over-analyzed, lost himself, despaired. Elizabeth marveled that, with nothing more than a quiet embrace or stroke of his cheek, she could settle him.

It had surprised her when, in one of these moments of despair, days before the premiere of “New York State of Mind,” he had buried his face into the crown of her head and beseeched Elizabeth, “Be with me for the premiere. Be backstage with me.”

Nodding, Elizabeth had answered with a soft kiss to his cheek.

“The critics can hate it,” he added, his voice uncharacteristically tender and insecure, “as long as you like it.”

William needed her. He often jokingly begged her to give up Ballet Theater and to come dance with his company; he would make her prima ballerina and let her act like Caroline Bingley, if she wanted. Elizabeth understood, in spite of his teasing, that every time she turned him down, he was secretly disappointed. For the meantime, however, Elizabeth knew that she belonged in Ballet Theater. She wanted to find her bearings in the ballet world without the name of William Darcy pinned to her leotard like an audition number. And she was grateful because, despite how desperately William wanted her dancing for him, he respected those wishes and even encouraged them.

He had become her mentor, guiding her through variations and dance steps after-hours in the studio. William wanted her to succeed, not to live vicariously through him or to make her his token Tallchief or LeClercq, but because he loved her and wanted to see her happy. It was enough. William made her want to succeed, not only for the glory and gratification that she would reap, but to please him, as well.

And so it was to William that Elizabeth had first revealed the happy news, three weeks earlier.

She had sat in William Lucas' office, speechless, stunned. Finally, when reality sunk in, Elizabeth laughed. At seeing the corps girl's strange reaction, Lucas chuckled, too, and then sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied and expectant expression on his face.

“Elizabeth, love, do you not want to be a soloist?”

She had nodded her head furiously and laughed some more. “I do! But, this is so, oh my God, I can't believe...this is unreal. Thank you!”

Lucas had thanked her in return, embraced her, and wished her luck as she embarked for the upper echelons of the company. Leaving the office in a daze, Elizabeth had stayed a moment in the hall, collecting herself, wondering if this weren't some cruel practical joke orchestrated by Caroline Bingley. She looked down the hall, to one of the last doors, to an office newly vacated, which had been William's. No, suddenly Elizabeth had remembered how hard she had worked since returning to New York—all of that money spent on Pilates, all of those hours in the studio, alone or with William, practicing, refining everything. They had paid off. But, she had never expected that her return would come this soon.

She had shot down the stairs like a bullet. Down to the basement floor. Elizabeth had grabbed her wallet from her locker and sped outside to the pay phones. Dropping in some change, she had punched in William's cell phone number and waited for his voice.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Guess what?”

“El?” he asked in that endearment only he used. “Where are you calling from?”

“From the studio. Guess what?”

“What?”

“No, you have to guess!”

William chuckled and then paused. “You've been promoted to soloist.”

“Yes!...Wait, how'd you know?”

“Well, it's the second week in February, and there's no other reason for you to call me at this time of day,” he chuckled.

“I could have called to say 'I love you.'”

“You're not Jane.”

Elizabeth just laughed. “But can you believe it? Soloist! Lucas just told me. And they're going to announce it at the Gala!”

“That's great, El. Congratulations.” His voice was so calm, but she could sense the greater emotion behind his words. Elizabeth imagined that he was beaming on the other side of his cell phone. She beamed back, proud of herself, but more satisfied by the obvious pleasure in his tone.

“Big night, tonight?” the hairstylist asked, jarring Elizabeth from her reverie.

“Yeah. Work function.”

“Ooh, very nice. I thought maybe you were getting married, judging from that big smile on your face.”

Elizabeth bit her lip and grinned. “It's an important work function.”

The hair dresser nodded knowingly and smiled in the mirror. “Well, then. We're going to have to make you ravishing, aren't we? We wouldn't want to disappoint him.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

“Just a little.”

“Actually,” explained Elizabeth, “I'm getting promoted.”

“That would also explain the smile. And so you're the guest of honor tonight?” The words came out slightly muffled as the hair dresser held three bobby pins between her lips.

“Yes, something like that. More like I'll be the guest everyone's scrutinizing the most tonight.”

“Some people make it a hobby to criticize and judge others, don't they?” joked the stylist.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “What else is there to do at a black-tie party?”

The woman laughed. “You’ve got that right. Don't worry, I'm going to make you gorgeous. Get everyone fired up and jealous of you.”

Elizabeth smiled. In the past year, she had done a commendable job of firing up choreographers, principals, artistic directors, billionaires, and nearly all of her colleagues without the aide of a gorgeous hairstyle. That night would bring her face-to-face with many whom she had no desire to see, mainly Catherine Boroughs. Elizabeth would be surrounded by William's bourgeois peers, who patronized her and made her feel unworthy of him. She had chosen a taller pair of heels that, for all of their cuteness, would kill her feet, especially given that she had developed a monster blister the day before in rehearsal.

Yet, despite it all, Elizabeth remembered the prior year's Netherfield Gala, with all of its promise, disappointment, and humiliation. She could remember it now and laugh, the time felt so far away. She had been a foreigner to herself then. A year ago, she had been indignant and foolish, but Elizabeth had come far since then, thanks to William.

“There,” the hair stylist proclaimed, holding a mirror behind Elizabeth's head for her to see the up-do, “how do you feel?”

Admiring herself, Elizabeth grinned into the mirror. “I feel perfect.”

chapters 1 - 4

chapters 5 - 8

chapters 9 - 12

chapters 13 - 16

chapters 17 - 20

chapters 21 - 24

chapters 25 - 28

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