Netherfield Park blazed with light.
Hundreds of candles in crystal chandeliers cast golden reflections across the parquet floor. Music spilled from open windows, a string quartet playing something classical and melodic. Laughter and voices merged into a single hum, creating that particular atmosphere that exists only at high society balls.
Elliot stood on the threshold of the main hall and felt a wave of foreign scents crash over him. Alphas and omegas in their finest, all those heightened pheromones mixed with expensive perfumes, creating a suffocating cocktail. His gift pulsed beneath his skin, reacting to the concentration of people and the layers of their emotions.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to wall himself off from the foreign sensations.
And then he felt him.
Aged whiskey with notes of scorched oak. Damp earth after rain. And something else, deeply hidden, barely perceptible: dark honey.
Elliot raised his head, and his gaze was pulled as if by a magnet to the far wall.
Darcy stood by a column, apart from the dancing couples. A black suit fit perfectly across broad shoulders, emphasizing his athletic build. A glass of whiskey in his hand. Beside him stood a fair-haired omega in an ivory dress that probably cost more than the entire Bennet family wardrobe.
Annabella de Bourgh.
She was saying something, smiling that cold, flawless smile taught at expensive schools for omegas. She touched his arm proprietarily, confidently.
But Darcy wasn't looking at her.
He was looking at Elliot.
Grey eyes pierced the distance between them. In that gaze burned something dark and primal. Hunger. Desperation. A fierce desire he was apparently trying to suppress but couldn't.
Elliot's heart beat faster.
Stop, he ordered himself. Just turn away. Don't look at him.
But he couldn't.
Darcy took a step forward, as though not noticing the movement himself. Annabella tugged his sleeve, saying something, but he didn't react. His gaze followed Elliot, not releasing him.
And his scent changed the whiskey warmed, became enveloping. The damp earth came alive. And the dark honey emerged through everything else.
Something primal in Elliot responded to that scent. A desire he couldn't name but couldn't deny.
He choked and turned away, breaking that unbearable contact.
"Ellie?" James touched his shoulder, concern in his voice. "Are you all right? You're pale."
Elliot swallowed, trying to regain control.
"Yes. Just a lot of people. A lot of scents. Head's spinning a bit."
But James was no longer listening. His face lit with that particular smile he hid from everyone but couldn't completely suppress. Elliot turned and saw the reason.
Charles Bingley was making his way through the crowd toward them, weaving between dancing couples. His smile was so genuine, so warm, that even Elliot felt relief.
"James!" Bingley stopped before them, slightly breathless, as though he'd been running. "I'm so glad you came! I was afraid you'd refuse after that weekend."
James flushed.
"Why would I refuse, Mr. Bingley?"
"Charles, please," Bingley corrected, and in his voice was a soft plea. "After everything we've been through, let's dispense with formalities."
He rubbed the back of his neck in a characteristic gesture of embarrassment.
"I know Caroline was harsh. Too harsh. And Darcy too. But I want you to know I don't agree with them. Not at all. What they said about you, about your family... it was wrong."
James smiled truly for the first time in many days.
"You... you really think so?"
"Of course!" Bingley stepped closer. "You're an amazing person, James. Intelligent, kind, talented. And your opinion of me matters very much."
"Will you dance with me?" Bingley asked, extending his hand with almost childlike hope in his eyes. "Right now? The first dance?"
James took his hand without hesitation.
Elliot watched them go, observing as they glided across the parquet in time to the waltz. Bingley looked at his brother as though no one else in the hall existed. His hand on James's waist was careful, almost reverent.
Maybe I was wrong, Elliot thought, feeling hope warm in his chest. Maybe Bingley really does have feelings for him. Maybe there's something real between them.
"Elliot! My dear boy!"
He flinched at the unexpectedness.
His mother materialized beside him, as though she'd appeared from thin air. Behind her, like an obedient dog, followed some middle-aged alpha with luxurious mustaches and a self-satisfied smile.
"Let me introduce you!" Mother grabbed Elliot's elbow, her fingers digging in painfully. "Mr. Foster!" She lowered her voice to a theatrical half-whisper that was still audible three meters around. "He owns a chain of hotels! Can you imagine? An entire chain!"
Then she turned to the alpha, and her face split into an obsequious smile:
"Mr. Foster, this is my eldest son, Elliot! He works with archives in London! Very intelligent! And so responsible!"
The alpha gave Elliot an openly appraising look, from top to bottom, slowly, as though evaluating goods at a market.
"Charming," he drawled condescendingly. "Unusual scent. Bitter. Intriguing."
"Thank you," Elliot replied dryly.
Mother laughed too loudly, too desperately, her laughter cutting through the air.
"Oh, he's so modest! But so clever! Works with ancient documents! Knows three languages! And he's so good at..."
"Mother," Elliot took her hand, squeezing hard enough for her to feel it. "Don't."
She blinked, pulled from her monologue.
"What, dear?"
"Don't advertise me like merchandise at a clearance sale," he said quietly but very clearly, looking directly into her eyes.
Her face trembled.
"Elliot! I'm just trying to help! You understand that..."
"I know you're trying to help." He squeezed her hand a bit more gently but didn't release it. "But please. Not now. Not like this."
Mr. Foster coughed awkwardly.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Bennet, but I believe I see an acquaintance. I need to discuss a business proposal. It was a pleasure meeting you, young man."
He hastily disappeared into the crowd, and Elliot couldn't suppress a bitter smile. Of course. As soon as an omega showed even a drop of character, alphas lost interest.
Mother looked at him with an expression mixing disappointment, incomprehension, and something like fear.
"You don't understand," she whispered, and desperation broke through her voice. "We don't have time, Ellie. Your father isn't getting any younger. How long does he have? A year? Two? And when he dies, the estate passes to William. And then we'll all..."
She didn't finish, but Elliot understood. They'd be left without a roof over their heads. Without money. Without a future.
"I understand," he said more gently. "But that doesn't mean I should marry the first alpha who looks at me with interest."
She opened her mouth to object, but at that moment William Collins pushed through to them.
"Dear cousin!" His cloying scent covered them in a suffocating wave. "Our dance! I reserved you for this waltz! Come along!"
He grabbed Elliot's hand without waiting for an answer and imperiously dragged him onto the dance floor.
***
Dancing with William was genuine torture.
He stepped on Elliot's feet regularly and painfully. He jerked too sharply at every turn, as though he couldn't feel the rhythm of the music. He held Elliot's waist too tightly, almost painfully, and Elliot felt his fingers digging through the fabric of his suit.
"What a wonderful ball!" William turned his head, evaluating the hall with the air of a connoisseur. "Though of course, it's nothing compared to the receptions hosted by my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. That's where you find true luxury! Golden tableware! An orchestra of twenty musicians! And guests only the most influential people in the kingdom!"
Elliot remained silent, trying to concentrate on not letting William step on his feet again.
"You know," William continued, completely not noticing or ignoring Elliot's silence, "Lady Catherine often says that the true value of a ball isn't in the number of guests but in their quality. And I completely agree with her wisdom."
Then what are you doing here? Elliot wanted to ask, but he held back.
"Elliot," William's voice suddenly became quieter, more serious, acquiring some false intimacy. "I wanted to tell you something important. Very important."
Cold ran down Elliot's spine.
"About what?"
William squeezed his waist even tighter, pulled him closer.
"I spoke with your mother. About us. About our future."
His heart plummeted.
"What exactly did you discuss?"
"About marriage, dear cousin." William smiled that self-satisfied smile of a man confident in his rightness. "She approves of my intentions. Moreover, she's delighted by the idea! I intend to ask for your hand. Officially. After the ball. As befits a decent alpha."
The ground swayed beneath his feet.
"What?!"
"Hush, hush!" William looked around, checking if anyone had heard. "Don't draw attention, dear cousin. This should remain between us until the official announcement."
Elliot tried to pull away, but William held firm.
"This is impossible. I don't..."
"Don't worry!" William interrupted. "I've thought everything through. It's an absolutely reasonable decision. You're intelligent, educated, though with a..." he grimaced, "non-standard scent. But I'm prepared to accept you as you are. That speaks to my magnanimity, don't you think?"
No, Elliot wanted to scream. No, no, no! This is madness!
"After your father's death," William continued matter-of-factly, as though discussing a real estate purchase, "you and your family will be left without means. The estate passes to me by law. But if you become my spouse, I'll magnanimously allow your mother and brothers to remain in the house. See? It benefits everyone!"
Panic rose in a wave, flooding his mind. Elliot's scent became acrid, almost toxic bitter chocolate turned to scorched bitterness, smoke became suffocating, old books smoldered as though thrown into fire.
Several nearby couples wrinkled their noses and moved farther away.
The music ended, but William didn't release his hand. On the contrary, he gripped even tighter and dragged him to the edge of the dance floor, continuing to mutter about omega virtues, duty to family, divine blessing.
Elliot looked around, desperately seeking help, an exit, anything.
And met Darcy's gaze.
The alpha stood several meters from them, by a column. The glass in his hand clenched tight. His jaw tense to the limit. Annabella was saying something to him, pulling his sleeve, but he didn't react, didn't even look at her.
He simply looked at Elliot and Collins.
And suddenly Darcy took a step forward.
Annabella grabbed his arm with both hands, and her voice, usually so cold and controlled, rang out shrilly:
"Fitzwilliam! What are you doing?! Stop!"
"Sorry, Bella. I need to do something."
Her face went pale.
"You can't be serious. Not here. Not now. Not because of him."
But Darcy was no longer listening.
Another step. And another.
And suddenly he stood directly before them.
"Mr. Bennet," his voice was low, formal, but beneath that formality vibrated tension. "May I request the next dance?"
Silence.
Conversations around them died. Heads turned.
William released his grip, his face twisting with indignation and shock.
"Mr. Darcy! But my cousin and I just... I was about to..."
"I'm not addressing you, Mr. Collins," Darcy cut him off without even glancing in his direction.
His gaze was locked on Elliot. Grey eyes burned with a wild and desperate fire.
"Mr. Bennet?" he repeated, and in his voice was a plea he tried to hide but couldn't.
Elliot knew he should refuse. Should turn and walk away. This man despised his family. Considered them unworthy. Wanted to destroy James's hopes for happiness.
But...
Something in the way Darcy looked at him so hungrily, so desperately, as though Elliot were the last breath of air for a drowning man stripped him of the ability to speak, think, resist.
He nodded.
"Yes."
And extended his hand.
When their fingers touched, a wave of heat ran across his skin. Darcy's palm was hot, slightly damp from tension.
No visions. Only sensations. Pure, primal sensations.
Darcy silently led Elliot onto the dance floor. A firm, hot, proprietary hand settled on his waist. The other took his palm and squeezed not painfully, but firmly, as though afraid to let go.
The music began. A slow, smooth waltz.
They began to turn.
***
30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5jO0eMPxSX
Darcy danced flawlessly every step calibrated with mathematical precision, every turn smooth as a flowing river. But his hand on Elliot's waist trembled barely perceptibly. Elliot felt that small tremor betraying the tension the alpha was trying to hide.
They were silent. Words weren't needed.
Elliot saw from the corner of his eye how heads turned. Two omegas by the column covered their mouths with fans, whispering, their eyes full of curiosity and malice. An elderly alpha in the corner shook his head with clear disapproval. Caroline Bingley, standing near the buffet, watched her friend with an expression of absolute horror.
Darcy wasn't dancing with Annabella. Darcy was dancing with a poor omega from a family no one had heard of.
Scandal. This was a real scandal.
Annabella watched Fitzwilliam dance with that omega. She didn't cry. Tears were a luxury omegas of her circle couldn't afford. Instead she was already calculating. Breaking the engagement. Scandal. Compensation. How furious her mother Lady Catherine would be, but this could be used.
Darcy seemed not to notice the whispers, the stares, the condemnation. Or simply didn't care.
He looked only at Elliot, as though no one else in the hall existed.
Why is he looking at me like this? Elliot thought, feeling his heart beat faster and faster. He's engaged to Annabella. He despises my family. He thinks I'm unstable, wrong. So why does his touch feel so right? Why don't I want this dance to end?
"Why?" finally broke from him, his voice hoarse with tension. "Why did you ask me to dance?"
Darcy was silent so long that Elliot decided he wouldn't answer. Maybe hadn't even heard the question.
But then, as they made another turn, he heard a quiet, almost whispered:
"Because I couldn't stand aside any longer."
"What?" Elliot looked at him, trying to make out the expression on his face.
"Watching him touch you." Darcy's voice was quiet, but in it rang steel, fury, jealousy. "How he dragged you across the dance floor, how he held your waist. How he looked at you as though you were already his. How..."
He didn't finish, clenched his jaw so hard the muscles jumped.
Elliot looked at him at this close distance he could see every detail. Sharp, almost aristocratic cheekbones. A straight, perfect nose. Grey eyes reflecting hundreds of candles. And hunger. Primal, furious, desperate hunger.
"You have no right to be jealous," Elliot whispered, and in his own voice was something like a plea. "You despise me."
"I don't..."
"You called me unstable. Told Bingley my family wasn't good enough for him. You look at me as though I'm something wrong, broken."
The music slowed. Other couples continued whirling around them, but Darcy and Elliot had almost stopped, moving barely perceptibly, on the verge of complete stillness.
Darcy didn't release him. On the contrary, he pulled him closer, so close their chests almost touched.
"You're not wrong." His voice trembled, and that tremor betrayed more than any words. "You're... you're the most right thing I've ever..."
He didn't finish.
Because at that moment Elliot felt the atmosphere in the hall change. The hum of voices died as though someone had turned off the sound. The music continued playing, but people stopped dancing, turning toward the edge of the hall.
Elliot turned, and his heart dropped.
At the edge of the dance floor stood his mother. Surrounded by a group of curious alphas and several omegas, she was speaking loudly, to the entire hall, waving her hands:
"...so fortunate! Mr. Bingley! Such a wealthy alpha! So handsome! And my James a perfect match for him! I'm certain the wedding will be this summer! Perhaps even spring!"
James stood beside Bingley, and his face was white as chalk. The glass in his hand trembled. Bingley looked confused and embarrassed.
"Mrs. Bennet," he tried, raising his hand in a calming gesture, "I don't think this is appropriate to discuss here, in front of..."
"Appropriate? Of course it's appropriate!" Mother interrupted, and her voice grew even louder. "You're going to propose to my James! Everyone sees it! Everyone knows it! Why else would you invite him to your home for an entire week? Host this ball in his honor?"
A whisper rolled through the hall.
An omega's fan to the right snapped shut with a crack.
"How vulgar," she said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
The elderly alpha by the column shook his head and demonstratively turned away.
James covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattered, fragments scattering across the parquet.
Bingley reached toward James:
"James, wait, let me explain..."
But Caroline grabbed her brother's elbow, yanked him back.
"Charles, don't. You'll only make it worse."
"Mother," James whispered, and in his voice was a plea. "Please, stop. Please."
But she didn't hear. Didn't want to hear.
Elliot felt something tear inside him like a thin thread that had held him in place for the last few minutes.
He pulled himself from Darcy's arms with a sharp movement, not standing on ceremony.
"I need to go."
"Mr. Bennet..." Darcy tried to hold him, but Elliot had already wrenched free.
"Let me go."
He walked away. Through the crowd of dancers who parted before him. Past curious, condemning gazes. Past smirks and whispers that pursued him like a swarm of malicious bees.
Straight to his mother.
"Mother." He took her hand firmly, painfully firmly. "We're leaving. Right now."
She turned, her face still glowing with delight and self-satisfaction.
"Elliot? But I was just beginning... these gentlemen wanted to hear about..."
"Now." His voice was quiet, but in it rang such steel that she fell silent mid-sentence. "We're leaving. Immediately."
Something in his tone, in his gaze, sobered her. She blinked, looked around at all those faces full of contempt and malice. At James with the shattered glass at his feet. At Bingley with his confusion and embarrassment.
And finally understood what she'd done.
"I just wanted..." she began weakly, and her voice trembled. "I just wanted to help..."
"I know." Elliot squeezed her hand a bit more gently but didn't release it. "But we need to go. Right now."
He turned to James, who stood with his head down, unable to raise his eyes.
"Jamie. We're going home."
His brother nodded without looking at Bingley, who was reaching toward him, trying to say something.
"James, wait, I didn't mean... this isn't what you think..."
But James had already taken Elliot's hand and was walking toward the exit without looking back.
Elliot cast one last glance at the hall.
Darcy stood in the middle of the dance floor, alone, his hand still extended as though he were still holding Elliot. Annabella approached him, was saying something, but he didn't react.
Their gazes met across the entire hall.
And Elliot saw in those grey eyes something he couldn't name. Pain. Regret. Desperation.
He turned away and left.
Behind him William Collins stood at the edge of the dance floor, fists clenched. His face had gone crimson.
"This is an insult," he hissed loudly enough. "I'll speak to Lady Catherine. She must know about this unworthy behavior."
Several guests moved away from him, grimacing.
***
30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqxq5tsaVbo
In a private guest room Annabella de Bourgh stood by the window, looking at her reflection in the dark glass. Her hands clenched into fists. The pearls at her neck felt too tight.
The door opened. Fitzwilliam entered without knocking.
"Bella, I need to explain..."
"Explain?!" She whirled to face him, and in her usually cold eyes danced fire. "What exactly are you going to explain, Fitzwilliam? How you abandoned me in the middle of the ball? How you danced with that... with him, while I stood alone like a fool and everyone looked at me with pity?!"
Her voice broke on the last words, but she quickly collected herself.
"Bella..."
"Do you even realize what you've done?" She stepped toward him, eyes flashing. "Everyone saw! Every damned guest in this hall saw you push me aside for a poor omega from a nobody family!"
"I didn't..."
"Be quiet!" Her hand flew up, stopping him. "I'm not finished. By lunch tomorrow this will be the talk of every drawing room in London. 'You know, Darcy publicly humiliated Annabella de Bourgh. Right at the ball. For some omega.'"
She laughed, but the laugh was bitter.
"My reputation... my family's reputation... did you think about that for even a second?"
Darcy stood motionless, jaw clenched.
"I didn't want to humiliate you."
"But you did!" Her voice became quieter but only more dangerous. "You made me a laughingstock. Me, Annabella de Bourgh. Daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh."
She moved closer, looked directly into his eyes.
"And you know what I'll have to do? I'll tell Mother. Tonight, as soon as I return to Rosings. I'll tell her everything. How you disgraced me in front of all society. How you forgot your obligations. How you behaved unworthily of our circle."
Darcy paled.
"Bella, please..."
"Please?" She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Now you say 'please'? Not at the ball when you abandoned me. Not then, when you danced with him. But now, when you realize Mother will create a scandal of universal proportions?"
A pause. She smoothed a nonexistent crease in her dress.
"You know what she'll do. She'll come. Conduct an inquisition. Scream through all of Pemberley. Demand explanations. And then..." Annabella looked at him with something like pity. "Then she'll deal with him. This... infatuation of yours."
"He's not my infatuation," Darcy said quietly.
"Then what?" Annabella asked sharply. "What is he to you, Fitzwilliam? Because if this is more than a momentary weakness... if you really feel something for him..."
She didn't finish, but the question hung in the air.
Darcy was silent. And that silence was an answer.
Annabella closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
"God," she exhaled. "You really... You've fallen in love with him."
"Bella..."
"No, don't deny it. I saw how you looked at him." She opened her eyes, and in them was exhaustion. "All this time I thought you were just reserved. That you needed time to get used to our engagement. But you never looked at me that way. Never."
She turned to the window.
"I'll speak to her myself," Darcy said.
"No." Annabella shook her head. "You don't understand. This is no longer between you and her. You publicly disgraced me. Her daughter. This concerns the de Bourgh honor. And Mother won't let this go."
She took her purse from the table, pulled out her phone.
"I'm leaving. Tonight. I'm returning to Rosings. I need... she needs to hear this from me first, not from gossip."
"Bella, I'm sorry. I truly never wanted to cause you pain."
She stopped at the door without turning.
"I know." Her voice was quiet. "But that doesn't change what you did. And the consequences it will have."
A pause.
"Maybe you should warn him. Because when Mother makes a decision... she's ruthless."
She left, closing the door quietly.
Darcy remained alone. He walked to the window, looked into the darkness outside.
After a few minutes headlights of a departing car flashed in the window.
He pulled out his phone, looked at the blank screen. He wanted to text Elliot, to warn him. But what to say?
He put the phone back.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd find a way to fix this.
But a dark premonition told him it was already too late.
The clock ticked. In a few hours Annabella would tell her mother, Lady Catherine, everything. And then the storm would begin.
Elliot didn't remember the drive home.
He only remembered sitting in the sitting room, staring into space. James sat beside him silent and pale, with red eyes. Mother cried in her room, her sobs carrying through the thin walls. Father smoked his pipe by the window.
"I ruined everything," James whispered, and his voice was dead. "Now Bingley will never... he'll never want to see me again."
"You didn't ruin anything," Elliot answered, though he wasn't certain himself.
"But Mother... all those people... they think I... that I'm hunting for his money."
"It's not your fault."
James looked at him, and in his eyes were tears he was desperately trying to hold back.
"I thought... I really thought he... that there was something between us. Something real."
His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands.
Elliot hugged his brother, pulled him close. He held him while he cried quietly into his shoulder, while his tears soaked through Elliot's shirt.
Maybe Mother is right, Elliot thought bitterly. Maybe we really are a disaster. Maybe people like us don't deserve happiness.
Anger burned in his chest. At his mother, who couldn't hold her tongue. At society, which judged them so harshly. At himself, for not stopping his mother sooner.
But beneath the anger was something else. Something like regret, sharp and painful.
Because part of him that part he was desperately trying to silence still remembered the feeling of Darcy's hand on his waist. The heat of his palm. That look in his eyes hungry and desperate, almost mad. Those unspoken words that hung in the air like an unfulfilled promise.
You're the most right thing I've ever...
Elliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
It doesn't matter, he told himself. It doesn't matter anymore. We're from different worlds. And that dance was the last.
But his heart refused to believe those words.
Outside the window dusk was gathering. Soon night would come.
And morning would bring the consequences of what had happened this evening.
30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ381QGIn02X
and then Add to home screen.