Because the mark wasn’t there.The attacker didn’t get a chance to strangle me.
“It’s nothing,” I lift the mug to my face and apply myself to drinking the liquid as methodically as I can to hide my furious blush.
Blimey!If I weren’t in such a desperate need of coffee this morning, I would’ve taken a longer look in the mirror. I would’ve spotted the hickey and lathered it with concealer until it disappeared.
Thankfully, someone else enters the kitchen. I’m going to talk to whoever that is until my mug is empty, and my croissant finished, and then I’m out of here!
I look over my shoulder, and to my astonishment, it’s the man who gave me the best orgasm ever. Aka, the bastard who gave me the hickey.
With horror, I realize I’m already looking forward to later this evening—my last night in Jonas’s house. His proximity, as he takes a seat across from me at the long table, makes my heart flutter. I’ve never felt this way before and never expected to feel this way. In fact, I would’ve laughed if I was told that one day I’d feel this way about a man.
Did he come down to have breakfast in my company?If so, why doesn’t he look at me?
“Both Mrs. Everly and Oli are off this morning,” he says. “No one to cook me breakfast and bring it to my room.”
Peter cracks up. “I would cite first-world problems, but yours is in a league of its own.”
Jonas shrugs and heads to the fridge.
Peter asks him something. Jonas answers, still not looking at me. My mind is too busy with its own preoccupations to register their exchange. It’s clear that the Jonas here in the kitchen is the same stranger I woke to—not the playful and passionate lover from last night.
Was that it? Is it over?The question catches me off guard. Tomorrow I’ll move out of this house. Our paths will part, maybe forever. Was last night really a one-off?
Get real, Margot!The answer is staring you in the face. Or, rather,notstaring since Jonas won’t look at me.
Peter knits his eyebrows. “Did you guys have a row?”
“No, why?” Jonas says, buttering a toast.
“You didn’t greet each other.”
There’s a moment of panic, but then Jonas explains, “It’s because we’ve already bumped into each other earlier this morning. Margot’s room is next to mine.”
“Ah, I see.” Peter smiles.
Did he find Jonas’s explanation satisfactory? Will he suspect foul play? Is he going to connect the dots to my hickey?
Oh well, it doesn’t matter.
I’ll never go out with Peter, and Jonas has nothing to do with it. Not directly, anyway. On Thursday night, when Peter threatened our attackers to make sure they spare my life, my reaction wasn’t what I would’ve expected. Peter should’ve gained my admiration and gratitude for that gesture. Instead, disappointment was what I felt. Immense, profound disappointment.
* * *
The Sky Hall is now the Netherfield Park mansion, decked out for the ball. The crystal chandeliers bathe the room in bright light that bounces off the beautifully carved panels lining the bottom half of the walls. The air smells of perfume, cologne, flowers, and candles.
In one corner of the room, our talented musicians are playing a lively country dance. The music is loud enough that the conversations and laughter on the dance floor don’t drown it out. But it’s sufficiently quiet for the hanging mics and lavaliers to ensure that the audience hears every word.
Caroline Bingley isn’t happy.
Consumed by resentment and jealousy, she’s finished dancing, and now she’s eyeing Mr. Darcy who’s eyeing Elizabeth Bennet. My next dance is going to be with Peter, my character’s brother Charles.
Here he comes, all fresh and kind and enamored with the oldest Miss Bennet, Jane.
Arm in arm, we head to the dance floor. The musicians start the ländler. Peter takes my hands, left in left, right in right, and we begin our well-practiced routine. We execute our figures with near perfection and glide about the room. Peter steers me close to Jonas who’s now dancing with today’s Elizabeth. This isn’t in the script but given how much improv is allowed and even encouraged in this show, it shouldn’t strike me as odd. And yet it does.
The other thing that seems off is how intently Jonas is looking at today’s Elizabeth—her civilian name is Giselle, I believe—while they say their lines. Giselle is a very pretty, very classy and, from what I understand, a very rich heiress in her early thirties. She is, by far, the most appealing Elizabeth of the week.
Jonas did a great job conveying Darcy’s suppressed feelings to the previous Elizabeths. But what’s going on now seems… let’s call it a departure from the script. Mr. Darcy isn’t supposed to stare at herthisintensely until her visit to Pemberley. Is it possible that the rapt attention he drinks her every word with isn’t Darcy’s, but his own? Can it be that his flushed face has nothing to do with the exertion of the dance?
