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After all, she was a sensible woman. She did not believe in witchcraft or fortune-telling, and she certainly did not believe that she was destined to marry Fitzwilliam Darcy. Although, she thought as she glanced at the little brown book lying innocently upon the dressing table, twenty-four hours was not a very long time. And tomorrow evening, Mr Darcy would be attending Mr Bingley's masquerade ball. Which was, of course, entirely beside the point.

Chapter Two

Fitzwilliam Darcy gazed at his reflection in the looking-glass and let out a noise that was half sigh, half growl. If there was one thing he hated more than a ball, it was a masquerade ball. Grown adults dressing up like children and pretending they could not recognise one another simply because of the inadequate covering of a half-mask. It would have been laughable if he were not forced, on occasion, to attend such events himself.

Nevertheless, despite his protestations, Bingley had decided that an All Saints' Day masquerade would be just the thing to brighten the mood of the neighbourhood after a particularly dark and wet October. "After all, Darcy," he had said merrily, "it can do no harm to ingratiate oneself with one's neighbours, particularly the very pretty ones." And then he had laughed, slapped his friend on the back and strolled away, leaving Darcy to stew in his own displeasure.

Darcy, as a guest in Bingley’s home, had had little choice but to attend. He had thought of returning to London and then going on to Pemberley to see Georgiana, but he was still helping Bingley untangle the muddle of his estate books, and it felt rather ungallant to leave him in the midst of the process. Despite his profound dislike of such social occasions, Darcy was dressed in a suit of fine black cloth, with a black neckcloth replacing his usual snowy-white cravat. A short black cape was slung around his shoulders, making him feel as though he were about to step onto the stage of some second-rate theatre rather than attend a social event.

His valet, Burke, held out his mask, and he took it with a sigh.

"I reckon, sir, a masquerade's supposed to be a bit of fun, if you'll pardon me saying so. But you look more like you're off to the gallows than a ball."

"I do mind you saying."

"And yet you've kept me on all these years, despite me vexing you at every turn," Burke said with a smile.

"Yes, yes. I am a fool, I look like a fool, and I suppose I may as well act like one."

"You look very well, sir. Right dashing, if you ask me. Now, shall I tie that mask for you?"

"I suppose so," said Darcy begrudgingly, and his valet tied the black half-mask, embroidered on either side with the symbol of a two-pronged sceptre.

He was Hades, lord of the underworld, and it seemed a fitting outfit for his black mood. Now, if he could only find himself a great stone throne somewhere in the bowels of Netherfield, upon which he might sit until everyone had come and gone, he would be vastly grateful.

Miss Bingley, his friend's grasping sister, had spent all afternoon bombarding him with details of the party to come, as though by exhibiting her superior planning skills she would somehow engage his affections. He was too polite to bluntly turn down her advances, but he met her remarks with one- or two-word answers that he hoped would show a sufficient degree of detachment. This really would not do. He would give Bingley another week, and then he would head for London and on to Derbyshire. He was miserable here, and not just because of Bingley's overly social nature or his sister's tendency to stalk him around the house like a tiger sniffing out its prey.

It was her. Elizabeth Bennet, the object of all his desires and the instrument of his torture. She might as well have been tattooed on the backs of his eyelids, for every time he closed his eyes, whether in sleep or repose, he saw her there. Her slender figure danced most pleasingly through his mind, her vivid green eyes flashing at him in challenge and her hair, an ebony mass of curls, tumbling loose down her back. In his dreams, he could never quite reach her, never quite touch her or make her truly his. He supposed that was a reflection of his real-life circumstances.

She was far beneath him in consequence and wealth, and although she was the daughter of a gentleman and he was the son of a gentleman, and they were thus far equal, there was a chasm between their lives that would be difficult to bridge.

But despite that, the days she had spent ensconced at Netherfield while caring for her sister, who had been ill with a bad cold, had been some of the most pleasant he had ever known. She sparred with him verbally, and always with such intelligence and wit that he found himself quite at a loss to match her on occasion. She had more insight and wit in her little finger than most men of his acquaintance possessed in their entire persons, and if it were only that, he could probably have taken pleasure in her company and thought no more about it.

But, to add insult to injury, she was also the most beautiful creature God had ever created, with her finely boned face, long, elegant neck and thick, luscious curls that framed her creamy, pale skin. And those eyes! He had read enough poetry to know that it was supposed a man could lose himself in a pair of fine eyes, but he had always considered it an overblown expression of artistic sentiment until he met her. Now he felt he could indeed perish in her gaze, and tonight, rather than avoiding the object of his temptation, as would surely be sensible, he would have to watch her dance with other men and skip gaily around the room, always out of his reach.

He wondered idly what costume she would choose. Perhaps Aphrodite? She could certainly give the goddess of beauty a run for her money. But no, Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, would be a more fitting choice. He could quite imagine her armed with a spear and ready to do battle with any gentleman foolish enough to challenge her. She would make a fine Athena.

He realised he had been wool-gathering when Burke cleared his throat noisily. "Carriages are arriving now, sir, and they've formed the receiving line. You'll try to enjoy yourself tonight, I hope. Or at least have enough brandy to make you think you have."

"That is terrible advice, Burke," said Darcy, trying and failing to completely conceal a grim smile.

"Well, I don't reckon you keep me on for my wisdom, sir. More for making sure you're the best-dressed gentleman in England."

"That must be it," said Darcy, rolling his eyes. "Well, once more into the fray, I suppose. I do not think we should remain here any longer than another week, Burke."

"Very good, sir." Although Burke's eyes, when they met Darcy's in the mirror, seemed to contain a knowing smirk.

Darcy neatly bypassed the receiving line, entering the ballroom through a side door and accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant. He contented himself with sticking to the edges of the still only half-full room. It only made sense, he thought to himself, that the lord of the underworld should remain in the shadows. He was simply playing his role.

And then she entered, and his heart stopped beating. She was wearing a white Grecian-style gown that left much of her arms and shoulders bare, allowing him to see the elegant shape of her collarbone and a small mole, which he had never noticed before, just below it. Around her neck was wound a length of pinkish-red beads that shone like jewels, with the same glass decorations pinned into her hair. Most of her hair tumbled freely down her back like an ebony waterfall, thick and wild and practically begging for a man to bury his face in it. The upper part was wound into an elaborate knot, with two loose curls framing her face. A white silk mask accentuated the full pinkness of her mouth, and he noted that more of the glass beads decorated its right corner.

He drew a sharp breath. The beads represented pomegranate seeds. She was not Aphrodite or Athena. She was Persephone, the goddess of spring who had been carried off to the underworld by Hades and made his queen. His queen. He had the monstrous thought that he would love to gather her into his arms, bundle her into his carriage and steal away with her. She looked achingly glorious, every inch a goddess, and he felt his concerns about the disparity in their stations crumbling like dust. There would never be another woman who made him feel so deeply. In all his seven-and-twenty years on earth, there had never been a woman who affected him even a quarter, even a tenth, as much. She was perfection made flesh, so clever and witty, so kind and graceful in a way that no dowry could ever compensate for in another woman.

He threw back the remainder of his wine and thrust the empty glass at a passing servant before striding across the centre of the room. It was as though he were drawn to her by a magnet. He could no sooner stay away from her than the earth could cease its journey around the sun.

He stopped in front of her, and she looked at him with a start, clearly surprised to see him.

"Good evening, Persephone," he said, bowing low, his eyes never leaving her.