George Wickham's hand crept up my thigh under the table.

I choked on my apricot ice cream, splashing pale orange goo on the embroidered tablecloth. A violent cough shook my body as I swatted him away. I turned to the hostess to apologise.

"Aunt Philips, I am so sor--" But her chair was empty. My head snapped left and right. No guests.

Except for Sucky McSuckface and me.

"Bridge? What's happening?" My voice quavered to the point I did not recognize it.

"Damn. That one is a hottie." Wickham eyed me up and down, an appreciative smile on his face.

"What's wrong with you?"

He ignored my question and tugged at my gown. "C'mon, girl, relax and enjoy the ride..."

Enjoy the what? "Bridge, off."

Cold sweat ran down my spine when the dining room did not fade away. Was I stuck inside the game?

While I gaped at Wickham, stunned by the lack of response from the Bridge, he turned my seat towards him. His mouth hovered mine, asking for permission, but I squealed, recoiling from his predator smile. "Won't you grant me root access, sexy?"

Uh? Was that Regency kinky talk? "N-no."

Wickham's stare hardened, frustration replacing seductiveness. He grabbed my arm, his nails biting through my sleeve and into my skin. "Stop resisting, you idiot. Just say yes."

"I said no!"

A gentle shake of my shoulder tore me away from the nightmare.

The moonlight bathed my room, adding an eeriness to Amy's concerned expression. I rubbed my tense arm, still tingling from the iron grip that had scared me.

"Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water and a fluffy pillow?" She wiped the sweat from my forehead, her tender gesture chasing away the remnants of fear.

"No, I'm all right. I fell asleep while recalling my last game. Guess it bothered me more than I thought."

"Why? What happened? Scoot over."

I budged up towards the wall then pushed away the blanket, keeping only the sheet. Amy slid under it.

"I know that the Bridge is messing with my head in order to antagonise Darcy, but still..."

"Is this about your boobs again? Lee-Lee-Bee, your breasts are perfect." She narrowed her eyes at my goofy grin. "What?"

"You haven't called me Lee-Lee-Bee since primary school."

She shrugged. "I stopped because you were in junior high. Didn't wanna embarrass my big sister."

"Aww, but I loved that nickname. You gave it to me when you were a toddler. You were positively obsessed with bees at the time. Dad even made you a costume, with a black and yellow outfit, and antennas on a headband."

"Did he? I don't remember."

"You were so cute. You used to run to me with your arms up, stating that, 'The queen bee requested a good tickle on her stripes.'"

Out of the blue, my hands darted to Amy's green and white baseball top. Her mouth drew into an O shape, and quickly shut, as she stifled a snort.

"Stop, stop... You're gonna wake up Mom and Dad," she managed between two tickle assaults.

I held her wrists with a hand and attacked her again with the other, whispering, "I'm quiet. You're the one making noise."

"Please!"

"Are you yielding?"

"Y-yeah." She giggled, tears coursing along her cheekbones.

"Puny queen." I smirked, with a pointed look towards the Low Key inscription of her T-shirt.

While Ames caught her breath, I jerked away the bed sheet and pried the window open. We laid there for a few minutes, enjoying the soft breeze, forehead against forehead, until she broke the silence.

"At the beginning of Eleventh Grade, I went to a party. Played Seven Minutes in Heaven and got paired up with this cute guy. We kissed, but when he tried to get to second base, I pushed him away. He didn't insist.

"I didn't think much of him for the rest of the evening, but on Monday, a rumor had spread at school. That jackass had told everyone I had shown him my tits. He even added that they were so tiny he had trouble finding them. In a matter of days, I became the school's slut, and my friends had deserted me."

"Amy... I am so sorry. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in your second year of college, and had trouble picking a university. But don't worry. I took care of it. I called out his bluff in the middle of the cafeteria. Pretended he had told the truth. Showered him with kinky details about my breasts. He blanked, blushed, stammered, and almost passed out.

"I left the cafeteria yelling, 'Stop slut-shaming.' The other students quickly understood that this was all a lie. My so-called friends came back running, and I tore into them. End of story."

I scrunched up my nose. "Eleventh Grade? Is that when you switched looks?"

"Yup. Taylor Momsen's songs matched my mood, so I matched her appearance." Tension filled her countenance. She stilled, holding her breath, her stare boring into my soul.

Careful not to scare her away, I raised a hand and cupped her neck. "I wish your grunge style was not a shield. But I'm glad you told me the story of how this lucky family gained its very own rock star."

Amy's grateful smile confirmed that my reply was the one she hoped for. I smooched her cheek. "Let's try to sleep. Otherwise, you'll have dark circles so big you won't need smokey eyes."

She turned her back to me and grabbed my arm, wrapping herself in love and devotion. I spooned her, dropping kisses on her hair.

"Lee-Lee-Bee?"

Her soft call startled me. I rubbed my eyelids and asked, my voice thick with exhaustion, "Yes, sweetie?"

"Next time you see Darcy, crush him."

Amy's heartfelt urging stayed in a corner of my mind the next morning when, before going downstairs for breakfast, I put on my Bridge and dived back into the game. I skimmed through Lizzy and Jane's conversation about Wickham's revelations, and the rest of Chapter Seventeen, my heart rate going through the roof when Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to Longbourn, delivering a personal invitation.

An invitation to the Netherfield ball.

I cringed when Elizabeth carelessly questioned Mr. Collins's presence at the dance, and begged the Bridge to skip to the next Tuesday before he could claim her two first sets.

A yelp escaped my lips when my hair started moving on its own. An invisible hairdresser tugged at the strands, styling them into an elaborate chignon, and holding them in place with a thousand hair pins. Before I could protest at this maltreatment, a flare rendered me sightless, and I was transported to the Netherfield drawing room.

I grumbled and blinked at my surroundings. Behind the flickering dots impairing my vision, I noticed that the carpets had been rolled up and removed. The furniture had been reduced to chairs against the walls, and small tables had been arranged for the ladies to leave their reticules on while dancing. A dozen red coats were amongst the guests, but knowing that Lizzy's favourite would not attend this party, I didn't bother scrutinizing their faces.

By my side, Mr. Denny and Lydia chatted about the latter's shoe-roses. I excused myself and went in search of Charlotte Lucas, hoping for a few minutes of respite before she sacrificed herself to save me from Collins's attention.

As I passed the mantelpiece, the fugitive vision of a Greek goddess stopped me in my tracks. Framed by the mellow golden giltwood mirror, the care with which she had composed her outfit gave away her growing infatuation towards George Wickham. Lace ribbons ornamented her hair, flowing amongst delicate pearl pins and satin flowers. The brocaded silk of her evening gown shimmered, attracting the light of the hundreds of candles adorning the room. A topaz rested on her bosom, the single touch of colour of her otherwise white silhouette.

Darcy entered my field of vision, interrupting my reverie. "Miss Elizabeth, would you do me the honour of your next dance?"

Unlike my dearest heroine, he did not catch me unprepared. "I am afraid my first two sets have been engaged to my cousin, Mr. Collins." I raised my chin up, glad that I would not have to deal with him for the next hour or so.

Darcy's brows knitted together. "Is your cousin the gentleman who escorted your family, and who is presently leading Miss Mary to the dancefloor?"

Uh? I followed his gaze and turned around, dumbfounded by the scene unraveling before me.

Mary was giggling. An undeniable merriness transpired from her features, adding a lovely pink shade to her cheeks. Mr. Collins bustled about with excitement, dashing to rid her of her cup of ratafia and weaving back through the guests, stomping on three feet in the process. A goofy smile animated his features, matching the enraptured expression of her eyes.

"Ahem." Darcy brought my attention back to his pending request. I was now lacking a valid excuse, and found myself forced to place my hand into his, letting him guide me towards the couples awaiting.

The first notes of an English country dance quieted the conversations in the drawing room. I spotted Mary and Mr. Collins four couples away, batting their lashes at each other. At the top, Mr. Bingley kept his own enamored gaze trained on Jane, and almost missed the beginning step. While I waited for them to progress down the line and thus to set other dancers in motion, I prepared to destroy my partner.

"What do you think of my gown, Mr. Darcy?"

He froze, his face devoid of emotions as the Bridge processed my question. I resisted the urge to leave my place to flick him on the nose, clenching my fists and keeping them by my side. Another time.

Darcy came back to life, sucking in a sharp breath. "It's, err, lovely?"

"Your answer reassures me. Mary kept telling me it was too tight and alluring. Is it?"

He blinked a few times. "Is it what?"

I pouted sweetly, brushing my side with the back of my fingers. "Too tight and alluring?"

His stare followed my gesture, pausing half a second too long on my breast before he caught himself. "No, it's very flattering. Mary's wrong."

In the corner of my eyes, the aforesaid sister's outstretched hands found Mr. Collins'. They span, skipped, sprang forward together, as perfectly paired up as a swan and an ostrich.

"Care to guess what Lydia said about my outfit?"

Darcy scrunched up his nose. "What did she say?"

"Lydia had the cruelest remark upon seeing me all dressed up. She complained that such a dress was lost on me, for I didn't fill it correctly."

Sweat started to bead on his handsome forehead. "Did she?"

"Yes, she did." At last, the Bridge carried me two steps forward, extending my arms in the direction of my partner, but the latter was immobile, addled, jaw hanging. I raised a brow. "Mr. Darcy?"

"Uh?" With a jolt, he joined me, the clamminess of his hands penetrating through my silk gloves.

"Lydia is only fifteen, still a kid. I forgave her easily for thinking that this neckline was not flattering my figure. The other way, Mr. Darcy."

"Sorry." He bowed to the gentleman he had jostled.

"As I was saying, Lydia's comment was short of empathy. Her choice of words, in particular, hurt my pride."

Darcy held my hand to make me turn around him. When he released it, I paused, and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "I believe her exact words were, 'You're too skinny. And completely lack bosom.'"

Blood left his face, then came back rushing, an intense redness spreading from his cheeks to his forehead at an alarming rate. He glanced left and right. "Indeed, what a cruel thing to say."

"So, you agree. Should I ask her to apologise to me?" I drilled my eyes into his, leaving no doubt as to the real subject of this conversation. "Shouldn't any respectable gentle person own up to their obnoxious opinion, and beg for forgiveness?"

His voice quivered as he whimpered, "Yes."

"Mr. Darcy. May I compliment you on your dancing and your partner?" Sir William Lucas breathed with difficulty, his gaze searching for an open window. His wide forehead glistened with sweat, that he dabbed away with his cravat. Once done, he fanned himself with his empty brass cup.

Darcy welcomed the interruption with relief, bowing with more courtesy than usual. "Sir William, can I refill your mug to thank you for these kind words?" And without waiting for the answer, they both darted away to the refreshment table.

Incredulity washed over me. Did this indelicate oaf leave me high and dry in the middle of the dancefloor?

Around me, the NPCs gasped and stared at me in confusion, hesitating as to keep dancing with me or not.

About twenty feet away, I caught a glimpse of Miss Bingley's remarkably well-filled, ochre gown. Oh, right. She was supposed to accost me after Darcy's departure. I started towards her, but she grew pale and disappeared into another room. Oh, what now? No badmouthing Wickham? How disappointing, Caroline.

My dance having been cut short, Jane was still leading the set. As for Charlotte, she was nowhere to be seen. With a grunt, I dropped on a chair to wait for the rest of this blasted ball.

After a while, Uncle Philips took a seat beside me. When he lowered himself, huffing and puffing, he tilted his glass and spilled negus on the wooden floor and my shoes. "Are you having fun, my dear?"

I closed my eyes, mentally checking all the terrible events that had yet to happen this evening.

Lydia and Kitty would ridicule themselves by laughing loudly and flirting with officers. Mary would hog the pianoforte, and Mr. Bennet would put a stop to her pretentious performance by joking at her expense. Last but not least, Mrs. Bennet would boast about Jane and Mr. Bingley as if their engagement was a certain thing. Should I count Mr. Collins in tonight's humiliation? Though I had dodged his clumsy and pompous dancing, he was still scheduled to address Darcy and to make a fool of himself.

Great. Just great.

"Yeah, Uncle Philips, I'm having a ball."