The Gray and the Black

It mattered little that every move was almost painful, as she came alive to someone other than her gentleman. The dance was beautiful and nearly indecent, every move of hers was a question and an answer of its own. It questioned only to draw in.
Uncle Mortimor was not pleased. He stood up and moved to the desk, where he busied himself looking over some odd papers.
“This will cost some,” he broke in at one point, as Lord Maximilien responded with an approving nod to a remark of Lupin’s.
“As you well know, mon ami, the cost is – pas important,” he replied politely, almost with amusement. Lupin was not so flippant. Her eyes darkened at Uncle Mortimor’s remark, but there was little she could do for his discomfort with the ruse. It made no difference to her. Her only way out of this nightmare – her only way of getting her Lord Grefham out of her nightmare – was this way. She joined her hand above her head to Lord Maximilien’s and circled slowly and sinuously; she signed her own warrant to death – a death in society she had already taken. And her release to freedom, Lord Grefham’s release to safety. Uncle Mortimor glowered more intensely at his papers.
Her mind’s eye flashed as she looked deep into Lord Maximilien’s light, facetious eyes. Lord Grefham – it was all gray, gray, gray… waves and rocking and despair. She broke away, her cheeks suddenly ashen. Her eyes grew intense, and her jaw clenched. She clutched her stomach unthinkingly and her spine stiffened. “No.” She stated, whispering. The word was compelled from her – the energy behind it was incredible. He would not – he must not. He must not leave her so far. So far. He could be with her – they could have had some time together. She breathed three large and intense breaths. It was the only thing in her ears – gasps that rasped from deep within. Then she turned and wrenching open the door, she ran from the room.
She found herself on the stairs to the attic, far above. She shook herself. She was in a madness.
She clenched her fist around the banister and slowed her breathing with effort, and with a great deal of self-loathing, she gingerly tried to convince herself that there was no way of knowing the state of Lord Grefham. She only knew he had been in danger with her and he was safer without her. That had been too strong to deny. But she did not really know anything. Only that she had had to leave. She knew nothing. She knew nothing. She was only a person. She breathed slowly, but the franticness would not leave. She took her skirt in her hand and she clenched it very slowly. The fabric wrinkled and then released. It was left with lines lashing across it. It would forget the fist. And so would he forget their time together. She viciously ignored a lancing pain that ran through her at that. But she shook her head. She must try not to reach out to him. She would only destroy him. Her shoulders shook with deep sobs that she choked back. Leaning her forhead on her fist as it gripped the graying wood of the old railing, she closed her eyes very tight, and sinking into the dark world of her mind, she shook with the pain.