Page 115 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Hard to miss me," he grinned, revealing teeth that were distressingly white. "I am the brightly coloured object blocking your view. But then again, you do seem focused on the church doors. Why are you not inside, Miss Bingley? Were you not invited? I could have sworn Darcy mentioned your brother was attending. In fact, is that not Bingley waving at a flower girl?"

His tone was perfectly polite. His eyes were perfectly mocking. They danced with a light that suggested he could read her thoughts and found them hysterical.

Caroline tightened her grip on her parasol until the ivory bit into her glove. She would expire before she admitted to being snubbed. She would perish, be buried, and haunt this very street before she gave a second son the satisfaction of her humiliation.

"My invitation must have been misplaced, Colonel," she lied, the falsehood sliding from her lips like oil. She flipped the parasol open with a snap that nearly took off the tip of his nose. "I am merely a passer-by. I have been purchasing necessities."

"Necessities?" The Colonel glanced at the teetering architecture of boxes in Schmidt's arms. "That appears to be enough feathers to fletch an entire battalion of arrows, Miss Bingley. Are you planning an invasion?"

"Come, Schmidt," Caroline commanded, ignoring his jest entirely. To acknowledge his humour was to encourage it, and Colonel Fitzwilliam required no encouragement to be tiresome. "We are leaving. The air here is stifling."

She made to step around him, intending to sweep down the pavement with regal indifference. However, the pavement was crowded, the awning narrow, and Schmidt's burden wide. As the maid attempted to manoeuvre the hatboxes past the Colonel's broad chest, gravity asserted its dominance. The top box, containing a bonnet of questionable taste but exorbitant price, wobbled.

Schmidt gasped. Caroline flinched.

A hand, large and scarred, shot out and caught the box mid-air.

"Steady on," he said. He did not return the box to the pile. Instead, he tucked it under his arm with the familiarity of a man used to carrying rucksacks. Then, to Caroline's horror, he reached out and relieved Schmidt of two more parcels. "I cannot have a lady wandering the streets of Mayfair unaccompanied while carrying half a milliner's inventory. It reflects poorly on the peerage."

"I am not unaccompanied," Caroline hissed, her face heating. "I have Schmidt. And you are not the peerage, Colonel. You are merely the son of one."

"A technicality," he replied, undeterred. He adjusted the parcels, looking entirely too comfortable holding ladies' trimmings while wearing a sword. "Schmidt looks as though she is about to faint, and I would hate for her to drop your necessities in the mud. I am heading your way. I shall escort you."

"You do not know which way I am going."

"You are going away from the happiness of others," he said, his wolfish grin widening. "Which is generally the direction I travel as well. After you, Miss Bingley."

He gestured with the hatbox, a mock bow that was both gallant and infuriating. Caroline looked at Schmidt. The maid let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief, her arms now holding a manageable load.

There was no escape. To refuse him now would cause a scene, and Caroline Bingley did not cause scenes. She inspired them in others.

"Very well," she said, lifting her skirts an inch to avoid a puddle. "But do try to keep up, Colonel. I walk briskly."

"I shall endeavour to match your pace," he drawled, falling into step beside her. "Though I fear my legs are longer."

They walked in silence for a moment, a strange procession cutting through the bustling crowd. Caroline kept her eyes fixed forward, refusing to look at the wedding guests still spilling from the church. She was acutely aware of the Colonel beside her. He took up a great deal of space. He radiated a heat that was annoying in the winter chill, and his sword clanked softly against his thigh with a rhythm that seemed to mock her quick steps.

"A lovely ceremony," he remarked casually, nodding at a passing chimney sweep who looked terrified of him. "You missed a fine sermon. The Bishop droned on for a solid hour about the sanctity of unions. I believe half the congregation fell asleep. Darcy looked as if he were contemplating murder."

"I am sure Mr Darcy was the picture of decorum," Caroline said stiffly.

"Oh, entirely. He stood there looking tragic and noble, as usual. But I saw his hand shaking when he put the ring on her finger." The Colonel's voice softened, just a fraction. "He is besotted. It is disgusting, really."

Caroline felt the pin in her chest twist. She stopped abruptly at the corner of the street where her brother's carriage waited. The driver was apparently asleep, and jerked awake at her approach.

"I have no interest in your observations of Mr Darcy's affections," she said, turning to face him. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. It put her at a disadvantage. "The man has made his choice. He has chosen rustic charm over breeding. It is his loss."

Richard looked down at her. The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by a scrutiny that made her want to check her hair for loose pins.

"You really believe that, do you not?" he asked, not unkindly. "That it is all about breeding and furniture?"

"It is about standards, Colonel," she replied, snatching the hatbox from under his arm. "Something you would know little about, given the state of your cuffs. They are frayed."

He glanced at his wrist, then shrugged. "Soldiers are rarely known for their haberdashery, Miss Bingley. We spend our coin on other things. Staying alive, mostly."

He handed the remaining parcels to the footman, who began loading them into the carriage. Caroline opened her reticule. She withdrew a small coin.

"For your trouble," she said, extending it to him. It was a calculated insult. To tip an Earl's son like a porter.