Page 116 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions
Richard looked at the coin. Then he looked at her. A laugh, barked and genuine, erupted from his chest. He took the coin, flipped it into the air, and caught it with a snap of his wrist.
"I shall treasure it," he said, his eyes crinkling. "I might even buy a bag of lemons with it, as a reminder of our encounter. Good day, Miss Bingley. Try not to terrorise the carriage horses."
He turned on his heel and strode away, the scarlet coat vivid against the grey stone, whistling a tune that sounded irritatingly cheerful. Caroline stood frozen, her hand still outstretched, the insult having bounced off him like a musket ball off a fortress wall.
The carriage ride to Portman Square passed in a blur of resentment. Caroline sat rigidly, listening to Schmidt breathe, plotting a thousand retorts she should have made.I shall buy a bag of lemons.What sort of man said such things? Did he compare her to lemons?
When the carriage halted before the Bingley townhouse, the contrast was vast. St George's had been a riot of noise, colour, and life. Her brother's house, her home actually, because her own establishment on Pont Street remained shuttered to preserve her dowry, stood silent and imposing. The windows were dark, save for the drawing room on the first floor.
She swept inside, stripping off her gloves as the butler took her parasol.
"Where is Mrs Hurst?" she demanded.
"In the drawing room, Miss," the butler replied. "She is indisposed."
Caroline ascended the stairs. She found her sister Louisa sprawled upon a chaise longue, a damp cloth over her eyes. Louisa was five months with child and had taken to pregnancy with the same grace she applied to losing at cards. She complained ceaselessly and blamed everyone else for the inconvenience.
"You are back," Louisa moaned without moving the cloth. "Did you get the ribbons? The noise from the street is intolerable today. Why must people be so loud? Where is Charles?"
"He is at the wedding, Louisa." Caroline walked to the window and peered out at the empty street.
"Oh. There." Louisa waved a limp hand. "Thank heavens we did not go. I could not have borne the smell of the pews. And Mr Hurst has been asleep in the library since breakfast. The house reeks of brandy."
Caroline looked around the room. It was elegant. The furniture was of the first stare. The curtains were silk. And it was stifling. Charles was a cheerful puppy. Louisa was lost to her condition. Hurst was lost to the bottle. She stood by the window.
She was the only one left standing.
"I saw Colonel Fitzwilliam," Caroline said, more to the glass pane than to her sister.
"That penniless rogue?" Louisa sniffed. "I hope you did not speak to him. He is likely looking for a loan."
"He seemed…" Caroline paused. She saw his reflection in the glass, the craggy face, the mocking eyes, the frayed cuff. "He looked entirely too pleased with himself."
"Ignore him," Louisa advised. "He is of no consequence. A second son with nothing but a sword and a name. He is beneath us."
"Yes," Caroline whispered, pressing her hand against the cold glass. "Beneath us."
But as she stood there, in the quiet, expensive tomb of her ambition, the memory of his laugh lingered in her ears, louder and more vibrant than anything else she owned. She hated him for it. She hated him, and she gripped the curtain, vowing that next time, she would be the one to laugh.
Chapter Two: The Frog and the Lemon
The private dining parlour at Grillon's Hotel possessed an air of aggressive festivity that Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam found physically painful. The room, draped in heavy crimson damask and illuminated by a hundred beeswax candles, smelled of roasted pheasant, hothouse peaches, and the distinct, metallic tang of expensive champagne being uncorked with reckless abandon. It was a sensory assault, a riot of colour and noise that swirled around the two couples holding court at the head table like a tide of silk and gold lace.
Richard leaned against the marble mantelpiece, swirling the champagne in his glass, seeking refuge in the shadow of a large fern. From this vantage point, he observed the bedlam of happiness with the weary eye of a veteran soldier surveying a battlefield where peace had broken out unexpectedly and without his permission.
His cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, sat beside the new Mrs Darcy, Elizabeth, looking as though a heavy object had struck him over the head and he had enjoyed the experience immensely. Darcy, a man usually as communicative as a stone wall and twice as hard, currently looked incapable of coherent speech. He was content merely to watch his wife laugh at a jest from her uncle, Mr Gardiner. His eyes followed her every movement with a devotion that bordered on the idolatrous. It was unsettling to witness such a thawing of the glacial Darcy reserve. It was akin to watching a statue decide to perform a jig.
On the other side of the table, the situation proved even more dire.
Viscount Keathley, Robert to those who had suffered through his nursery tantrums and Eton follies, held court with the theatricality of an actor playing a king. He fed a sugared almondto his new Viscountess, Jane, with a flourish that threatened to overturn the silver gravy boat. Jane, serene and radiant enough to blind a man, merely smiled, accepting the tribute as if she had tamed a lion and turned the beast into a purring house cat.
"It is disgusting," Richard murmured to the fire, the heat of the flames scorching his calves through his boots. "Utterly revolting."
"What is revolting, Richard?"
Richard started, nearly spilling his drink. He looked down to find Georgiana Darcy standing at his elbow. She wore a gown of pale blue muslin that made her look like a spring sky, and her face, usually so shy, held a brightness he had not seen in years.
"Happiness, Georgie," Richard replied, recovering his composure with a wink. "It is a plague. Look at your brother. He has lost all dignity. I expect him to start reciting poetry at any moment. And Robert is worse. He looks like a spaniel who has finally caught the pheasant."
