Page 121 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and starch that clung to him despite his worn coat. The mockery vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, hard glint of the aristocracy that no amount of money could purchase.

"Keep your coins, Miss Bingley." His voice was low, devoid of humour. "You could not afford me."

The air between them crackled, charged with a strange energy that sat somewhere between fury and fascination. Before she could calculate a response to such breathtaking arrogance, the atmosphere on the street shifted.

From down the road came the raucous baying of hounds, or rather, men who behaved like them. A phalanx of five young bucks, arms linked, cravats starched high enough to obscure their ears, came barrelling down the pavement. They wereloud, flushed with midday wine, and moving with the blind entitlement of those who owned the stones beneath their boots. They took up the entire width of the path, forcing pedestrians into the gutter.

Caroline stood directly in their trajectory. Her violet dress was a beacon, but to these men, in their intoxicated state, she was merely an obstacle to be shoved aside.

She saw them coming. Panic flared in her throat. She froze, clutching her reticule, bracing for the impact, the insult, the mud.

The Colonel moved.

It was not a dramatic gesture. He did not draw a sword or raise a fist. He simply shifted his stance. One moment he was the antagonist, sneering at her wealth. The next, he was a wall of blue superfine positioned between her and the oncoming tide. He turned his back to her, shielding her completely with his body, facing the group head-on.

"Worthy," he said. The name was spoken softly, but it cut through the noise like a whip crack.

The leader of the group skidded to a halt, the chain reaction causing his companions to stumble and sway. He squinted, fighting the haze of alcohol to focus on the man standing calm and immobile before him.

"Colonel?" The young lord blinked, his face slackening. "Is that you? We thought you were dead or in the country."

"Neither, though the difference is negligible." The Colonel's tone was bored, and his posture relaxed but immovable. "You are blocking the lady's path, chaps. And you are shouting. My head aches."

The young lords looked from him to the sliver of violet velvet visible behind his shoulder. They did not sneer. They did not shove. The recognition of his rank, and perhaps a memory of his temper, sobered them instantly.

"Apologies, Colonel," Worthy mumbled, tipping his beaver hat. "Didn't see. Spirits. Jolly good fun."

"Take your fun to the park," the Colonel dismissed them with a flick of his fingers.

They streamed around the pair like water parting around a rock, murmuring deferential apologies, giving him a wide berth. Caroline stood in the lee of his protection, staring at the back of his coat. For a moment, she was not the rich tradesman's daughter fighting for respect. She was simplysafe.

He waited until the group had vanished around the corner before turning back to her. He did not ask if she was unharmed. He did not seek gratitude. He merely adjusted his brown parcel. Whatever he was thinking, his face gave nothing away, though it was certainly not admiration.

"Try not to get trampled, Miss Bingley," he said. "It would ruin the velvet."

He touched the brim of his hat and walked away, leaving the little box of scent lying on the stones.

Caroline stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs. She motioned sharply for the maid to retrieve the box. "Pick it up, Schmidt. Do not gawk."

As she turned to compose herself, preparing to march to her carriage with her head high, a movement across the street caught her eye.

An elegant barouche, painted in a dark, understated maroon, was idling by the kerb. The drapes were open. Framed within it sat a woman of advancing years but formidable beauty. She wore an elegant bonnet of severe grey silk, and her posture was as rigid as iron.

It was the Countess of Matlock. The Colonel's mother.

The older woman was not looking at her son. She was looking directly at Caroline, not with the usual sneer of the ton, nor the blank dismissal of a stranger, but with a stern, penetrating gazethat gave nothing away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, calculating, assessing, like a general surveying a battlefield or a jeweller inspecting a flawed but curious diamond.

Caroline felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. She had seen it all. The argument. The parcel. The protection. The Countess gave a single, imperceptible nod, to whom, Caroline could not say, and signalled for her driver to move on. The carriage rolled away, leaving Caroline standing on the pavement, surrounded by her expensive purchases, feeling unsettled and exposed.

Chapter Four: The Orange Beacon

Richard sat in the shadows of Robert's box in the King's Theatre in Haymarket. It was spacious, luxurious, and draped in a red velvet and gold that felt oppressive in the heat of the packed house. Beside him, Georgiana looked relaxed, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed dutifully on the stage. Madame Catalani, a soprano with lungs like a bellows, was currently dismantling a Mozart aria with a series of trills that sounded like a bird being strangled.

"She is very… spirited," Georgiana whispered, her gaze not leaving the stage.

"She is loud." Richard adjusted his cuffs. "If the French army possessed her lung power, we would have surrendered the Peninsula without a fight."

Georgiana suppressed a smile, hiding it behind her fan. Richard turned his attention from the stage to the audience. He preferred the pit to the performance. Human folly was always more entertaining than Italian opera. The semi-circular rows of the theatre were a sea of muted tones, blacks, greys, the occasional dark blue, punctuated by the pale muslins of the debutantes.