Page 126 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Lindon's gaze flicked to Richard's coat cuffs, neat enough, but worn enough to irritate a careful observer. "You handled it well. One hears… a great deal about you."

"Do you?" Richard replied dryly. "And what does one hear? That I drink too much, gamble badly, and intend to ruin the reputation of every widow within ten miles?"

Lindon flushed. "No. Nothing so scandalous. One hears you are decisive. When trouble begins, you end it."

"Trouble has better stamina than I do," Richard replied. "It keeps returning with new faces."

Lindon laughed, then stopped abruptly, as if uncertain whether laughing was allowed. He cleared his throat. "Your cousin and brother are away."

"They are." Richard's mouth twisted. "They are currently engaged in the sacred task of being insufferably content."

Lindon's eyes brightened. "I know. I was at the wedding."

"Right. I thought I saw you. Then again, Christ and his mother were there, too."

Lindon looked wistful, as if imagining what it must be like to marry a woman who did not regard you as either a bank or a burden. "It must be very gratifying."

"It must be exhausting," Richard replied, and felt more like himself at once.

Lindon's face turned sly, a rare quality in him, like a kitten attempting menace. "Then why do you look haunted, Fitzwilliam? You are single. You can sleep. You can do precisely as you like. You can eat a chop in peace without a wife reminding you of your posture."

Richard's fingers tightened around his glass. "I am not haunted."

Lindon's gaze held his with awkward sincerity. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Richard's mind supplied orange again, uninvited, brazen as a drunk in the pit.

He lifted his glass and took another drink, hoping brandy might drown a colour. "If I have seen a ghost, it is likely wearing feathers taller than its sense."

Lindon's brows rose. "Ah."

Richard shot him a glare. "Do not."

Lindon's hands lifted in surrender. "I said nothing."

"You thought it."

Lindon's mouth twitched. "London thinks it for me."

Richard stared into the fire. "London can think what it likes. London also thinks Keathley has a conscience. It will be disappointed on both counts."

Lindon's smile widened, and at last he looked comfortable, warmed by the familiar sport of male companionship that did not require brilliance, only timing. "If you require distraction, Fitzwilliam, I have a proposal."

Richard eyed him. "God save me."

"Cards," Lindon said, and looked unreasonably pleased with the simplicity. "Not for money. I do not need money. For pride. It is a safer vice."

Richard laughed. "No one in this room plays for pride."

Lindon's cheeks coloured. "I do. It is a new habit. My grandmother insists I develop some."

Richard set his glass down and clapped Lindon on the shoulder with a force that made the younger man sway. "Very well. Let us see if your pride survives my manners."

They moved to the card table. Richard lost a hand. He won the next. Lindon played carefully, as if the cards might explode. Richard made a remark about the vices of cautious men. Lindon countered with a polite insult that landed like a pinprick and made Richard laugh again, surprised by it.

For a brief hour, orange loosened its grip. Not gone, but muffled, pushed back by the steady rhythm of banter and the comfort of an old friend who did not carry Richard's debts on his own shoulders.

Then the clock chimed. The club's warmth began to feel stale. Restlessness returned, sharp and familiar. Richard pushed his chair back and stood, reaching for his coat.