Page 130 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Lady Matlock reached out and patted his hand as if he were a child who had confessed a fear of thunder. Her touch was light, condescending, and affectionate in the most infuriating manner.

"I can see you have passionate feelings for her," she observed.

"Murderous feelings," he snapped.

Her smile widened. "Murder is passion."

Richard glared. "Mother."

She rose again, gliding around the table. She reached up and adjusted his cravat with a small tug, like a boy who had returned from war with his uniform misaligned.

"You are tired," she said softly. "It makes you dramatic."

"It makes me honest," he retorted.

Her eyes held his. They were sharp, amused, and far too perceptive. "It makes you frightened."

"I am not frightened."

"You are. You are frightened of being sent away, frightened of being poor, frightened of failing your father, frightened of wanting what you do not know how to control."

His hands clenched. "I want nothing."

Lady Matlock's thumb smoothed a crease in his sleeve. "Of course."

She moved towards the door, pausing at the threshold. She looked back once, and the look carried everything she refused to say aloud.

"Your father will press this matter with Miss Bingley," she said. "And do not mistake my calm for indifference."

Richard's laugh came out without humour. "I would not dare."

Lady Matlock inclined her head. "Good."

She stepped closer and gave him the second kiss on his cheek that night. It carried a lightness that felt almost foreign after the evening's dissection, and the gesture, absurdly, unsettled him more than the mention of dowries.

"Good night, Richard."

He stood rigid, letting the kiss land like a seal on a document.

"Good night."

Lady Matlock left. The door closed with quiet finality.

Richard remained by the fire, staring at the place where she had been, his mind roaring with outrage. His mother had betrayed him. His mother had allied with his father. His mother had smiled while doing it, as if matchmaking were a parlour amusement and his life a board game she intended to win.

He paced. He stopped. He paced again. Orange returned, brazen and bright, intruding with the persistence of a mosquito that refuses death out of spite. He hated that his mind could summon her so easily. He hated that his chest tightened with the memory of her looking at him as if he were both enemy and shield. He hated most of all that his mother had named it passion and made it sound as though it belonged in the category of desire rather than irritation.

Richard stopped pacing. He faced the fire as if it were an adversary.

"No," he informed the flames, low and savage. "No. Not under any circumstances. Only over my extremely dead body."

The fire crackled, unimpressed.

He dragged a hand through his hair, then forced his posture straight again, because even alone, even furious, he could not entirely abandon propriety. It was welded into his bones. It was the inheritance he could not pawn.

"I will not," he said again, as if repetition could make it true. "I will not court her. I will not flatter her. I will not stand in her path and let her stab me with her wit while I nod politely. I will not marry Caroline Bingley."

He took the stairs two at a time and closed the door of his chambers behind him. He exhaled, slow and sharp, then lay back fully clothed on the bed, staring at the cracks of the ceiling as dawn threatened the edge of London's sky.