Page 141 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"You are inventing that."

"I am not. I was there. It was magnificent."

She bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile.

Richard continued, warming to his task. "And there, the gentleman in the green waistcoat attempting to hide behind the refreshment table, that is Mr Cornelius Thwaite. Twelve thousand a year, a stutter, and a mortal terror of women in red."

"He appears to be trembling."

"He mistakes you for a fire hazard. Understandable, given your history with colour."

"I am in burgundy, Colonel. Burgundy is perfectly respectable."

"Burgundy is restrained. It is so restrained I barely recognised you. I thought for a moment that you had sent an imposter in your stead."

She glanced up at him, and there was a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, or maybe annoyance, he could not tell. "You preferred the orange, then?"

"I prefer honesty. The orange was honest."

"The orange was a mistake."

"It was memorable. Which, in a ballroom full of white muslin, is no small feat."

"Well, you were the one who ordered me to be boringly un-orange. Live with it." She looked away, her gloved fingers smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Who else, Colonel? What are my options? I wish to know precisely how dismal the selection truly is."

Richard obliged, pointing out a parade of inadequate suitors, the widower with seven children and a gambling habit, the poet who wept openly during waltzes, the baron who collected taxidermized rodents and displayed them in his drawing room.

By the end of his recitation, Miss Bingley was laughing, a real laugh, unguarded and bright.

And across the ballroom, half-hidden behind a pillar, the Countess of Matlock observed her second son with the keen eye of a mother who recognised the opening moves of a marital campaign. She did not approach. She simply watched and smiled.

Chapter Eight: The Catastrophe at Rotten Row

Caroline Bingley had received many notes from gentlemen over the course of her four and twenty years. Most contained flowery declarations of admiration. Some included badly written poetry comparing her eyes to various celestial bodies. One memorable specimen had likened her hair to a "radiant carrot", which she suspected was the result of either profound ignorance or a head injury.

Colonel Fitzwilliam's note contained none of these things.

It arrived with the morning post, delivered on plain paper with handwriting that looked as though it had been written by someone actively being shot at.

Miss Bingley,

Rotten Row. Ten o'clock. Bring your brother for propriety. Wear something that will not frighten the horses.

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam

No pleasantries. No explanation. Just a command delivered with the warmth of a general ordering a flanking manoeuvre.

Caroline stared at the note, her teacup suspended halfway to her lips. Louisa, who was consuming her third helping of kippers whilst looking vaguely martyred, glanced up from her plate.

"What is it?" her sister asked, her mouth full. "Has someone died?"

"Colonel Fitzwilliam has invited me to ride in Hyde Park this very morning."

Louisa's fork clattered to her plate. "The penniless Colonel? Whatever for?"

"I have not the faintest idea."

"Well, you cannot go. It is improper. He is unmarried. You are unmarried. People will talk."