Page 175 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

She turned her back on him. Deliberately. Dismissively. Offering Lord Fawlton a smile so brilliant and so hollow it could have been used as a mirror.

"Do go on, my Lord. You were mentioning how dangerous I am. I find the Colonel's presence provides rather a dull background for such an interesting topic."

Behind her, the Colonel made a sound that was not quite human.

"Fawlton." His voice had gone very quiet. Very calm. The kind of calm that preceded catastrophic violence. "Leave. Now. Before I forget we are in a ballroom and remember that I have very little patience for men who hunt in gardens."

The Marquis let out a short, barked laugh. "You have no authority here, Fitzwilliam. Unless you intend to make a scene that will ensure Miss Bingley is never invited to tea again." His gaze swept over Caroline's gown with theatrical disdain. "Though, looking at that dress, I suspect she has already made her own arrangements for social suicide."

Richard's hand moved towards his hip.

It was purely instinctive—the gesture of a soldier reaching for a weapon that was not there, because gentlemen did not wear swords to ballrooms, no matter how much they might wish to. But the movement sent a ripple of gasps through the nearby guests.

Caroline felt a surge of vicious triumph and maybe a little bit of grief.

He looked protective. He looked jealous. And she knew now, with a clarity that tasted like copper and salt, that it was all a performance. A tactical play. A calculated display designed to secure her dowry before his Easter deadline.

She would not cry. She wouldnotcry. Not here. Not in front of him.

Before the Colonel could utter a retort that would lead to pistols at dawn, a second red coat materialised at his side.

Colonel Lindon's blond curls were slightly dishevelled—possibly from running across the ballroom to prevent murder—and he seemed caught somewhere between alarm and resignation.

"Fitzwilliam." His hand landed on the Colonel's arm. "Steady on, man. Steady."

The Colonel did not look at him. His eyes were still fixed on Caroline with a raw and desperate quality which she refused to interpret.

Lindon turned to her with a bow that was almost a plea. "Miss Bingley. Might I have the honour of the next dance? I believe it is a waltz, and I should be most grateful for the opportunity to..." He glanced at Richard. Then at Fawlton. Then at the gathering crowd of fascinated onlookers. "...steer everyone away from the heat of the fire. The floor is quite crowded, and a gentle turn might be just the thing."

Caroline looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam.

His eyes were burning with something unspoken. His knuckles were white. His entire body was coiled like a spring about to snap.

She looked at Lord Fawlton, who was enjoying the spectacle far too much.

She looked at Colonel Lindon, whose priorities had visibly shifted from "preventing a duel" to "surviving the evening with all limbs intact."

Then she placed her hand on Lindon's sleeve and smiled.

"I should be delighted, Colonel Lindon. I find the air near the pillars to be increasingly stale." She didn't look at the Colonel. She refused to look at him. "And I have always found your conversation to be remarkably... uncomplicated."

She let Lindon lead her away. She did not look back.

Colonel Lindon danced as if he had been taught the steps at gunpoint and never quite recovered from the experience.

His focus was split between not treading on her orange hem and watching the edge of the ballroom, where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood frozen like a particularly furious statue. The man had not moved. Had not spoken. He simply stared, tracking Caroline's progress across the floor with the intensity of a hunter watching prey escape.

"Miss Bingley," Lindon said after they had completed their first circuit, his voice barely audible above the strings. "I must tell you something."

"Must you?" Caroline's spine was a pike. Her smile was porcelain. Her heart was doing inconvenient, traitorous things that she refused to acknowledge. "I find I have had quite enough revelations for one week, Colonel Lindon."

"Please. It is about Fitzwilliam."

"I know everything I need to know about Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice could have cut glass. "He requires a hefty dowry by Easter. I possess one. The mathematics are not complicated."

Lindon winced. "It is not—that is to say, things are not always what they appear."

"No?" She raised an eyebrow. "Then please, enlighten me. What does it appear to be when a man with a deadline spends weeks cultivating a woman with a fortune? Strategy? Coincidence? A passionate interest in millinery?"