Page 190 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The Earl turned.

"Thank you." Richard's voice was rough. "For not actually sending me to die."

His father paused. And for a moment, just a moment, he looked almost fond.

"You are my son," he said. "Expensive. Idiotic. Terrible at romance." He stopped. "You are exactly like I was at your age."

"Father," Richard called again.

"Yes, son."

"You need to fix the ceiling. Too many cracks."

The Earl glared at his son and left.

Richard stood alone in the centre of the room. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The air smelled of soap and sandalwood. His future remained uncertain and entirely dependent on a woman who had laughed in his face. But he did not feel like dying anymore. He felt, tentatively and against all reason, like fighting.

Robert pushed off the mantelpiece. "Well. That was almost touching. I may need to lie down."

Darcy cleared his throat. "Thornwood still stands, Richard. The offer remains."

Richard looked at his cousin. Then at the door his father had closed. Then at the ceiling, where Crack Number Seventeen now looked suspiciously like a hopeful smile.

"I will consider it," he repeated.

Robert grinned. "That is all we ask."

Darcy nodded once. "But be quick about it."

Richard moaned once more for good measure and accepted the hard claps of his brother and cousin bruising his shoulders.

Chapter Seventeen: The Pursuit of a Penniless Rogue

Caroline Bingley had spent the better part of the morning staring at the wallpaper in her drawing room. The pattern—a repeating motif of Grecian urns in a shade of blue that was neither soothing nor invigorating, but somehow managed to be accusatory—seemed to mock her with every loop and swirl. She had chosen it herself, two seasons ago, in a fit of determination to prove that her taste was impeccable, even if her origins were not. Now, it felt like a prison of her own design.

The Matlocks' visit had left her unmoored. The Earl's gruff apology, the Countess's piercing insights—they had peeled back layers she had spent years fortifying. And Charles… dear, oblivious Charles, who had finally seen her. It was all too much. Too raw. She had retreated to her chamber after they left, pleading a headache, but the ache was lower, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

Schmidt bustled in with a tray of tea things, her face a mask of carefully neutral concern. The maid had been hovering like a persistent bee since the Matlocks' departure, offering unsolicited cups of chamomile and even, once, a hot brick for her feet. Caroline suspected Schmidt had overheard the entire conversation—servants always did—but the woman had the good sense not to mention it directly.

"Tea, Miss?" Schmidt set the tray down with a clink. "And a biscuit. You have not eaten since breakfast."

"I am not hungry." Caroline's voice was sharper than intended. She softened it with an effort. "Thank you, Schmidt. That will be all."

Schmidt did not move. Instead, she straightened a napkin on the tray, her movements deliberate.

"If I may say, Miss, the Colonel… he seemed a genuine sort. The way he caught those hatboxes that first day, like they were made of glass. And carrying them all the way to the carriage without a word of complaint. A schemer would have dropped one on purpose, just to make a point, if you ask me."

Caroline's head snapped up. Schmidt's eyes were fixed on the teapot, but her tone was pointed.

"And at the theatre, Miss. Handling Mr Hurst like he was a sack of potatoes. No hesitation. No waiting for thanks. But especially the way he looked at me when I refused him entrance… he was devastated, if you ask me. That's not the mark of a man after money. That's the mark of an idiot who doesn't know how to say what's in his heart."

"An idiot," Caroline repeated, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

Schmidt nodded sagely. "Genuine idiot in love, if you ask me. Which you didn't. But there it is."

She bobbed a curtsey and retreated, leaving Caroline alone with the accusatory urns and a cooling cup of tea.

She sipped it anyway. It was strong, just how she liked it. Schmidt always knew.