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Lady Catherine de Bourgh was holding court in the drawing room at Pemberley.
She had taken possession of it as thoroughly as if she owned the room, the house, the grounds, the county, the country. She sat upright upon the largest settee, her back as rigid as the carved wood behind her, her hands folded delicately atop her lap.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood near the fire, one hand braced upon the mantel, his posture showing he was nothing more than outwardly composed. Inwardly — Elizabeth knew — he was seething. His gaze was fixed with excessive intensity upon the flames, as though he was considering jumping into the fireplace.
Elizabeth, seated across from Lady Catherine, was instead occupied with the far more immediate task of not laughing.
Across the room, Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, lounged in a chair that had clearly not been designed for lounging. One ankle rested loosely over the opposite knee. A glass of port hung from his fingers carelessly. He looked, Elizabeth thought, as if he had wandered into the wrong play and had elected to enjoy the show regardless.
Completing the tableau — indeed, anchoring it with fine color and even finer silk — was Miss Caroline Bingley.
She sat very near Lady Catherine. Not merely near, but arranged near: angled toward her with an attentiveness that bordered on devotional, her posture alert, her expression composed into a peculiar blend of admiration and vigilance that suggested she feared missing even a syllable.
Lady Catherine surveyed the room and sniffed derisively. “I must say,” she began, “that I find the upholstery here most unfortunate.”
Darcy’s shoulders tightened — only slightly, but Elizabeth saw it.
“The color,” Lady Catherine continued, gesturing with a faint flick of her fingers toward a particularly handsome set of chairs, “is entirely too subdued. One expects something with grander design in a principal room. It gives the impression of — of banality. A most undesirable quality in a household of your standing, Darcy.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek.
“Oh, I do agree, Lady Catherine,” Miss Bingley said at once. “Some of the best drawing rooms in Town are simply riotous with color. Deep golds and greens and blues. Most striking to the eye. I cannot imagine how the rooms here escaped notice. Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her eyes sliding towards Elizabeth. “I should be happy to arrange an introduction with the upholder we used at Grosvenor Street. He is a most agreeable man, and he can assist you in choosing grander fabric befitting Pemberley.”
Darcy’s gaze did not leave the fire. If anything, he stared harder.
Elizabeth dared a glance at him and saw, with wicked delight, that his jaw had set into that particular line which meant he was counting on his head in a desperate bid for patience — not to ten, but to a much, much higher number.
How he had gotten himself into this position, he barely had time to absorb. Charles, Jane and Caroline Bingley had been invited to Pemberley for the autumn. However — sadly for Darcy, happily for the Bingleys— Jane had taken to bed rest pending the birth of her first child.
And so, Caroline Bingley, accompanied by only a ladies maid, had made her way to Derbyshire. To add insult to injury, Lady Catherine had sent the opposite of a request: a decree that she would come to visit the newlywed Darcys at her earliest convenience. Her convenience happened to coincide with Caroline’s.
Darcy was in hell.
Elizabeth bit her cheek harder.
“Thank you, Miss Bingley, that is very kind of you,” she managed to say without laughing.
“And the arrangement of the furniture,” Lady Catherine pressed on, warming to her subject and thoroughly ignoring both Caroline and Elizabeth, “is equally unrefined. There is no sense of hierarchy. One cannot immediately discern where one ought to sit, which is, of course, the first principle of any well-managed room.”
“Quite, quite,” Miss Bingley murmured.
“You appeared to find your seat without difficulty, Miss Bingley,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed mildly without looking up from his glass of port.
Miss Bingley’s smile flickered before it returned, brighter than before. “I adapt, Colonel, as necessity demands.”
“An admirable talent, madam,” Fitzwilliam replied, and drank slowly, his bright blue eyes peeking over the rim of the glass. “Your quick thinking regarding seating arrangements does you credit.”
Lady Catherine turned her head with measured deliberation, her attention shifting to her younger nephew.
“Ah, my dear Fitzwilliam.”
Fitzwilliam set his glass aside with unhurried care, a gentle tinking sound as it made contact with the marble sidetable. He did nothing to change his easy posture. “At your service, Aunt.”
Lady Catherine adopted a tone reserved for pronouncements of a more personal nature, and she wielded it with evident satisfaction in a most public room. “I have been considering your situation,” she said. “It is, I think, high time that you did the same.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “I am honored by your consideration. As I well know, you are often occupied thinking of the needs of others. I am pleased to join their blessed company.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. Had it been his second…no, it was his third glass of port.
Oh, dear.
At least Darcy was sober while he brooded in corners and at mantelpieces.
“You are a younger son,” Lady Catherine continued with a sniff. “Without an estate. Dependent, as I understand it, upon the uncertainties of military pay and the whims of my brother, the Earl.”
Darcy’s hand tightened upon the mantel. Elizabeth felt laughter surge again. The invocation of the Earl’s name, which Lady Catherine cited more frequently than propriety would allow, provided an excellent opportunity for amusement.
“In such circumstances,” Lady Catherine plowed on, “it is incumbent upon you to exercise the greatest prudence. I have heard — though I place little stock in idle reports — that officers are prone to indulgences. Gaming, for instance. A most ruinous habit.”
Miss Bingley nodded with grave sympathy for a woman who often enjoyed a game of whist herself. “Quite ruinous.”
“I should be exceedingly sorry,” Lady Catherine said, seeming not to notice Miss Bingley’s agreement, “to see you brought to embarrassment. You must consider, Fitzwilliam, how you intend to secure your future. Poverty does not suit.”
Elizabeth watched Fitzwilliam with keen interest. He did not stiffen. He did not flush. He did not even, as far as she could tell, draw breath differently.
A stark contrast to Darcy, suffocating by the fire in the late spring warmth.
Instead, Fitzwilliam smiled. It was easy — almost cheerful. “Alas, Aunt,” he said, picking up his glass once more, “as a younger son and an officer, poverty is my most enduring companion. I should not like to part with it now, after so long an acquaintance.”
Lady Catherine blinked.
“I assure you,” he continued with the same airy good humor. “I treat it with the utmost care.”
A pause followed. Miss Bingley looked momentarily uncertain, as though she did not know the correct response to Fitzwilliam’s blatant jesting.
Lady Catherine drew herself up. “This is no subject for levity,” she declared.
“I beg your pardon,” Fitzwilliam said with perfect composure. “I did not mean to imply anything but the deepest respect for your concerns. I am entirely serious. Poverty and I are longtime bedfellows.”
Elizabeth lost the battle. It began as a cough — an entirely respectable, well-bred, polite cough — but it ended in a laugh she could not quite contain. She turned to her handkerchief with admirable speed.
Darcy did not turn, but she could see, in the faint shift of his shoulders, that he was laughing with her.
Lady Catherine regarded them all with increasing severity. “You would do well,” she said, returning to Fitzwilliam with renewed force, “to consider a more sensible course than remaining an impoverished army colonel. A prudent marriage, for instance. There are families — respectable families — with daughters of suitable fortune. A connection of that nature would greatly improve your prospects.”
“Undoubtedly,” Fitzwilliam agreed, taking another sip of port. “Though I fear my charms, formidable as they are, are insufficient to secure so rational an arrangement. No, Aunt, I think I shall remain wedded to my poverty for a bit longer.”
Elizabeth lowered her handkerchief just enough to observe Miss Bingley. There was something new in her expression.
Not admiration — she held that for Lady Catherine alone — but something else. Her gaze lingered on Fitzwilliam with a curiosity that had not been there before. As though she were trying to understand him. As though she had expected him to flinch — and was, in some quiet way, startled that he had not.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.
How very interesting, indeed.
Lady Catherine huffed, displeased by Fitzwilliam’s lack of contrition, and immediately launched into a lecture about the irresponsibility of the modern military man. After another five agonizing minutes of needling the Colonel and finding him unwilling to engage, Lady Catherine moved on quickly.
“And the gardens at Pemberley,” she declared, with gathering momentum, “require immediate attention. I observed this afternoon a most egregious lack of symmetry in the south walk. Entirely unacceptable. Darcy, it gives the impression of neglect.”
Darcy closed his eyes and sighed gently.
“Oh, entirely, Lady Catherine,” Miss Bingley said again, with renewed fervor. “I remarked upon it myself to Mrs. Darcy. Quite irregular.”
Elizabeth bit her lip so hard she was certain it must leave a mark.
Fitzwilliam raised his glass in her direction, just slightly — an acknowledgment, a shared conspiracy — and Elizabeth nearly laughed again.
The evening wore on. Lady Catherine spoke; Miss Bingley echoed; Darcy (barely) endured.
But there was Fitzwilliam, entirely untroubled, at ease with himself and his choices.
And then there was Miss Bingley, watching him when she thought no one else would see. In fact, Caroline was staring at him between conversations about the shrubbery and the guest linens, her lips slightly parted in genuine astonishment. She looked at him as though he had just performed a magic trick. To Caroline, the idea of simply brushing off the most aristocratic, most powerful person in the room — refusing to cower, refusing to agree, refusing to engage — was entirely unfathomable.
And there was Elizabeth, who saw everything.
She settled more comfortably into her chair, her amusement deepening into something more thoughtful.
Yes.
This, she decided, might prove very diverting indeed.
//
An hour later, the mahogany doors of the master suite shut with a soft click. The oppressive weight that had settled over the drawing room vanished altogether.
Darcy did not so much remove his cravat as assault it, clawing at the elegant fabric.
“The woman is intolerable,” he huffed as he tore the knot loose. A moment later, the cravat was abandoned across the nearest chair. He dragged a hand through his hair and huffed again.
“Which woman,” Elizabeth asked innocently, already knowing the answer.
“Caroline! She has not a single thought that she does not first borrow from someone else. She is —” he broke off, searching for a word sufficiently damning, “— a parrot. Place her before any person of consequence, and she will echo them perfectly. If my aunt declared the sky to be green, Miss Bingley would comment on the rare beauty of the shade and say she hoped to commission a dress in the color.”
Elizabeth, who had crossed to her vanity, laughed as she began the slow, satisfying process of removing the pins from her hair.
“Come, Fitzwilliam,” she said, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You must allow her some credit. It is not every woman who can agree so fervently, so immediately, and so often.”
“She has made an art of it,” he muttered, beginning to pace. “And an exhausting one. I cannot understand how she sustains it.”
“Practice,” Elizabeth suggested lightly, setting one pin aside and reaching for another. “And necessity.”
Darcy stopped.
“Necessity?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.” She tilted her head slightly, working loose a particularly stubborn curl, making a pained face. “You assume it is all vanity. I am not so certain.”
He came to stand behind her then, his expression reflected over her shoulder in the glass — still annoyed — and began to help with the pins.
“It is vanity. And soon, I shall be forced to endure it alone. Richard will not stay here, deflecting Aunt Catherine’s verbal barbs and Caroline’s simpering agreement,” he said as the force of his irritation had dulled into dread. “He came for a fortnight’s stay. I give him a week. Perhaps less. He will invent some urgent summons — an inspection, a dispatch, a skirmish with imaginary Frenchmen descending on Manchester — anything to escape her attentions. He is a patient man, but he is not built for siege warfare. And I shall be left alone without a billiards partner,” Darcy finished with what could very nearly be called a pout.
Elizabeth smiled at that, though her eyes remained intent upon their shared reflection.
“You are looking at her entirely wrong, Fitzwilliam.”
His hands came to rest lightly upon her shoulders. “Am I?”
“You are,” she said. She reached up, catching one of his hands as he absently began to free another strand of hair that had caught upon a pin. Her fingers lingered, warm against his. “You see her pride. Her flattery. Her relentless agreement. You do not see what lies beneath it.”
“And what,” he asked coldly, brows drawing together, “do you imagine lies beneath such a performance?”
Elizabeth turned, just enough to look up at him directly.
“Fear.”
He blinked.
“Fear?” he echoed. “Caroline Bingley, afraid!” He barked out a hollow laugh. “You are mad, dearest.”
“No, I am quite sane, thank you, sir. And quite sure of it.” There was no mockery in her tone now. “She is wealthy, yes. Very. But her fortune is new, and she knows it. Her family is still in trade. She knows precisely how your aunt regards such a thing. Every compliment she offers, every agreement she makes — is not admiration. Even her scathing remarks to others are not born from confidence in her station. It is an earnest desire to be accepted. She thought she could win you—”
Darcy snorted, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes, beginning again. “She thought she could win you, and she failed. And that frightened her.”
He said nothing for a moment, but she could see the shift. The reluctant engagement of his mind with an idea he had not previously entertained.
“She agrees so readily with your Aunt,” Elizabeth continued, more softly, “because disagreement would require her to stand on her own footing. And she does not believe that footing secure. Not here. Not with Lady Catherine watching her as though she were a curiosity that had somehow wandered indoors.”
“Caroline has always been quite secure in her own sense of what is proper and what is to be looked down upon. You attribute a great deal of… of vulnerability to a woman who has not shown you kindness of any kind. She has often behaved as if she was far above you.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, just slightly. “Understanding her behavior is not the same as approving of her behavior. And her behavior is not the same as her true beliefs. Given how he watched her tonight, I believe Richard would quite agree with me.”
Darcy huffed a quiet breath.
“Richard?” he asked after a moment. “You believe that my cousin — whose chief talents lie in evasion, charm, and a cheerful lack of gentlemanly pride, will somehow change Caroline’s abominable, unsupportable…” Darcy frowned, losing the thread of the conversation. “What are you saying, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. “Did you not see her face?” she asked. “When he refused to be baited?”
Darcy shook his head solemnly. “I do not stare at her the way I stare at you, dearest.”
“She expected him to care,” Elizabeth went on, rising now from her seat, turning to face him fully. “Expected him to defend himself, or protest, or, at the very least, to flinch away from Lady Catherine’s condemnation. And he did none of those things. He simply jested in return.” A small, knowing smile touched her mouth. “He does not seek your aunt’s approval. In fact, I believe he prefers not to have it. That sort of confidence — true confidence, not the performed kind — is exceedingly rare. And exceedingly tempting.” She laughed lightly. “I believe, sir, in many ways that you would agree with that sentiment.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, though not entirely in skepticism. “You think she could become attached to him.”
“I think,” Elizabeth said gently, “that if he never demands she put on her polished, social airs, she will eventually discover she is not required to use them. It could be good for her.”
“A charming theory,” Darcy allowed. “But my cousin is a soldier. He values clarity. Directness. He will not long tolerate a woman who recoils from a speck of dust or delivers compliments like rehearsed speeches. Caroline is cloying, impossible to please, and demanding. They are far from a match, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s answering look was absolutely wicked. “I think Richard is more agreeable to a challenge than you give him credit for, and up to the task if he desires to be. And while she may not have taken you in, I believe Caroline is an attractive woman in many ways.”
Darcy shook his head. “He’ll flee within the week.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Would you care to stake something upon it?”
His brows rose. “You propose a wager?”
“I do.”
He leaned in, bracing one hand on the edge of the vanity behind her, effectively hemming her in. The movement was playful but deliberate. “You are very bold tonight, Mrs. Darcy.”
“And you,” she returned, lifting her chin just enough to meet his gaze in challenge, “are very certain of your conclusions. It seems only fair to test them.”
His smile deepened, his eyes glittering in the low candlelight. “Very well. Name your terms.”
“If I lose and he flees Caroline’s company,” she said, with admirable composure, “I shall devote myself entirely to Lady Catherine’s entertainment for three consecutive afternoons. You may retreat to your study and conduct the most thorough and absorbing inspection of your ledgers. You will be free of her for three days.”
Darcy inhaled slowly. “That is no small sacrifice.”
“I am aware.”
“And if you win, and he stays in Miss Bingley’s company?”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. Instead, she brought her hand up to his lapel, softly resting against his chest. “If I win, Fitzwilliam… you will place yourself entirely under my direction for one evening. No arguments. No attempts to persuade me otherwise. You will do exactly as I say.”
Darcy stopped breathing.
The last remnants of his earlier irritation vanished as though they had never existed, replaced by something far more focused.
“Entirely?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
“Entirely.”
“And I am to endure that evening without protest?”
“Without protest.”
His gaze held hers, searching, measuring — and then, very quickly, very decisively, yielding. “Done.”
He closed the distance between them in the next instant, and the kiss he claimed was neither hurried nor tentative, but thorough. Elizabeth’s hand came to rest against his chest again, steadying herself — or perhaps steadying him, she could not have said which.
When he finally drew back, only slightly, his forehead brushing hers, there was nothing of skepticism left in his expression. “May the best tactician win,” he rasped.
Elizabeth smiled.
“Oh, I fully intend to.”
//
Their scheme had the outward appearance of perfect innocence.
Elizabeth, with an air of artless enthusiasm, had proposed the excursion at breakfast: a visit to the old abbey ruins some miles beyond the lower meadow — a place of picturesque decay, ivy-wrapped arches, and commanding views of the valley. Lady Catherine, who considered herself the ultimate authority on what constituted both taste and improvement, had immediately approved the idea, if only to ensure that the party did not admire anything incorrectly.
From there, the matter had unfolded quite simply.
Darcy, summoned briefly by his steward on a matter of fabricated urgency, had returned just in time to declare that one of the larger carriages was, regrettably, not in proper condition for the road. Elizabeth, with suitable concern, had suggested that the party must therefore divide.
Lady Catherine, of course, required the most comfortable equipage. That point had been established by the lady with such firmness that no one had been tempted to contest it.
Miss Bingley had been — very nearly — installed at her side.
Very nearly.
“My dear Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth had said, with a brightness that brooked no interruption, “you must not be sacrificed to such confinement. The morning is quite too fine. You will be much better suited to an open carriage — I know how you admire the country air so very much.”
Miss Bingley, who did not, in fact, admire the Derbyshire air, had opened her mouth to object —
And found Colonel Fitzwilliam already offering his arm.
“I should be honored to take charge of your comfort,” he had said, with that easy, disarming smile. “My curricle is at your disposal.”
It would have been impolite to refuse Lady Catherine’s nephew. The Earl of Matlock’s son.
Now, some twenty minutes later, Caroline Bingley sat in that very curricle. The road stretched before them in a pale ribbon, bordered by hedgerows just beginning to green. The morning was bright and the air held that brisk crispness unique to the countryside, as though determined to remind every traveler that they were quite removed from the polite suffocations of town.
Before them, at a very respectable distance, the larger carriage conveyed Lady Catherine, Elizabeth, and Darcy.
Caroline sat perfectly upright, her posture a study in elegance. Her gloved hands rested with deliberate stillness in her lap; her gaze was fixed forward, as though the situation might improve if she refused to acknowledge it.
“This road,” she said at last, after several minutes of silence, “is intolerably uneven.”
Fitzwilliam glanced down, as though noticing it for the first time.
“Shockingly so,” he agreed. “I cannot imagine how it has been allowed to continue in such a state. A grave oversight.”
The curricle jolted lightly over a rut.
Caroline’s spine stiffened further — an impressive achievement.
“One would expect,” she continued, “that a property of such consequence would maintain better approaches. It gives a most… provincial impression.”
“Entirely,” Fitzwilliam replied with earnest gravity. “I shall speak to Darcy at once and inform him of his failings. I am certain he will be deeply ashamed at the state of the roads. Prepare yourself for a brooding dinner.”
She turned her head then, just enough to study him. His face was, she realized with a flicker of irritation, almost angelicly serene.
He was teasing her.
The wind shifted, lifting a strand of her red hair free from its arrangement. She caught it at once, tucking it back with precise annoyance.
“And the dust,” she said. “It is quite relentless.”
Fitzwilliam cast an appreciative glance at the road.
“Yes, I had noticed its enthusiasm. It seems determined to accompany us.”
“I do not find it amusing.”
“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “It is clearly very serious dust. Entirely unamusing, indeed.”
She stared at him.
He smiled back, blue eyes twinkling with mirth.
Caroline turned away again, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
This was absurd.
She had been placed — maneuvered — into this situation. Separated from Lady Catherine, from the sphere in which her attentions might be properly directed and, more importantly, properly observed. Installed instead in a light, exposed carriage with a younger son whose fortune was uncertain and whose prospects, while respectable, were by no means assured.
It was, she thought, a test.
Or a trap.
All orchestrated by Eliza Bennet Mrs. Darcy.
Very well.
If she could not avoid it, she would endure it — and on her own terms.
She suddenly felt very cross, and became determined to make Colonel Fitzwilliam feel very cross as well.
“The scenery,” she said, after another stretch of silence, “is excessively rural.”
Fitzwilliam followed her gaze across the rolling fields, the distant line of trees, the slow, winding suggestion of a stream catching the light.
“Yes, indeed. It has not escaped my notice,” he said thoughtfully. “A sign of the countryside. It has quite failed to become London since my last visit.”
“I had hoped for something with greater distinction.”
“I believe the abbey will attempt to oblige,” he said with that same easy charm. “Though it has had several centuries to prepare and may still fall short of your expectations.”
Her lips pressed together.
“You are determined to misunderstand me.”
“On the contrary,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I understand you perfectly. You are besieged on all sides — by dust, by irregular roads, by scenery insufficiently ambitious. It is a wonder you endure it with such fortitude.”
There it was again — that tone.
Agreeable. Cheerful. Entirely without resistance.
Yes, he was teasing her.
Caroline’s fingers tightened in her lap.
“You mistake endurance for necessity,” she said coolly. “I assure you, I should much prefer to be in the other carriage.”
“With my aunt?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He considered that, pondering for a long moment. “In that case, I must confess I deeply admire your courage.”
“I do not require your admiration.”
“No,” he agreed. “You seem very well supplied on your own.”
She shot him a sharp look.
He only smiled again, as though the exchange had been the most pleasant diversion imaginable.
It was infuriating.
And — Caroline realized, with a flicker of something she refused to name — unexpected.
Most men without fortune, placed under even the mildest degree of her disapproval, hastened to correct themselves. They apologized, attempted to regain her favor (or, perhaps, the favor of her £20,000 dowry) with a haste that was often tedious.
He did none of those things.
He simply… joked.
Entirely unbothered by anything she said.
The curricle struck another uneven patch of road, and this time the jolt was sufficient to disturb even his practiced balance slightly. He steadied the reins with ease, his attention shifting — briefly, but entirely — to the horses.
In that moment, stripped of his easy commentary, she noticed something else in him.
Caroline watched him, despite herself. His eyes were very blue. His profile was…pleasing.
He glanced at her then, catching her gaze. “Still alive, I hope?”
“Just,” she said with half a laugh, before she could stop herself.
His grin widened — quick, delighted. “Excellent, Miss Bingley. I should be most distressed to lose my passenger before we have even reached the ruins. It would reflect very poorly on my driving.”
“I should think it would.”
“And we must guard my reputation carefully,” Fitzwilliam added. “As you have heard quite thoroughly from my Aunt Catherine, my reputation and my lineage are all I have to recommend me in polite society.”
Caroline felt it — a faint, unwelcome shift as his prospects were suddenly the topic of conversation. “You make a jest of it,” she said with surprise.
“I make a habit of jesting,” he replied smoothly. “It is a very useful habit. It affords me a strong defense against those who would find fault in me. Perhaps you should try jesting more often.”
“I have no need.”
“No,” he said again, easily. “I suspect you prefer more… elaborate defenses against your supposed faults.”
She went very still.
For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the horses and the soft rattle of the wheels over the road.
“My faults? You presume to know a great deal about me, Colonel.”
“Do I?” he asked, with no change in tone. “Then you must forgive me. I am also told I rely too much upon a regrettably keen eye for observation.”
“And what,” she said, each word precise, clipped, cold, “have you observed of me?”
He considered her, not with scrutiny but with that same open, infuriating ease.
“That you are very good at agreeing with people whom you — incorrectly, I must note — deem worthier than yourself,” he said at last. “And that you are very good at putting down others when you think they are beneath you — incorrectly, again, I must note. And that you do not enjoy either of those actions nearly so much as you pretend.”
Caroline turned her face away, her gaze fixing once more upon the road ahead.
The fields stretched on, indifferent to her intense discomfort.
She scoffed. “That is a most unwarranted conclusion,” she lied.
“Undoubtedly,” Fitzwilliam countered with a small laugh. “I arrive at them all the time. But, pray tell me, where I have erred, Miss Bingley?”
She waited — for the follow-up, the pressure, the attempt to draw her out.
None came.
He merely flicked the reins lightly, guiding the horses around a bend where the hedgerow opened to reveal a broader sweep of the valley beyond.
The abbey ruins rose faintly in the distance, their broken arches silhouetted against the sky.
For several minutes, they rode in silence.
But it was no longer the same silence.
Caroline was aware of it — aware of him beside her in a way she had not been before. Not as an obstacle who ruined her chances at a fine day with an aristocratic connection, but as an interesting man. One who had observed her quite well.
She did not like it.
She did not trust it.
And yet —
When the curricle dipped again over an uneven stretch and she instinctively braced herself against his arm, she found that she was no longer entirely certain whether she was bracing against the road —
Or against the growing suspicion that Colonel Fitzwilliam was not, in fact, behaving as he ought to in polite society.
And that she did not mind it.
//
She continued her mental list of things she did not like.
She did not like the way the Colonel drove — with capable, unbothered efficiency — and she certainly did not like the lingering warmth of his amusement. It felt too much like an invitation to join him in a grand jest.
She was just formulating a perfectly polite, subtly dismissive remark about the angle of the sun to re-establish the distance between them, when the hedgerow exploded.
A blur of motion — a stray, frantic hunting hound bursting from the thick brush directly into the path of the curricle.
The horses, already agitated by the uneven road, shied. The offside lead horse reared, plunging wildly to the left.
Fitzwilliam reacted instantly, his hands hauling back on the reins, his stance shifting to throw his entire weight against the panic of the team. "Hold on!" he barked.
But the momentum was already against him. The curricle swerved violently off the packed dirt of the main road, careening down a steep, rutted side path that had likely not seen a carriage in a decade. It must have been a half-mile at least, the Colonel fighting the reins, muttering half-shouted, half-soothing words to the horses, doing his level best to rein them in. Then, the wheels struck a massive, rain-gorged ditch hidden beneath a patch of tall grass.
There was a sharp crack of splintering wood as the front axle snapped entirely.
The carriage lurched sideways.
Caroline did not scream, because a proper lady did not scream. But all breath was punched from her lungs as she was thrown violently from her seat. She tumbled over the lowered side of the listing carriage, sliding down the steep embankment, and landed squarely in the muddy, sodden earth of the ditch.
For a single, suspended second, there was only the chaotic sound of stamping hooves, frantic whinnying, the creak of splintering wood, and the scattered barking of the hound fading into the distance.
Caroline sat in the mud. No — she was sinking into it.
She was perfectly still. She was also, she noted with unamused detachment, entirely undone.
The immediate shock of the fall retreated, replaced by a cold, rushing tide of absolute horror. She looked down at herself.
Her gown — a masterpiece of pale, primrose silk organza over a structured satin slip — was ruined. The mud had seeped instantly into the delicate hem, a thick, dark stain spreading upward like a plague.
But that was not the worst of it.
When she had fallen, her overskirt had caught upon the splintered, jagged wood of the broken carriage wheel. The silk organza had absolutely no give. As the carriage settled an inch deeper into the mud, the tension pulled the fabric taut.
With a sound like tearing paper, the force ripped directly upward, shredding the overskirt and tearing violently through the bias-cut seam of her bodice. The strict, tailored fit of the garment gave way, exposing the thin linen of her chemise beneath.
Caroline froze.
Her chest hitched. Her breathing turned rapid, shallow.
This was not ideal. This was, in fact, the most deeply humiliating disaster that could have possibly been engineered to push her to hysterics. She was ruined. She was sitting in a ditch, her exquisite clothes destroyed, her underthings perilously close to exposure, looking like a discarded rag doll.
And Colonel Fitzwilliam was going to see her. The Earl's son. He was going to look down, see the desperate, pretentious tradesman's daughter in the mud, and he was going to…
He was going to laugh at her.
He was going to mock her.
He was going to judge her and find her wanting.
And he was going to do it with the same easy laugh she had just started to become accustomed to.
She should be furious. She should be inconsolable. But all she felt was empty. Emptiness and cold mud.
"Miss Bingley."
His voice was sharp, cutting through her spiraling panic.
She did not look up. She could not. She kept her chin pinned to her chest, her gloved hands hovering uselessly over the torn, gaping seam of her bodice. "Do not look at me," she choked out. It was a command, but it sounded like a plea.
Fitzwilliam ignored her entirely.
Having secured the trembling horses to a sturdy oak, he vaulted over the broken side of the curricle and slid down the muddy bank, his boots sinking deep into the mire. He did not hesitate. He dropped to one knee in the mud beside her.
"Are you injured?" he demanded, his eyes scanning her face, pale and stricken. "Did you strike your head? Your legs?"
"Do not look at me. My dress," she whispered, her voice shaking violently. "It is— it is ruined."
"Oh, to hell with the dress, Caroline, are. you. hurt?"
The use of her Christian name shocked her just enough to force her eyes up to meet his. He was not smiling. He was not amused. But, crucially, he was not looking at her with disdain or laughter.
"I am not hurt," she managed, her voice trembling. "But I cannot move. If I move, the silk—" She swallowed hard, fighting a wave of humiliating tears. "The silk will tear further. The bodice is torn and my— my chem—the bodice is caught. I fear I will be…quite exposed.” Her defiant chin wobbled.
Fitzwilliam followed her gaze to the jagged piece of wood holding the organza hostage. He saw the tension in the fabric, saw the tear leading straight up to the structural seam of her bodice. He understood instantly.
He did not sigh. He did not tell her it was just a dress, nor did he offer useless platitudes about it being easily replaced, as her brother would have done. As she would have expected any other man would do. He saw her terror for what it was.
He observed her. Keenly.
"Do not move," he instructed gently. His voice dropped, adopting a calm, grounding tenor. "You are quite right. If you pull against it, the seam will give way entirely."
He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a small, silver-handled pocketknife. He flicked the blade open with a snap of his wrist.
Caroline stared at it. She took a deep breath, and with it, she took his advice. "You carry a knife, Colonel. How very prepared of you." Her voice was brittle, a desperate attempt to jest to mask her hyperventilation. “Do Napoleon’s troops often come to Derbyshire, that you must be thusly armed?”
She heard the bodice seam rip more. It seemed jesting was all she had, now.
"I find a knife a useful thing in deeply inconvenient situations, Miss Bingley," he replied, slipping effortlessly into the easy rhythm — the charming smile — she desperately needed from him. "Yes, including French blockades and broken carriage wheels."
He leaned in close. The scent of him — leather, wool, and something distinctly warm, like cedar — cut through the smell of the damp earth. His hands were incredibly steady. He gathered the tension of the trapped silk in one hand, completely bypassing the ruined hem, and brought the sharp blade of the knife to the organza just below the splintered wood.
"I am going to cut the skirt away from the wheel," he said, holding her gaze. "It will free you. But you must remain perfectly still."
"I am perfectly still," she said, though she was trembling violently.
He gave her a lopsided grin in reply. With a single, precise motion, he sliced through the expensive fabric. The organza and silk gave way. The taught pulling against her bodice vanished instantly.
Caroline slumped backward against the muddy bank, a ragged breath escaping her. She was free. But she was still exposed. Her hands moved immediately to cover the gaping tear at her chest, her shoulders curling inward in a posture of utter defeat. Her performance of a high society woman of good breeding was over.
She was a tradesman’s daughter, covered in mud, half exposed and shivering.
"It is ruined," she said again. The fight had drained from her voice, leaving only a hollow, defeated exhaustion. "I must look utterly ridiculous." She voiced her fear more to herself than to him.
Fitzwilliam snapped the knife shut and returned it to his pocket. He did not agree with her. He also did not lie to her.
Instead, he stood. He unfastened the brass buttons of his heavy, dark blue military coat. He shrugged it off his broad shoulders, holding it in his hands for a moment.
"You look," Fitzwilliam said quietly, "like a woman who has survived a carriage wreck with remarkable composure."
He stepped closer, kneeling back down in the mud. With careful, deliberate movements, he draped the heavy wool coat around her shoulders. The coat was massive on her, engulfing her ruined silk, entirely covering the torn bodice. It was warm, retaining the heat of his body, and it smelled of that same cedar scent.
He reached forward and gently pulled the lapels together across her chest, securing her dignity.
"There," he said, his hands lingering for just a fraction of a second on the heavy wool resting against her shoulders. "The dress is a casualty, I’m afraid. Napoleon — which is the name I have now given that blasted hound — has won this battle, but he has not won the war."
Caroline looked up at him. Her hands gripped the edges of his coat, pulling it tighter around herself.
She searched his face, waiting for the punchline. Waiting to be the punchline, for the flicker of condescension. Waiting for him to point out how far she had fallen.
A tradesman’s daughter, covered in mud, her mind supplied in a taunting chant.
He offered none of it.
She stared in curiosity.
"You will freeze, Colonel," she managed to say, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge. She sounded small. It was terrifying to her, to lose the edge in her voice.
Fitzwilliam looked down at his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, then back to her. Another slow, smile returned to his face. She was becoming accustomed to his smiles. "I have survived winters in the Alps, Miss Bingley, and summers in the south of Spain. I suspect I shall survive a sunny spring afternoon in Derbyshire." He offered her his hand. "Now. Shall we get you out of this ditch?"
Caroline looked at his outstretched hand. It was lacking a glove — he must have discarded it to handle the horses. It was a strong hand, calloused between thumb and forefinger. Likely from riding.
For the first time in her adult life, Caroline Bingley did not calculate the social advantages or disadvantages of taking a man's hand. She did not think of Lady Catherine, or the Earl, or her family's origins in trade.
She reached out, placed her hand in his, and let him pull her up.
"Thank you, Richard," she whispered quietly.
He held her gaze for a long moment, his fingers warm and firm around hers, before he offered a small, approving nod, his blue eyes bright in the sun.
"You are most welcome, Caroline."
//
Fitzwilliam checked the snapped axle one final time, retrieved a few necessary items from the carriage box, and turned back to Caroline.
"Three miles," he said, assessing her ruined calf-skin boots with a critical eye. "It will not be a pleasant march, Miss Bingley. But it is the only one available, unless Darcy has sent men to find us. They shan’t notice we are missing for quite awhile, I suspect. And I won’t ask you to ride a frightened horse bareback for three miles. I would hesitate to do so myself, covered in mud.”
"I am aware of the distance," she replied. Her voice was perfectly level. It was the correct response. It was also, she noted, taking a step and feeling the mud instantly adhere to her sole like wet cement, an incredibly unfortunate distance.
This would be quite unpleasant.
They began to walk.
For the first half-mile, Caroline attempted to maintain her dignity and her standards. She kept her spine rigidly straight, ignoring the heavy weight of the wool coat draped over her shoulders. She stepped precisely, attempting to navigate the driest patches of the deeply rutted road. Truly, Darcy should see to it.
Caroline even, through sheer force of habit, attempted to construct a suitable conversational opening regarding the crispness of the air.
It was useless. The air was was damp and cold. Her feet ached. The torn silk and organza of her skirt, hanging in tragic, mud-soaked ribbons beneath the hem of the coat, dragged heavily against her ankles with every step.
She was a woman who required drawing rooms. She required smooth parquet floors, perfectly tuned pianofortes, and the predictable hierarchy of high society. She was not built for the Derbyshire wilderness, and she was certainly not built to endure it in the company of a man who seemed entirely untroubled by the fact that they were currently engaged in a forced march through what felt like a bog.
Fitzwilliam — though she was quickly coming to think of him as Richard in the privacy of her mind — walked beside her, his pace deliberately shortened to match hers.
He did not offer useless apologies for the mud.
He did not attempt to fill the silence.
He merely walked, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking out over the fields with infuriating ease.
Caroline’s foot caught on a submerged rock. She stumbled, her arms flying out instinctively to catch her balance.
Richard’s hand was there instantly, his fingers catching her elbow with a firm, steadying grip. He did not pull her upright so much as anchor her until she found her own footing.
"Careful," he murmured, his thumb brushing the rough wool of the coat sleeve before he released her.
Caroline stood still. She looked down at her ruined hem. She looked at the mud spattered across the pristine leather of her gloves. She looked at the vast, empty expanse of the country road, stretching out like an endless punishment.
"I spent fifty guineas on this gown."
The words left her mouth before she could stop them. They were flat. They were devoid of the breathless, performative elegance she had perfected. They were the truest words she had spoken since arriving at Pemberley.
Richard stopped. He turned to look at her. "It was a very beautiful gown," he said.
"It was an exquisite gown," Caroline corrected him softly, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. "It was Parisian silk. It required three fittings. And now, rather than a lady befitting Parisian silk, I look like a deeply confused deserter from your regiment."
Richard stared at her. For a fraction of a second, his expression was completely blank.
And then he laughed.
It was not a polite chuckle. It was a loud, sudden, echoing bark of genuine delight that startled a flock of sparrows from the nearby hedgerow. He threw his head back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the sound rich and unfiltered.
Caroline bristled, a hot flush of genuine irritation rising in her cheeks.
"How interesting," she said, her tone dropping to an icy register. "I thought you were a gentleman. I had not realized you would be so insulting. I suppose my humiliation is another grand entertainment for you."
"Your humiliation?" Richard echoed, catching his breath, though the wide, bright grin refused to leave his face. "No, not at all. But your vanity? Yes, that is immensely entertaining indeed."
"I am not vain. I am exacting."
"You are spectacular," he countered effortlessly. "You care about the gown more than yourself! I have spent three days watching you pretend to be a porcelain doll without a single original thought in her head, simply to appease an old woman who would not know an original thought if it bit her. You should care about that much more than fifty wasted guineas.”
Caroline went perfectly rigid. "I do not like being made a fool of, Colonel."
"Then stop doing it to yourself," he said. The laughter faded, but the warmth remained, settling into a look of sharp, steady focus. He took a half-step closer. "If I am mistaken, say so. But I have observed that you are not a fool. Stop pretending you are a parrot just to make my stuffy, obnoxious Aunt take a liking to you. You deserve better from yourself," he finished gently.
Caroline stared at him. Her heart was beating with a strange, rapid cadence against her ribs. She felt exposed. He had seen through her.
She did not like it.
"I am not a easy, comfortable person, Colonel," she warned, her voice dropping the last trace of its polite inflection. "I am deeply critical. I am terribly demanding. I am cruel, at times, and I know this about myself.” Caroline paused, evaluating a moment before taking a risk. “And I am absolutely tired to death of listening to your Aunt."
"Thank God," Richard said fervently. "That’s the truest thing you’ve said aloud in a fortnight, isn’t it? If I had to listen to you praise her thoughts on how to arrange a traveling trunk one more time, I might have drowned myself in port before the week was out."
A startled sound escaped her — a sharp exhale that might have been, to her absolute horror, a laugh.
"You knew," she accused, narrowing her eyes.
"That you detest her? You did not hide it well. At least not from me. Your smile was entirely correct, Miss Bingley. Perfectly polite in all respects. It was also a lie."
"I was being polite to a woman whose station is far above mine."
"You are never just polite," he said, matching her tone exactly. "You are tactical. It is a terrifying and admirable skill, and it is entirely wasted on my Aunt Catherine, for she had no tact to speak of and barely notices it in those around her."
Caroline lifted her chin, the heavy wool coat slipping slightly off one shoulder. She did not bother to pull it back.
"You are very observant for a soldier," Caroline said, after another hundred yards. Her tone was no longer icy; it was conversational, though still edged with the sharp precision she preferred.
"We are trained to look for weaknesses in the enemy line," Richard replied easily.
"And I am the enemy?"
"No, but you are certainly maneuvering from a heavily fortified position."
"A necessity. A woman in my position cannot afford to be unguarded."
"Do you think so because your father made his money in trade, rather than inheriting it?"
Caroline flinched. The word trade, spoken aloud in the open air, sounded like a challenge to her ears. She braced herself for the condescension, the subtle sneer that always accompanied the observation from men of his rank.
They wanted her money. They hated how she got it.
She had spent four seasons in Town watching men treat her with contempt because of it.
"I am aware of how society views the source of my family’s wealth," she said stiffly.
"Society is largely composed of idiots with more debts than sense," Richard observed mildly. "My father is an Earl, Miss Bingley. I assure you, as with most aristocratic families, our blood is very blue, yet our ledgers are very red. I find I have much more respect for a fortune that was earned through work. If your father was an honest man, then he was a worthy gentleman in my eyes."
Caroline turned her head, studying his profile. He was not looking at her; his gaze was fixed steadily on the road ahead. He had spoken his truth, plainly and without preamble, disarming her greatest insecurity with a casual wave of his hand.
"You are provoking me, Colonel Fitzwilliam," she stated flatly.
"No,” he said with another easy laugh. “I am flirting with you, Miss Bingley.”
She started, her eyes flying to his. His face displayed the same casual ease, but, perhaps, she saw a hint of vulnerability. It passed before she could name it.
"And,” he said, pulling back that vulnerability, “I am attempting to keep your mind off your ruined half-boots."
"My boots are beyond redemption," she said, glancing down at the mud-caked leather. "As is my reputation, if we are seen walking up the drive to Pemberley with my dress torn to ribbons. This is how women become compromised."
She said it lightly, but it had crossed her mind — she did look ruined in more than one way, and they were unchaperoned.
"We shall tell them we fought off a band of highwaymen," Richard said conspiratorially. "You disarmed three of them with your parasol. I was merely there for moral support. I cowered behind a tree, as any respectable officer would."
She hid a smile. "I did not bring a parasol."
"A glaring tactical error," he noted with a tutting sound. "We must amend that before our next outing."
Our next outing. Caroline absorbed the phrasing, turning it over in her mind.
He was assuming there would be another.
He was assuming she would allow it.
She would.
She smiled. It was not the breathless, vacant smile she gave Lady Catherine, nor the tight, eager, winning smile she gave Darcy. It was a sharp, genuine thing, curving her lips with a hint of true amusement.
"On our next outing, Colonel, you will be driving a closed carriage. With reinforced axles. And I shall bring a pistol, just in case."
"A pistol?" Richard echoed, looking over at her, eyes entirely too bright with mirth. "Why Miss Bingley, I do believe you are threatening me. An officer in His Majesty’s Army, no less. Very bold of you."
"I am merely preparing. Should the highway men return from the hedgerows and I can not reach my parasol in time. Someone must be ready to defend your honor."
They crested the final rise, the grand, imposing limestone facade of Pemberley coming into view in the valley below.
Caroline paused. The wind whipped across the ridge, biting through the damp silk at her ankles, but she did not shiver. The heavy military coat enveloped her, still carrying the warmth of the man standing beside her.
She looked at the great house — thinking of the drawing room waiting inside, of Lady Catherine’s judgments, of Darcy’s cold demeanor, of the endless, exhausting performance required to be perfectly, acceptably flawless.
But for the first time since she had come out in society four years ago, the prospect did not terrify her.
"Are we ready to face them, Miss Bingley?" Richard asked, offering his arm.
Caroline looked at the mud on his sleeve. She did not hesitate. She slid her hand into the crook of his arm.
"Indeed, Colonel,” she nodded. “How shall we best tease them?" she asked sincerely.
//
The great clock in the entry hall of Pemberley struck four, its deep, resonant chime echoing over the pristine black-and-white marble floors.
Darcy paced the length of the hall, his boot heels striking the marble with a sharp, rhythmic tempo that perfectly conveyed his mounting dread.
They were still missing.
This was not part of his plan.
They were to spend time together in the curricle, not go missing for hours while unchaperoned.
He stopped at the massive front window, peering out down the long, winding drive for the fifth time in as many minutes.
"She will be hysterical," Darcy pronounced, turning back to his wife. "My aunt will be entirely inconsolable if they do not return immediately. We shall have to send for salts. Perhaps a physician. Where are they?"
Elizabeth sat comfortably on a velvet-upholstered bench near the grand staircase, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked the very picture of serene, wifely composure — though the corner of her mouth betrayed a distinct, wicked amusement.
"I have great faith in your cousin's ability to manage a crisis, Fitzwilliam. We saw the horses bolt. They are likely walking back through the path in the groves; that is all."
"Richard can manage a cavalry charge," Darcy corrected darkly. He won’t confirm it, but I believe he once won a duel with swords. But he has never, in his entire life, had to manage a woman such as Caroline Bingley. The grooms reported the curricle's wheel was entirely shattered six inches in mud. If that is true…"
Darcy shuddered. "She will have flayed him alive by the time they reach the gates. He will likely flee back to London before dinner."
"Or," Elizabeth suggested lightly, "they might have found the walk in the fresh air rather invigorating."
Darcy opened his mouth to deliver a thorough rebuttal of why, exactly, Caroline Bingley would rather walk barefoot over hot coals than find a muddy trek invigorating, but the sound of heavy footsteps on the gravel drive interrupted him.
The two footmen stationed at the entrance stepped forward in perfect unison, pulling open the massive doors.
Darcy braced himself. He mentally prepared for the screeching. He prepared for the tears, the fainting, the shrill demands for Lady Catherine and her lady’s maid and a physician and—
The doors swung wide.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped over the threshold. He was missing his coat, his crisp linen shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, his waistcoat was heavily splattered with dark, wet mud. His usually immaculate boots looked as though they had been dragged through a swamp.
Beside him walked a creature that Darcy could only loosely identify as Caroline Bingley.
She was swallowed entirely by Fitzwilliam’s heavy, dark blue military coat. It hung off her shoulders in massive, absurd folds, the brass buttons glinting in the afternoon light. Beneath the hem of the coat, a tragic, mud-soaked ribbon of primrose silk organza trailed across the pristine marble floor. Her exquisite, carefully arranged hair had begun to escape its pins, falling in damp, unruly tendrils around her neck.
They did not immediately look up. They were entirely engrossed in each other.
"I maintain, Colonel," Caroline was saying, her voice lacking its usual breathless polish, replaced instead by a dry, razor-sharp edge designed to be heard, "that the third highwayman was entirely your fault. You provoked him. Most ungentlemanly."
"I merely observed that his pistol was poorly maintained," Richard countered, his voice ringing with unabashed cheer. "A man ought to take pride in his work, Miss Bingley. Even a thief."
"You are impossible. Next time, I shall leave you to the ditch and negotiate my own release alone."
"You would miss my sparkling conversation."
“Ah, perhaps if you had any to offer,” she countered. But her tone wasn’t cutting — it was teasing. It was the same tone Elizabeth took with him. Caroline let out a sound that Darcy, in all his years of knowing her, had never heard before. It was a chuckle — a genuine, unladylike, highly amused chuckle. She was looking away, attempting to arrange her features into an expression of polite disdain, but she was failing entirely. She was biting her lower lip to suppress a smile.
Richard was not suppressing anything. He was looking down at her, entirely oblivious to his own ruined clothing, with an expression of intense, brilliant fascination.
He looked at her as if she were the most magnificent, most entertaining woman he had ever encountered.
Darcy’s brain, usually so quick to read a room — even if he read it wrong— simply ceased to function.
Elizabeth rose smoothly from her bench and stepped forward.
"Colonel. Miss Bingley," she said, her voice carrying a perfectly pitched note of welcoming concern. "We were beginning to fear you had been lost to the wilds of Derbyshire."
Caroline snapped her attention forward.
Darcy braced himself again. This was the moment. The audience had been provided; the performance must surely begin. She would notice her ruined state in the grand hall of Pemberley, burst into humiliated tears, beg off with a headache, and demand immediate seclusion.
Or sedation.
Caroline looked at Elizabeth. Then she looked at Darcy. She looked down at the puddle of mud she was currently depositing on his immaculate marble floor.
She did not flinch. She pulled the lapels of the oversized military coat tighter around her chest, lifting her chin with a haughty, magnificent defiance.
"Merely delayed, Mrs. Darcy," Caroline said smoothly. The polite, weaponized civility was back, but there was a new, vibrant undercurrent to it. "The Colonel decided to test the structural integrity of his curricle against a hidden ditch. The ditch, I am afraid, proved the victor."
"I was thoroughly outmaneuvered," Richard agreed, stepping seamlessly into the conversational rhythm she set.
Darcy finally found his voice. It sounded dangerously hollow — understandable, as his world was turning upside down before his very eyes. "Miss Bingley... your gown. Are you... quite well?"
Caroline turned her gaze upon him. There was no fawning agreement. There was no desperate attempt to secure his approval. She looked at him quite… calmly.
Composed, even.
"I am perfectly well, Mr. Darcy," she replied, her tone crisp and definitive. "Though I fear my dress is dripping mud on your very fine floors."
She turned back to Richard. The sharp edge in her posture softened, just a fraction.
"If you will excuse me, Colonel," she said, her voice dropping a half-octave into something almost private. "I must locate my maid before Lady Catherine sees me in this state and perishes from the shock. I do not think I have the stamina to handle funeral arrangements today."
Richard’s eyes flashed with delight. "A strategic retreat. Very wise. I shall hold the line here."
"See that you do, sir."
With a final, perfectly executed nod to Darcy and Elizabeth — a nod that somehow retained all of its grace despite the swamp-like conditions of her hair — Caroline Bingley turned and ascended the grand staircase, trailing an endless supply of mud behind her.
Richard watched her go. He watched her until she reached the landing and disappeared down the corridor, a lingering, deeply fond smile etched onto his face.
Then, he turned back to his cousin.
"Brilliant woman, Darcy," Richard sighed, clapping a heavily mud-caked hand squarely onto Darcy’s pristine shoulder. "Truly. Had absolutely no idea such a woman could be found. I owe you a curricle. And I am going to require a bath and a very large brandy."
He strolled off toward the family wing after giving Elizabeth a polite bow.
Silence descended upon the entry hall.
Darcy stood perfectly still, staring at the muddy handprint on his shoulder.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Elizabeth was standing beside him. She did not say a word.
She did not need to.
She simply tilted her head, looked him squarely in the eye, and raised a single, triumphant eyebrow.
Darcy exhaled, a long, defeated breath.
"I am a ruined man," he murmured.
Elizabeth’s smile finally broke, radiant and victorious. "Yes, Fitzwilliam," she agreed softly, stepping close enough to brush her hand against his un-muddied arm. "I dare say you are.”
He sighed deeply.
//
The Pemberley library was, at nine o’clock in the morning, a sanctuary of silence.
Lady Catherine was safely occupied in the morning room, dictating a letter of astonishing length and unsolicited advice to her man of business in London. Darcy had sequestered himself in his study to hide from her and, likely, his other guests. Elizabeth was walking the grounds.
Caroline Bingley sat in a high-backed leather chair near the window, a volume of poetry open in her lap.
The heavy oak doors clicked open.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped into the room, looking entirely too cheerful for the morning hour, his cravat tied with casual elegance, his blue eyes bright. Tucked under his right arm was a long, oddly shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a hastily knotted string.
He did not apologize for the intrusion. He marched directly across the expanse of the Persian rug, stopped before her chair, and set the parcel upon the mahogany side table with the utmost solemnity.
"I have spent the morning assessing our shared vulnerabilities, Miss Bingley," Fitzwilliam announced, his voice deep and serious.
Caroline arched a single eyebrow, slowly closing her book. "Have you?"
"I have. And I concluded we are woefully unprepared." He tapped the parcel. "Go on. Open it. I had to bribe one of Darcy’s footmen and raid the north attic to secure the necessary supplies."
Curiosity overriding her usual cold restraint, Caroline leaned forward and pulled the string. The brown paper fell away.
Resting on the table was a violently pink, outrageous ruffled silk parasol. It looked as though it had been designed for a frivolous debutante at least two decades prior.
Lying squarely beside it was a small, antique, silver-plated dueling pistol.
Caroline stared at the incongruous arrangement. She looked up at Fitzwilliam, who was standing at parade rest, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
She looked back down at the table. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting a losing battle against a smile.
"Colonel," she said slowly. "I am attempting to deduce your strategy, but I confess, I am at a loss. Am I to beat the imaginary highwaymen with the ruffles, or shoot them? Or both?"
"The parasol is for the highwaymen," Fitzwilliam announced smoothly, all smiles and easy charm. "And the damned hound. I have it on good authority that a sudden deployment of pink silk is terrifying to the canine disposition."
"I see. And the pistol?" Caroline reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the cold silver barrel. "Surely you do not expect me to shoot your aunt."
Fitzwilliam leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms. "I would never ask you to waste good powder in the drawing room, Miss Bingley. It ruins the upholstery, and Darcy is already quite sensitive about the chairs, as you saw."
"A relief. I have never had a strong aim. Though I do maintain the chairs could stand to be reupholstered, powder or not."
"However," Fitzwilliam continued, the teasing light in his eyes shifting into something a fraction warmer, "if you are to accept my attentions, I fully expect Lady Catherine to declare war against us both. I wish you to be properly armed when she attempts to flank you during dinner. Though I know your biting tongue may do the job in a pinch."
Caroline’s hand stilled on the pistol. The banter, which had felt so effortless, suddenly carried a weight that made her pulse quicken.
She looked up. Richard was no longer looking at the prop weaponry. He was looking at her, his expression one of vulnerability now. Nerves.
"Your attentions, Colonel?" she asked, her voice dropping low. "What do you propose?"
"I am proposing a surrender," he said softly.
"Yours, or mine?"
"Mine, entirely." Fitzwilliam uncrossed his arms and took a half-step closer, invading the polite distance between them. "I have no estate, Caroline. I have naught but a military commission, a thoroughly vexing extended family, a rather extensive collection of red coats, and my charm to recommend me. But I would like to get to know you better. More formally, at first." The roguish grin returned. “And then, with time, less formally. If you consent.”
“You may not like what you learn,” Caroline said lightly. “I remain a highly critical, judgemental, exacting—“
“Quick-witted, disarming, beautiful woman,” he finished firmly.
Caroline breathed in, the scent of leather and cedar filling her lungs.
"You are a woman who values precision. Who demands excellence. Who finds my aunt insufferable, the countryside tedious, and ruined silk a tragedy." He smiled again, his blue eyes shining. "And I have absolutely no desire to ever see you pretend to be anything less."
Caroline stared at him.
She reached out, bypassing the pistol, and laid her hand lightly over his.
"I am exceedingly high-maintenance, Colonel," she warned him again, her voice thick with an emotion she refused to examine.
"I am an officer in His Majesty’s Army, Miss Bingley," he replied, turning his hand to interlace his fingers with hers. "I am accustomed to maintaining far more unruly charges than yourself."
"I shall require an enclosed carriage."
"Reinforced axles. I shall inspect them myself."
“A replacement dress.”
“Order the silk as soon as you like. I find you rather fetching in red, but any color will suit.”
"And if your aunt objects to my lack of pedigree?" Caroline asked, her chin lifting with a shadow of defiant pride. “Or your father?”
Richard brought her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss against her knuckles. "Then you have my permission, Caroline, to shoot them both."
A genuine, startlingly bright laugh escaped her. "Very well, Richard. You may speak to my brother.” She paused, another smile blooming across her face. “He is a most foolish man; you’ll like him."
//
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the center of his private rooms, staring blankly at the far wall. He looked like a man who had just been struck by lightning, survived, and was now trying to remember his own name.
Elizabeth, seated at her vanity in a silken dressing gown, turned to look at her husband. She picked up her hairbrush, her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth.
"You look as though you have seen a ghost, Fitzwilliam."
Darcy slowly turned his head. "I have just come from my study."
"I am aware. You were hiding from your aunt."
"I was." He swallowed hard. "Richard found me."
Elizabeth set the brush down, resting her chin on her hand, her smile widening into full, radiant bloom. "And what did our dashing cousin have to say?"
"He asked for my blessing," Darcy said, his voice entirely hollow. "Or, rather, he informed me of his intentions, as he is technically my senior in age, and then asked me for Charles Bingley’s address in London. So he might begin drawing up the settlements."
"How lovely," Elizabeth beamed. "I shall have to congratulate Caroline in the morning."
Darcy walked numbly toward the foot of the bed and sank onto the edge of the mattress, a man whose world had been uprooted. "He brought her a pistol for his suit, Lizzy."
"A pistol?" Elizabeth asked, genuinely delighted.
"He stole it from my father’s display case," Darcy muttered, burying his face in his hands. "He stole my father’s pistol, gave it to Caroline Bingley, and they are to be married after knowing each other for two weeks. The world has gone entirely mad, and it has happened in my own library."
Elizabeth stood, the silk of her robe rustling softly in the quiet room. She walked over to her husband, gently pulling his hands away from his face.
"The world has not gone mad, my love," she murmured, stepping between his knees and wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders. "You have simply learned a valuable lesson today: that absolute certainty is a dangerous thing."
Darcy looked up at her, the bewilderment finally fading into a deep, familiar warmth as he caught the wicked gleam in her dark eyes. He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against the soft silk covering her stomach.
"You were right," he confessed, the words muffled against her.
"You are a very intelligent man, Fitzwilliam, but you are occasionally very obtuse when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m afraid," Elizabeth teased, her fingers carding gently through his hair. “I have other examples of this fault, should you wish to review them.”
He pulled back just enough to look up into her face. "I concede total defeat. You have won the wager, Mrs. Darcy. Fairly and completely."
Elizabeth’s smile turned positively wicked. She took a step back, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.
"I am so very glad you remember the terms, Mr. Darcy," she said, her voice dropping.
Darcy’s hands slid from her waist to her hips, his eyes darkening. The shock of his cousin's engagement vanished, replaced entirely by the immediate, overwhelming presence of his wife. "No arguments. No attempts to persuade you otherwise. Entirely under your direction. Those were, I believe, your terms.”
"Exactly so," Elizabeth whispered, stepping flush against him, her hands sliding up to the collar of his shirt. She began to unfasten the buttons with deliberate, agonizing slowness. "And my first direction, sir, is that you are not to speak another word about your cousin, Miss Bingley, or your aunt for the remainder of the evening."
Darcy let out a ragged breath, his hands tightening on her hips as he leaned down to capture her lips.
"That," Darcy murmured against her mouth, "is the best command I have ever received."
//