Page 125 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Never, Colonel," the butler smiled as widely as his personality permitted, and closed the door.

Richard turned on his heel, feeling lighter, allowing flashes of orange to permeate the sides of his vision.

He walked with intent, his boots striking the pavement in a rhythm that implied forward motion could solve matters best left unexamined. London obliged by offering darkness, lamplight, and a gratifying lack of witnesses.

The kiss on his cheek lingered. Not the act itself, but the aftermath of it. A warmth, inconvenient and spreading, as if affection were contagious. Richard disliked contagion.

He turned a corner sharply, nearly colliding with a pair of young bucks who scattered apologies. Men unused to consequence. Despicable. Richard inclined his head stiffly and continued on, his shoulders squared, his face arranged into something martial.

Orange followed him.

Not boldly or centre-stage. It hovered at the edges of his vision like a warning flag glimpsed through fog. A hem. A sleeve. The particular angle of a chin lifted in defiance rather than flirtation. He quickened his pace.

His father's voice surfaced behind it, as if the Earl were hidden inside Richard's skull for sport.Easter. West Indies. Tailor's bills. Dowry. Wife.

"This is absurd," he informed the empty street.

The empty street declined to argue, which was unhelpful.

He reached St James's Street with the sensation of having arrived at a last refuge. White's stood ahead, discreet and confident, the sort of building that did not need to advertise its purpose. It existed for men who required reinforcement, distraction, or validation, and Richard required all three.

Inside, warmth and noise enveloped him at once. The murmur of voices, the snap of cards, the low thud of boots against carpet. A fire that had been fed properly for generations burned.

A servant relieved him of his coat and another offered him brandy. Richard accepted the glass and drained half of it without pausing to taste.

Better.

He scanned the room with the practised eye of an officer assessing a field. Familiar faces, familiar vices. No Darcy. No Keathley. No one to notice if he sat too long or drank too quickly.

Excellent.

Across the room, by the far hearth, Colonel Edmund Lindon stood in a cluster of younger officers. His blond curls wereslightly disordered, and his blue eyes bright with the anxious politeness of a man who had been trained to behave impeccably and then shoved into the army as a second-best vocation. His coat was well cut, his boots gleamed, and his cravat immaculate.

Lindon spotted Richard and lifted a hand in an awkward movement. Richard crossed the room and joined him at the hearth. The officers around Lindon drifted away with the instinctive deference men gave a Colonel who had actually seen a battlefield.

"Fitzwilliam," the younger Colonel greeted, offering a bow that was not strictly required but was thoroughly in character. "You look as if you have been dragged through the pit by a drunken bear."

"You should have been there," Richard replied, letting the heat of the fire warm his hands. "You might have learnt useful tactics. Never stand near a man with wine and poor balance."

Lindon's eyes widened. "It reached even my ears. One cannot sneeze in London without it being reported to the King. Is it true Mr Hurst attempted to strike a lady?"

Richard's mouth tightened. "He attempted to strike Miss Bingley."

Lindon blinked. "Miss Bingley? Caroline Bingley?"

Richard kept his face smooth. "There is only one Miss Bingley in London capable of attracting disaster by standing still. Yes."

Lindon's lips pressed together, as if suppressing a smile. "That is unfortunate."

"It was instructive," Richard corrected.

Lindon leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with the gravity of a man about to witness a war secret. "Did she respond? I mean, did she faint, or cry, or do that thing fashionable ladies do where they appear to swoon merely to prove they can?"

Richard pictured Caroline Bingley's spine, straight as a pike, her hands gripping the chair as if she would sooner break the wood than bend. "She sat."

"She sat," Lindon repeated, as though that alone altered the history of the evening.

Richard drank. He disliked the shift in his chest at the memory. He disliked it more because it was not admiration, only the simple truth that stubbornness was recognisable, even when wrapped in arrogance.