Page 172 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"To what?"

"To determining her state of mind!" Richard leaned forward. "Was it grey? Subdued? Did she look defeated?"

"She looked," Lindon said slowly, "like a sunset that had decided to declare war on good taste."

Richard's blood went cold. "What colour?"

"Orange. Dark orange. The colour of an aggressive pumpkin." His eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement. "And her hair—Fitzwilliam, I do not know how to describe it delicately."

"Try."

"She appeared to have murdered at least three ostriches and arranged their remains atop her head in a manner that defied both gravity and reason."

Richard stood so abruptly the table rattled. "She was wearing orange."

"Very orange. Aggressively orange. The kind of orange that makes one question the fundamental nature of colour itself."

"And feathers."

"So many feathers. I believe several gentlemen mistook her for an exotic bird and attempted to feed her seeds."

Richard's mind raced. Orange. Feathers. The exact opposite of everything he had advised her to wear. She was making a statement. She was telling him—and all of Society—that she no longer required his guidance. That she would dress as she pleased, consequences be damned.

That she was done with him.

"I need to go," Richard muttered, reaching for his coat.

Lindon caught his arm. "I am coming with you."

Chapter Thirteen: The Architecture of Defiance

Caroline Bingley had committed murder.

Three ostriches, to be precise. Possibly four. The milliner had been vague on the exact body count, and Caroline had not pressed for details. What mattered was that the victims now adorned her coiffure in a towering monument to expensive rage, their plumes dyed the precise shade of orange that nature had intended as a warning to predators.

She studied her reflection in the mirror at Portman Square and felt nothing. Or rather, she felt everything—grief, fury, humiliation—but she had shoved it all into a small, locked compartment somewhere behind her spleen, labelled itIrrelevant, and refused to pay the postage.

The gown was a triumph of weaponised fashion. Pumpkin sarcenet—and yes, she was aware that "pumpkin" was not typically considered a colour for evening wear, which was precisely the point. The bodice was cut with the severity of a court martial. The train followed her like lava: slow, inevitable, and capable of destroying everything in its path.

She reached up to adjust a peacock feather that had begun to list slightly to the left. Its iridescent eye stared back at her with oily disdain.

Good, she thought.Watch them for me. I cannot be bothered.

Behind her, Schmidt secured the final ostrich plume with a pin that could have doubled as a weapon. The maid looked as though she were preparing her mistress for either a ball or an assault. Possibly both.

"You look like a queen, Miss." Schmidt stepped back to survey her handiwork. "Or a fire."

"I look like a woman who possesses twenty thousand pounds and has finally stopped taking advice from men who cannotafford their own bootblacking." Caroline's voice emerged flat. Controlled. The voice of someone who had screamed into her pillow for three hours yesterday and was now operating on spite and tea.

"The 'subdued grey' era is over, Schmidt. Consider it a fever dream. A temporary madness induced by a second son with frayed cuffs and a talent for tactical deception."

Schmidt said nothing. She had witnessed the breakdown. She had held her while she sobbed. She knew better than to offer comfort that would not be welcomed.

Caroline picked up her fan—ivory, naturally, because she was not a complete savage—and snapped it open. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a pistol shot. She turned from her reflection with a rustle of silk that sounded distinctly like a threat.

"CHARLES!" Her voice could have shattered crystal. "If you are not in the carriage in three minutes, I shall attend alone and inform Lady Faversham that you have contracted a sudden and violent case of the stammers!"

From somewhere in the bowels of the house, her brother's voice drifted up, reedy with panic. "Coming, Caroline! I just—my buttons! They are being very slippery today!"