Page 174 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

He tried a double entendre about her "fiery" temperament. She countered with a dry observation about the declining intellect of the peerage and whether inbreeding might be a contributing factor.

He attempted a suggestive comment about "warming" his evening. She inquired, with poisonous sweetness, after his lordship's recent losses at Newmarket—losses that were,apparently, significant enough to require the sale of his Yorkshire hunting box.

He made a low remark about her brother's "charming naivety." She mentioned, in passing, the rumour that his lordship's valet had quit last month over unpaid wages and was now providing fascinating interviews to anyone who cared to listen.

By the final figures of the set, the Marquis was looking at her not as a joke, but as something far more dangerous: a woman who could not be easily dismissed.

"You are a rare creature, Miss Bingley," he murmured as the music slowed. His hand lingered on her waist during the final pass—too long, too proprietary, his fingers exerting a pressure that was both invitation and threat. "Most women are either dull as ditch-water or desperate as starving hounds. You are dangerous." His breath was warm against her ear. "It is a quality I find intoxicating. Perhaps we could find a quieter corner to discuss the finer points of your... incendiarism."

Caroline stepped back as the dance concluded, creating distance. She had learned how to fend off unwanted advances since her first Season.

"I am merely expensive, my Lord." Her chin lifted. "Most men find the cost of my conversation far exceeds their mental budget. And I have a very low tolerance for those who attempt to barter with empty pockets."

She turned to leave.

His hand caught her wrist. Not hard. Not painful. But enough to stop her. Enough to make a point about who held the power in this particular exchange.

"Do not walk away from me, Miss Bingley." His voice was soft. Pleasant. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted. "I was not finished speaking."

Caroline looked down at his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Then slowly, up at his face. If looks could etch glass, his would be in ribbons.

"Remove your hand, Lord Fawlton. Or I shall remove it for you. And I should warn you—I have very sharp hairpins and absolutely no compunction about using them."

For a moment, they stood frozen—a tableau of barely concealed hostility that was beginning to attract attention from the surrounding guests.

Then a voice cut through the tension like a cavalry sabre through silk.

"Fawlton."

Caroline's stomach dropped to her slippers.

Fawlton removed his hand.

She knew that voice. She knew the particular vibration of barely contained fury that made consonants sound like threats. She knew—without turning around—exactly who had just arrived and exactly how much worse this evening was about to become.

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was not walking across the ballroom.

He was advancing. His face was a mask of martial fury that Caroline recognised from stories of the front lines. He was actively calculating where to hide the bodies and whether the rhododendrons would provide adequate cover.

His boots struck the parquet with a rhythmic, lethal intent that seemed to silence the room in his wake. Guests parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, if Moses had been significantly angrier and wearing regimentals.

He reached them and ignored the Marquis entirely. His focus was pinned on Caroline with an intensity that made the feathers in her hair quiver.

"Miss Bingley." His voice was low. Controlled. "A word."

Caroline curtsied with the frigid precision of a glacier that had developed strong opinions about being addressed. "Colonel. I was unaware you were a guest of Lady Faversham's this evening." She smiled. It was the smile of someone fantasising about violence. "Or do you merely perform reconnaissance in every ballroom you find insufficiently guarded? I am surprised you found the time, given your... pressing deadlines."

His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched near his temple. His gaze flickered to Lord Fawlton and the look that crossed his face was enough to wither a hothouse orchid at forty paces.

"I go where I am needed, Miss Bingley." His voice had dropped to nearly a growl. "And currently, I see a great deal of rubbish that requires clearing. It is a messy job, but someone must attend to it."

Lord Fawlton straightened, taking a step back—though whether from self-preservation or pride, she could not tell. "Fitzwilliam. I see the army has not managed to improve your manners." His tone was bored. Dismissive. The verbal equivalent of examining one's fingernails. "I believe I was in the middle of a conversation with Miss Bingley. A conversation that did not require a military escort."

"The Marquis was just remarking on my 'tropical' nature, Colonel," Caroline interjected before he could respond with something that would require seconds and surgeons. She flicked her fan open, the orange silk a barrier between herself and the Colonel's intensity. "It seems I am a bird of paradise. Although, as you once noted, birds of paradise are rarely found in the company of common sparrows." She paused, letting the barb land. "Or perhaps you were referring to my 'hidden sugar'? I find I have quite run out of the substance tonight."

Richard's eyes flashed. "Miss Bingley—"

"Miss Bingley," she continued, her voice rising just enough to carry, "is currently enjoying the company of a Marquis. Rank,as you are so fond of reminding everyone, has its privileges." She stepped closer to Fawlton—not because she wanted to, but because the Colonel's jaw did something satisfying when she did. "And I have spent quite enough time following your 'tactical' advice. I find I prefer my own instincts. They are less prone to ulterior motives."