Page 178 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Please—"

"No." The word could have frozen champagne. "I have nothing to say to you, Colonel, and I have less than no interest in hearing whatever tactical manoeuvre you have planned for this ambush." She adjusted her gloves with sharp, precise movements. "Remove yourself from this carriage immediately, or I shall have the driver do it for you."

From outside, the driver's voice carried clearly: "I'D BE DELIGHTED TO, MISS. JUST SAY THE WORD."

"I am not leaving until you hear me out."

"Then I shall have my brother throw you out."

They both looked at Bingley.

Bingley was examining the ceiling of the carriage with intense fascination, clearly wishing to be literally anywhere else. "I would really rather not get involved," he murmured to the upholstery. "Physical confrontation is not my strong suit. I once lost a wrestling match to a footstool."

"Charles!"

"It was a very sturdy footstool, Caroline. Ottoman, I believe. Excellent craftsmanship. The point is, I feel I would not acquit myself well against a decorated military officer, and I should hate to embarrass the family name."

Outside, Lindon's voice drifted through the window, still maintaining his cheerful diplomatic tone: "—and I must say, your reflexes are extraordinary. Truly. The way you stopped those horses? Masterful. Have you considered a career in the cavalry? We are always looking for men with steady hands."

The driver's response was anatomically creative and physically impossible.

Richard turned back to her. She had not moved. She had not softened. She sat like a statue carved from contempt, her eyes burning with a fury that made his chest ache.

"Miss Bingley." He leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees. "I know what you think. I know what you believe about my motives. And I am telling you—I ambeggingyou—to listen to me. Just for one moment. That is all I ask."

"Why should I?"

"Because I love you."

The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.

She did not react. If anything, she grew colder—which Richard had not believed possible, but she had always excelled at exceeding expectations.

And then she laughed.

It was not a kind laugh. It was not a surprised laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had been offered a counterfeit coin and found the forgery personally insulting.

"Youloveme." She repeated the words as if tasting arsenic. "How remarkably convenient. How perfectly timed. You love me now, Colonel—three weeks before your father's deadline, when you have exhausted every other option and discovered that fortune hunters cannot, in fact, be choosers."

"That is not—"

"Tell me, Colonel." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a razor's edge. "How stupid do you think I am? Do you imagine I have forgotten the mathematics? You require a wealthy wife by Easter or you are shipped to the West Indies. I possess twenty thousand pounds. You have spent weeks sabotaging my prospects whilst pretending to help me find a husband. And now—now—when I have finally seen through your charming little stratagem, you leap into my carriage like a deranged highwayman and declare your undying love?"

"I am not—"

"You called me a lemon, Colonel." Her voice cracked, just slightly, before she forced it back under iron control. "And now you expect me to believe you have developed a sudden taste for citrus?"

Richard had nothing to say.

Because she was right. He had called her a lemon. He had sabotaged her suitors. He did need her money—or at least, his father's ultimatum required him to need it. Every piece of evidence pointed to exactly the conclusion she had drawn, and he had nothing—nothing—to offer in his defence except the truth.

And the truth, apparently, was hilarious.

"I do love you." His voice emerged hoarse. Broken. "I know how it looks. I know what the evidence suggests. But Caroline—Miss Bingley—I am not here for your fortune. I am here because the thought of you walking away from me makes it impossible to breathe. I am here because you are the most infuriating, impossible, magnificent woman I have ever met, and I would rather be shipped to the West Indies to die of tropical fever than spend another moment pretending I do not—"

"Stop."

The word was quiet. Final. The sound of a door closing.