Page 179 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Caroline's face had gone very still. The fury was gone, replaced by a weariness that aged her ten years and made his heart crack down the middle.

"Just stop, Colonel. I cannot—" She pressed her gloved fingers to her temples. "I cannot do this. Not tonight. Not ever. You have made your gambit, and it has failed. Accept your defeat with whatever grace you can muster and leave me in peace."

"Caroline—"

"Miss Bingley." The correction was a bucket of ice poured over his head. "We are not intimates, Colonel. We never were. You were my strategic advisor, and I was your contingency plan. That is the sum total of our association. Do not insult us both by pretending otherwise."

The carriage swayed slightly as Lindon finally managed to extract the driver from his murderous rage. Richard heard footsteps on the cobblestones, heard Lindon's voice murmuring soothing platitudes about excellent braking and the importance of not committing murder in front of witnesses.

He looked at Caroline.

She looked back, and there was nothing in her eyes. No anger. No pain. Just a vast, terrible emptiness that made his chest feel like it had been caved in by a French cannonball.

"Go, Colonel." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Please. Just go."

Richard went.

He climbed out of the carriage on legs that did not feel like his own. The night air hit his face. Lindon was there, relief giving way to concern as he took in Richard's face.

"Fitzwilliam? What happened? Did she—"

The carriage door slammed shut. The driver cracked his whip—shooting Lindon a glare that promised future retribution involving horses and large wheels—and the vehicle lurched forward. Richard stood on the pavement, watching the lanterns recede into the darkness, until the carriage turned a corner and disappeared.

She was gone.

She was gone, and she had laughed at him, and every word she had spoken was a blade that had found its mark.

How stupid do you think I am?

"Fitzwilliam." Lindon's hand landed on his shoulder. "Richard. Talk to me. What did she say?"

Richard could not answer. His throat had closed. His chest felt as if it had been hollowed out and filled with broken glass. He stood on the pavement in his ridiculous dress uniform, in the middle of Mayfair, at God-knew-what hour of the night, and felt his entire world crumble into dust.

He had told her he loved her and she had laughed in his face.

"I need to go home," he heard his voice say. It sounded very far away. It sounded like a stranger's voice, coming from a stranger's mouth.

"Of course. I will find us a hackney—"

"Take me to Matlock House, Edmund."

The use of his Christian name silenced any further objections. Lindon nodded once and went to flag down a passing cab.

Richard stood on the pavement and did not move. He was dimly aware of the hackney arriving. Dimly aware of Lindon guiding him into the seat like an invalid. The hackney rattled through the night.

"She did not believe you," Lindon said quietly. It was not a question.

"No."

"Did you explain about the deadline? That you do not actually want her money?"

"She knows about the deadline. That is the problem." Richard stared at his hands. They were shaking. He could not make them stop. "She thinks it is all a scheme. That I have been playing her from the beginning."

"Have you?"

Richard's head snapped up. "What?"

Lindon's voice was carefully neutral. "Have you been playing her? I am not accusing you. I am only asking. Because you deserve to be honest with yourself."