Page 180 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"No," he said finally. "It was never a scheme. It started that way, maybe—or I told myself it did—but it stopped being strategy somewhere between the teashop and tonight. I love her, Edmund. Genuinely. Stupidly. The kind of love that makes a man chase a carriage through Mayfair and get his best friend trampled by horses."

"Nearly get me—I was fine."

"You were three inches from becoming a decorative feature on the cobblestones."

"A calculated risk." Lindon shrugged. "Besides, the driver clearly had excellent reflexes. I told him so."

"He threatened to feed you to his horses."

"Passionate man. I respect that." Lindon leaned back against the seat. "So. What now? She does not believe you love her. She thinks you're after her fortune. How do you convince her otherwise?"

Richard stared out the window at the passing streets. "I do not know."

"That is not very helpful."

"I'm aware."

Matlock House loomed out of the darkness—a great stone monument to generations of Fitzwilliam wealth and consequence. The windows were dark. The household was asleep. Sensible people, all of them, who had gone to bed at reasonable hours and were not currently experiencing the complete dissolution of their romantic hopes.

Richard climbed out of the hackney.

"Lindon. Thank you. You are a good friend."

Lindon nodded and the hackney left.

Richard turned and walked upstairs, directly to his father's chambers. The door was heavy oak, polished to a shine, bearing the Matlock crest in brass. He had stood before this door a thousand times—as a boy seeking approval, as a young man receiving lectures, as an officer reporting on campaigns and requesting funds.

He had never knocked at three in the morning to announce his complete and total failure.

He knocked.

Silence. Then shuffling. Then a muffled curse and the scrape of a tinderbox.

The door opened.

The Earl of Matlock stood in his nightshirt, a banyan hastily thrown over his shoulders, his grey hair standing up in tufts like an irritated owl. He was sixty-two years old, and resembled a bear that had learned to walk upright, and his eyes—dark as Richard's—were sharp despite the hour.

"Richard?" The irritation gave way to concern. "What in God's name—it is the middle of the night. What has happened? Is it Robert? Georgiana? Is someone dead?"

"No one is dead. Everyone is fine."

"Then why are you standing at my door looking like you have been dragged behind a horse?"

Richard looked at his father, and took a breath.

"Ship me to the West Indies."

The Earl blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your deadline. Easter. Tick-tock. The marriage requirement." He met his father's eyes and felt a strange, cold calm settle over him. He had lost everything and had discovered that rock bottom was surprisingly peaceful. "I am not meeting it. I am not marrying for money. Ship me to the West Indies. Let me die of the fever. I do not care anymore."

"Richard—"

"I found a woman, Father." His voice cracked. He did not try to hide it. "I found a woman I actually love. Not for her money, not for her connections, but for her. For her sharp tongue and her ridiculous feathers. And she laughed in my face. She thinks I am a fortune hunter. She thinks every moment I spent with her was a calculation, a strategy, a scheme to secure her twenty thousand pounds before Easter."

The Earl stood frozen in the doorway.

"The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that I cannot even blame her." Richard spread his hands. "From where she stands, every piece of evidence supports exactly that conclusion. What else is she supposed to think?"