Page 183 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"And yet you will say it anyway." The Countess's smile did not reach her eyes. "That is generally how conversations work, Miss Bingley. One party speaks, then the other. It is a system that has served humanity for millennia."

Caroline's fingers tightened in her lap. "If the Colonel has sent you to plead his case—"

"Richard sent no one," the Earl interrupted. "He is currently locked in his chambers at Matlock House, refusing food, refusing company, and refusing to explain why he burst into my bedchamber in the middle of the night to announce that I should ship him to the West Indies to die of the yellow fever."

Caroline's mask did not slip. She had spent too many years perfecting it. But something behind her ribs contracted sharply, a physical pain that stole her breath.

"I see," she managed.

"Do you?" The Countess leaned forward slightly. "Because I confess, Miss Bingley, I do not. My son has declared his life effectively over because a woman laughed at his proposal. I find myself curious about this woman."

"I did not—" Caroline stopped. Drew a breath. Started again. "The Colonel did not propose. He made a declaration that was—that could only have been—a stratagem."

"A stratagem," the Earl repeated flatly.

"He has to marry well by Easter, and I have a significant dowry. The arithmetic is not complicated, my lord."

"No," the Earl agreed. "It is not. Which is precisely why I am confused."

Caroline blinked. This was not the direction she had anticipated.

The Earl set down his scone and fixed her with a stare that had probably made generals weep. "If my son were fortune-hunting, Miss Bingley, he would have proposed weeks ago. He would have secured your acceptance before you had time to think. Hewould not have spent a month trailing after you to musicales and card parties, sabotaging your other suitors and making himself comprehensively miserable in the process."

"He was ensuring I had no other options—"

"He was ensuring no one else could have you." The Earl's voice was blunt as a hammer. "Those are different things. One is strategy. The other is stupidity. My son, God help him, is stupid."

Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it. The Earl's logic was battering against her conclusions like waves against a seawall, and she could feel the stones beginning to shift.

"Miss Bingley." The Countess's voice was softer now, though no less blood-chilling. "I have watched my son all his life. I have seen him court duty, court honour, court the approval of his father and the respect of his men. I have never—not once—seen him court a woman. He did not know how. He had no practice, no interest, and no inclination."

She paused, letting the words settle.

"Until you."

"I am merely—"

"You are notmerelyanything." The Countess cut her off. "You are the woman who taught my son to laugh at himself. The woman who matched his wit and returned his volleys and made him feel, I suspect, rather less alone in the world. That is notmerely. That is everything."

Caroline's throat had closed. Her eyes were burning. She was absolutely not going to cry in front of the Earl and Countess of Matlock.

She wasnot.

"He called me a lemon," she heard herself say, and her voice came out smaller than she intended. Younger. The voice of a girl who had spent her whole life being found wanting.

The Countess softened, just for a moment.

"Yes," she said quietly. "He did. My son is an idiot. We all agree on that account. It is a condition he inherited from his father."

"I beg your pardon," the Earl muttered.

"It is not a pardon you require, Henry. It is a muzzle." The Countess did not look away from Caroline. "He called you a lemon. And then he spent the next several weeks realising, with increasing horror, that he had developed an unshakeable preference for the fruit."

Caroline's laugh came out broken. Wet. Very close to a sob.

"He told me—" She stopped. Swallowed. "He told me he loved me. In the carriage. He said I was magnificent."

"And you did not believe him."