Page 186 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"I know." He put his arm around her—awkward, unpractised, but trying. "But whatever you decide, I will be here. I promise."

Caroline closed her eyes.

Chapter Sixteen: The Siege of the Colonel's Bedchamber

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had not crossed the threshold of his bedchamber door in three days, four hours, and twenty-seven minutes. He knew the exact tally because he had taken to glaring at the mantel clock every time it chimed, as if the hour hand were personally responsible for his current predicament.

The ceiling of his room at Matlock House boasted seventeen cracks. He had named them all. Crack Number One was Caroline's laugh. Crack Number Four was the precise instant she had said,"A lemon, Colonel? Truly?"

Crack Number Twelve was the moment he had decided to chase her carriage down Davies Street like a deranged groom at a runaway bride. The rest were variations on the theme of profound personal failure, with a few dedicated to the general injustice of being born a second son with excellent breeding and deplorable finances.

He lay flat on his back, his arms folded across his chest like a crusader effigy, still wearing the same nightshirt he had donned on the morning of his humiliation. The garment had begun to develop its own personality, something between a disgraced footman and a disgruntled sheep. The room itself had taken on the faint, tragic aroma of stale tea, unwashed linen, and existential regret. Peters, Robert's valet, had once ventured in to suggest airing the windows. Richard had informed him that fresh air was for men who still possessed hope.

A soft knock and Peters entered. He glanced at a tray that might once have been breakfast. Now it resembled a still-life entitled"Abandonment in Porcelain."

"The beef is cold, Sir," Peters observed with the weary tact of a man who had seen many Fitzwilliams in various stages of romantic collapse.

"Matches my soul," Richard muttered.

Peters inspected closely the tray on the bedside table, where it lay along with three identical predecessors. "You have not eaten since Tuesday, sir. Or possibly Monday. The days have begun to blur."

"Time is an illusion, Peters. So is dignity."

"Very philosophical, sir." Peters regarded the untouched beef. "Shall I fetch more mustard?"

"No. Mustard is for optimists."

Peters withdrew, because he knew better than to argue with a colonel in love. The door closed softly. Richard returned his attention to the ceiling.

Crack Number Seven was particularly offensive. It looked exactly like the curve of Caroline's eyebrow when she delivered a killing glance. He had spent the better part of an hour yesterday trying to decide whether the resemblance was deliberate or merely cruel coincidence.

The door burst open.

"Good God above," Robert exclaimed, striding in as if he had come to arrest a stubborn criminal. "It smells as though a badger has expired in here, held a wake, and then invited its entire extended family to the funeral."

Richard did not move. "Go away."

"And miss the spectacle of my brother decomposing in luxury? Never." He crossed to the windows and flung the curtains wide. Sunlight poured in. Richard hissed and yanked the counterpane over his head.

Robert regarded the lump on the bed.

"This," he declared, "is pathetic. You are pathetic. I had once found a dead rat in my boot and I still consider it an improvement over your current situation. I did not ride all the way from Cornwall to watch you ferment into blue cheese."

"I am not fermenting," came the muffled reply. "I am contemplating."

"You are pickling."

Robert sat on the edge of the mattress with confidence, knowing that his brother would not actually strike him. Probably.

"Up," he commanded. "Now."

"I am in mourning."

"For whom?"

"My pride. It was last seen fleeing down Davies Street in terror."

Robert snorted. "Your pride has been fleeing since you were twelve and tried to impress that housemaid by juggling the silver salvers."