Page 191 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The maid's words lingered, worming their way into the cracks the Matlocks had made. Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam—had never laughed at her. Not once. He had called her a 'lemon', but it was fair enough. He had mocked her feathers, challenged her wit, protected her from drunks and dandies alike. And that laugh of his, barked and genuine, like he could not help himself. If it was all a scheme, it was the most convoluted one in history.

A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. The butler entered, bearing a card on a silver salver.

"Lord Grimsby to see you, Miss Bingley."

Caroline suppressed a groan. Lord Grimsby—the rich man with the big nose, as she had uncharitably dubbed him in hermind. He was a widower of middling title, an estate in Stafford, and a face dominated by a proboscis that could have served as a weather vane. He had been circling her at events for weeks when the Colonel was not nearby, his intentions as subtle as a brick.

"Show him in," she said, straightening her posture. Better to face the conflict head-on.

Lord Grimsby entered with a bow that strained his waistcoat. His nose preceded him by a good inch.

"Miss Bingley. A pleasure, as always. I trust I find you well?"

"Tolerably," she replied, gesturing to a chair. "To what do I owe this visit, my lord?"

He sat, his knees creaking. "I shall come straight to the point. You are a woman of sense and breeding, Miss Bingley. Your fortune is admirable, your taste impeccable. I find myself in need of a companion—a wife, if you will. I propose we court. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Caroline stared at him. The words were blunt, transactional. No poetry. No passion. Just arithmetic: her dowry plus his title equalling security.

A week ago, she might have considered it. Stability. Status. No more chasing elusive affections from men like Darcy.

But now…

She thought of Richard's craggy face, his frayed cuffs, his wolfish grin. The way he had shielded her on Bond Street, not for show, but because it was right. The way he had declared his love in her carriage, ragged and desperate, like a man drowning.

Lord Grimsby's nose twitched expectantly.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, her voice steady. "But I must decline. My heart is… otherwise engaged."

He blinked, his nose flaring in surprise. "Otherwise—? But surely—"

"Good day, Lord Grimsby."

She rose, ending the audience with a nod.

He left in a huff, muttering about modern women and their follies.

Caroline sank back into her chair, a strange elation bubbling in her chest like champagne that had been shaken a bit too vigorously. She had rejected security—solid, nose-dominated security—in favour of what? A penniless rogue who had once called her a lemon, who loomed like a thundercloud, and who had the audacity to make her heart race with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic quip?

Yes. Exactly that.

She did not care about his money—or the glaring lack thereof. Titles? Estates? They paled in comparison to the spark he ignited in her. She wanted the arguments, the banter that sharpened her wit like a whetstone on a blade. The way he made her feel alive, seen, challenged—like she was more than a dowry wrapped in silk. She wanted to fight with him for the rest of her life, over the choice of furniture (hers was superior, obviously), the absurdity of her feathers (which were magnificent, thank you), and every petty, delightful thing in between. Life with him would be a perpetual skirmish, and the thought thrilled her more than any placid union ever could.

And she needed to tell him. Now. Before her resolve melted like snow in spring, or before he did something irrevocably foolish like vanishing into the West Indies.

She rang the bell with such force that the cord nearly snapped, her decision crystallising like frost on a windowpane, sharp and unyielding. She asked the servant who answered, to fetch her brother post haste.

Her brother appeared promptly, poking a wary head through the door, not sure what to expect of his sister's moods. "Caroline? You look… determined. Alarmingly so. Is everything all right?"

"I am determined," she replied, her voice brooking no argument. "Go to White's, Charles. Find Colonel Fitzwilliam. Tell him I must speak with him urgently. Discreetly, if possible—but urgently above all."

Charles's eyes widened, his amiable face cycling through surprise, concern, and a touch of brotherly protectiveness that was both endearing and entirely too late. "The Colonel? But after the Matlocks' visit—and that carriage business—I thought… Are you certain? He might not be in the best humour."

"Go, Charles. Please."

She fixed him with her most imperious stare, the one that had once reduced a modiste to tears over a botched hemline.

"This is not a request for debate. It is an order."