Page 195 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Charles Bingley was flustered and wide-eyed. His face was redder than a beetroot, and he was wringing his hands like a schoolboy caught in mischief.

And in the centre of this chaotic tableau, Caroline. Her pelisse was wrinkled and dusted with dirt, her hair tumbling from its pins in wild auburn waves. Her face was flushed with exertion and determination, and her eyes were blazing like twin flames in the lantern light.

Richard blinked once, twice, the poker now hanging limp at his side, forgotten in the absurdity of the scene. His mind reeled—what fresh madness was this? A hallucination from the brandy? A dream turned nightmare?

"What in the devil—" he started. His voice came rough with sleep and shock. His feet shifted on the cold floor as he tried to process the impossible gathering before him.

Bingley's gaze landed on Richard's bare chest—his nightshirt open from hasty dressing, revealing the scars of old campaigns and the dishevelled state of a man rudely awakened. He yelped like a startled pup caught in a fox's den. He lunged forward with comical urgency, clapping both hands over Caroline's eyes as if shielding her from some scandalous tableau in a Covent Garden farce.

"Sister! Avert your gaze! The man is indecent! Think of your sensibilities!"

Caroline swatted at him furiously. Her muffled voice rose in indignant fury, and her gloved hands pried at his fingers like a cat batting at a ball of yarn. "Remove your hands, you imbecile! You are going to give me wrinkles pressing like that! And I have seen worse at the seaside—let go, Charles, before I box your ears!"

She twisted free with a triumphant shove, sending Bingley stumbling back into Lindon, who caught him with a chuckle. She straightened her pelisse with a huff, brushing off invisible mud, and marched straight to Richard. She lifted her chin at that angle he knew so well—the one that signalled a storm brewing.

He stood speechless, with his mouth agape, and the poker forgotten in his grip. His bare toes curled against the flagstones as the chill seeped in.

She raised a gloved finger, pointing it like a sabre aimed at his heart.

"Not. A. Word. I have been dragged through hell—mud up to my ankles, rain soaking my hems, coaching inns that smelled of stale ale and despair, toll gates that charged us twice because ofsome officious keeper with a grudge against viscounts, and an incident involving a cart of turnips that overturned in the road and a herd of sheep that blocked our path for half an hour while the shepherd argued with our driver over right of way. And I love you."

The hall fell silent.

Richard stared. His brain scrambled to catch up—love?

Everyone stared: Robert with open-mouthed delight, Mr Darcy with a furrowed brow, Lindon with raised eyebrows, Bingley with horrified fascination. Mrs Barlow, hovering in her night-robe with a candle, crossed herself vigorously—Catholic habits dying hard, and her lips moved in a silent prayer for propriety. Wilkins, ever the dutiful butler despite the hour, shuffled forward quietly to light more candles on the hall table. The flames sprang to life one by one, making the absurdity feel almost theatrical.

Richard's mind finally caught up. Love. She loved him.

A grin split his face, wild and unrestrained, starting slow and building to something manic, like a bedlamite who had just been handed the keys to the asylum. He dropped the poker with a resounding clatter that echoed off the oak panels, grabbed her by the waist with both hands—strong, scarred hands that lifted her effortlessly off the ground—and hauled her up against him. She let out a startled gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance, but her arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed her thoroughly—deep, desperate, tasting of brandy and relief. His bare chest pressed against her pelisse as he poured every unspoken word into the kiss.

Mr Darcy averted his eyes immediately, blushing to the roots of his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back as if to steady himself against the impropriety.

Robert cheered with unbridled enthusiasm, pumping a fist in the air like a victor at a prize fight. "Go, brother! About time! I knew you had it in you!"

Lindon applauded slowly. A smirk played on his lips as he leaned against the wall. "Well played, Fitzwilliam. Though your attire seems light—next time, perhaps a robe for midnight invasions?"

Bingley looked uneasy. His hands twitched at his sides as if debating whether to intervene. His face was a mask of brotherly outrage warring with reluctant acceptance. A duel? Over his sister's honour? The thought crossed his mind in passing—call out Richard, demand satisfaction—but then he glanced at Caroline's flushed, happy face, and her sparkling eyes as she clung to the man. He thought better of it, and settled for an awkward shuffle and a muttered, "Well, I suppose… if she is happy…"

Finally, Richard set her down gently, though he kept his arms around her waist, unwilling to let go just yet, still grinning. "And you will marry me?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes searched hers as if fearing it was all another dream.

"Of course I will," she said, straightening her pelisse with mock severity, though her smile betrayed her joy. "This house needs someone with taste to decorate it. The wallpaper in the hall is hideous—no offence, Mr Darcy. Those faded florals? They look like they have been weeping since the last century."

Mr Darcy cleared his throat, still not quite meeting anyone's eyes. His blush finally faded to a dignified pink. "None taken. Though I must say, it is… serviceable. Functional, at least."

The group dissolved into laughter, the tension breaking, and the hall filled with relieved chatter and backslaps. Wilkins discreetly fetched brandy from the sideboard, pouring measures for the weary travellers with a butler's unflappable calm. Mrs Barlow bustled off to prepare rooms for the 'unexpected guests',muttering about fresh linens and hot water as she vanished up the stairs. Hodges, who had appeared in his nightcap looking ready to defend the house with his cane, chuckled and retreated to his quarters, shaking his head at the folly of the gentry.

Richard pulled Caroline close again, murmuring into her hair amid the chaos. "You love me?"

She smiled up at him, and her fingers traced the open edge of his nightshirt. "I love you so much. Now, about that wallpaper—and the rest of our lives…"

Bonus Chapter: The Frog, the Viscount, and Forty Years of Perfect Posture

The gardens of Rosings Park were currently attempting to maintain their dignity under a May sun that clearly had no respect for decorum. The peonies were showing off, the marquees shimmered with self-satisfaction, and the whole scene looked suspiciously like a military triumph staged by someone who had never lost a battle, or a tea service.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh presided over it all from the cool interior of the principal pavilion, looking through her lorgnette like a field marshal surveying enemy lines. Beside her, the Countess of Matlock fanned herself with the lazy elegance of a woman who had long ago decided that true power lay in appearing mildly bored.

"I must say, Catherine," Eleanor remarked, her voice smooth as fresh cream, "the weather is almost as obliging as the bride. I half expected Mrs Fitzwilliam to insist on moving the breakfast indoors. She has always struck me as a creature more comfortable among gilt mirrors than garden gnats."