Chapter Six Enemy Territory #2
Caroline's hands twitched, instinctively covering her left wrist where the purple shadows of Hurst's fingers still bloomed beneath the grey merino. "You see nothing."
"I see a great deal more than you credit me for, Miss Bingley.
" He moved by her chair, not threateningly, but as if deliberately advancing to close the distance on a skittish horse.
"I also see that you are alone in this house with a drunkard and a pregnant woman too ill to defend herself.
Your brother is useless. Your sister is incapacitated. That leaves you."
"I am perfectly capable of managing my own household."
"I am certain you are. You could probably manage a regiment if given the opportunity. But managing and surviving are different endeavours."
She stood abruptly, the needlework tumbling to the floor in a tangle of silk and vindictiveness. "I did not request your assistance at the opera. I did not request this visit. And I certainly did not request your pity."
"I do not pity you." He held her gaze, his dark eyes steady and infuriatingly calm. "I admire you. Any woman who can sit through Mozart in that shade of orange has remarkable courage."
"I loathe you."
"Good. Loathing is honest. It is the indifference I cannot abide."
They stood facing each other across the carpet, two opposing forces locked in a stalemate.
"Why are you here, Colonel?" Her voice had lost its sharp edge, replaced by a weariness she had not intended to reveal. "Truly. Why did you come?"
"I came," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "because I made you a promise. At the opera. You said you owed me a debt. I replied that I would collect."
"Ah." The corners of her mouth tightened. "The debt. I wondered when you would mention it. What is the price, Colonel? A shilling? A guinea? Or do you require something more valuable? My humiliation, delivered in instalments?"
"I require your cooperation."
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your cooperation, Miss Bingley. In a venture of mutual benefit."
He moved to the window, gazing out at the street below where carriages rolled past with their cargo of the comfortable and the condemned.
"You have lost your primary target. Darcy has married Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The Viscount has claimed Miss Bennet. The Season is upon us, and you are alone in a house with no sponsor, no connections, and a wardrobe that causes small children to weep. "
"How dare you—"
"Who is your next victim, Miss Bingley? Now that Darcy is taken, where do you aim your considerable artillery?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her hands gripped the back of the nearest chair. "I have not decided."
"You will need all the help you can acquire."
"I do not require help. I require a lack of interference."
"You require strategy. Planning. Intelligence.
Someone who knows the battlefield and can guide you through it without triggering every mine.
" He turned from the window, fixing her with a look that was equal parts calculation and dare.
"I am a soldier, Miss Bingley. I am willing to make a sacrifice for the general population. "
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"If you are removed from circulation, the male population of London will breathe calmly. It is a public service, really. I am quite heroic."
Her mouth fell open. For a full five seconds, she simply stared at him, her brain clearly attempting to process whether he had insulted her, proposed to her, or suffered an apoplexy.
"You are volunteering," she said slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to the village idiot, "to help me find a husband?"
"I am volunteering to prevent you from finding one unworthy."
"You are mad."
"I am practical. You are a menace. Left to your own devices, you will terrorise every bachelor in London, frighten the clergy, and somehow manage to insult three dukes before Easter. It is in the interest of public safety that I supervise."
"Supervise." She repeated the word as if referring to a dead fish someone had placed in her lap. "You wish to supervise my husband-hunting."
"I wish to ensure you do not accidentally marry someone worse than Hurst. Which, given your taste, seems likely."
Caroline crossed the room in three swift strides, stopping directly in front of him by the window. She tilted her head back to glare into his face, her eyes blazing with an unholy fire.
"I would rather," she announced with perfect, crystalline fury, "marry Mr Hurst's horse than accept your assistance."
"Mr Hurst does not own a horse. He sold it to pay for port."
"Then I shall purchase a horse specifically for the purpose of marrying it. It would be better company."
"Horses do not attend balls."
"Neither do I. Not anymore."
The admission escaped before she could stop it. Her mouth snapped shut, but the damage was done. He saw the crack in the surface, the slip of truth beneath the performance.
"Not anymore," he repeated softly. "Why? Did someone rescind your invitations?"
"That is none of your concern."
"It is if I am to help you."
"I do not want your help!"
"You need it."
"I need—" She stopped, swallowing whatever sharp retort had been forming. Her chest rose and fell with the effort of restraining her temper. "You are insufferable."
"I have been called worse. Usually by superior officers."
"I hate you."
"You mentioned that earlier. Consistency is a virtue." He waited, letting the silence stretch until the tension in the room could have snapped iron. Then, with the deliberate care of a general playing his final card, "What about the debt, Miss Bingley?"
She went very still. "What?"
"You owe me. You said it at the opera. I am calling it in."
"That is not how debts work."
"It is how my debts work. And I am owed.
" He crossed his arms, his mouth curving into a smile that would have terrified a lesser woman.
"You will accept my assistance in your husband hunting efforts.
You will attend the Season. You will dance.
You will smile. And you will not, under any circumstances, wear orange. "
"I will do no such thing."
"Then you are a coward."
Her breath hissed between her teeth. "How dare you—"
"You stand in a gilded cage, Miss Bingley, pretending you chose the bars. You hide in this house, surrounded by bronze cherubs and broken drunkards, and you call it safety. But it is not safety. It is surrender."
"I have not surrendered."
"Prove it."
The challenge hung in the air. She stared at him, her mind racing, weighing options, calculating odds.
Finally, she spoke. "And what do you gain from this arrangement, Colonel? Do not claim altruism. You are far too mercenary for that."
"I have my reasons."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer you will receive."
Her eyes narrowed. "I will not agree to terms when the other party conceals his motivations. What do you want, Colonel Fitzwilliam? Speak plainly."
"I want," he said slowly, his gaze steady and undecipherable, "to ensure you do not make a catastrophic error in judgement. You have a talent for aiming at the wrong target. Consider this a charitable intervention."
"Charitable." She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "You expect me to believe you are motivated by benevolence?"
"I expect you to believe I have reasons that are my own. Whether you trust them is immaterial. You need assistance. I am offering it. The terms are simple, you accept my guidance, you attend the Season, and you do not, under any circumstances, accept a proposal without consulting me first."
"Consulting you?" Her voice rose. "You wish to approve my suitors like some sort of military tribunal?"
"I wish to prevent you from marrying a brute, a wastrel, or a bore. Which, given the current state of London's eligible bachelors, eliminates approximately ninety per cent of your options."
"And what gives you the authority to make such determinations?"
"Experience. Observation. And a vested interest in seeing you settled appropriately."
"Why?" She stepped closer, her face tilted up to his, her eyes searching his face for cracks in the armour. "Why do you care where I settle or with whom?"
He met her gaze without flinching. "I will not reveal my reasons."
"Then I will not accept your offer."
"Yes, you will."
"Your arrogance is staggering."
"Your options are limited." He gestured to the opulent room around them.
"You can sit here, waiting for invitations that will not come.
Or you can accept my escort, attend every ball, rout, and musicale this Season has to offer, and find a husband who will not drink himself into an early grave or pawn your jewellery to pay his gambling debts. "
Her eyes held his, her chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. "And if I refuse?"
"Then the debt remains unpaid. And I am not a patient creditor, Miss Bingley."
The silence stretched between them. Caroline's jaw worked, her mind cataloguing every possible avenue of escape and finding them all blocked.
"Very well," she said at last, biting off each word. "I accept your odious offer. But I demand to know your true motives, Colonel. You cannot expect me to trust a man who hides behind vague pronouncements and smug superiority."
"I expect nothing of the sort. Trust is not required. Cooperation is."
"Then tell me why you are doing this!"
He collected his hat from the side table, settling it at a jaunty angle. His mouth curved into a smile that revealed nothing.
"All in good time, Miss Bingley," he said, moving to the door. "All in good time."
"That is not an answer!"
"I am aware. Next time I see you, ensure you are wearing a garment that will not cause livestock to stampede. I implore you."
"Get out of my house, Colonel."
"With pleasure. Your cherubs are giving me a headache."
He left her standing in the centre of her golden prison, surrounded by silence and fury, and feeling the thrill of engaging a worthy opponent.
The war had begun.