Chapter Nine The Secret Kindness #2
He stood on the periphery of the room, sipping flat champagne, and doing his utmost not to think about lemon cakes. Or lemons. Or one particular lemon who, it turned out, had been secretly funding a child's education while he had been busy judging her pelisses.
He had managed a solid four minutes of not thinking about her when she materialised at his side like a vengeful spectre in pewter silk.
Caroline Bingley wore grey. Again. A gown so demure it could have been mistaken for a vicar's Sunday best. Her hair was twisted into a knot so severe it could be classified as a punishment, and her only adornment was a simple garnet cross that screamed, "I look respectable, and I hate it.
" She looked, in short, like a woman who had just been sentenced to a life of boredom and was considering arson as an alternative.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice was as sharp as the heels of her slippers. "I require a word."
Richard nearly inhaled his champagne. "Miss Bingley. Good evening. You look—"
"Grey." She glared down at her gown. "I look grey. I am aware. You said subdued colours would make me appear selective, not invisible. I have been subdued for three weeks. I feel like a mourning dove."
"Mourning doves are dignified," Richard offered.
"They are also ignored by every eligible man in London," she snapped. "Which is, coincidentally, my current predicament."
Richard's brain, which had been operating at half capacity since the tea shop revelation, failed him entirely. Be nice, he ordered himself. She pays for orphaned nephews to learn Latin. She is kind beneath the thorns. Compliment her. Be charming.
"You are..." He swallowed. "...very... not orange."
Miss Bingley stared at him as if he had just suggested she wear a bonnet made of live eels. "Are you unwell, Colonel? You sound as though you've swallowed a hairball."
"I am perfectly well," he lied. "Merely surprised to see you."
"You told me to attend every event," she reminded him, crossing her arms. "I am attending. I am subdued. I am selective. And I am being systematically overlooked by every man in this room with a pulse and a title. Your strategy is failing."
"It takes time—"
"I do not have time." Her eyes flashed. "The Season ends in a few months, Colonel. And if I do not secure a viable prospect before then, I shall be forced to retreat to the countryside, where the only eligible men are vicars with gout and farmers who smell of sheep."
Richard's chest tightened. A deadline. He also had a deadline, which loomed like a guillotine. He shoved the thought aside. "What do you require from me?"
Miss Bingley stepped closer, and he caught the scent of her perfume—roses with an edge, kindness wrapped in barbed wire. "Information. And an introduction."
"To whom?"
"Lord Fawlton."
Richard choked on his champagne. "Absolutely not."
"I beg your pardon?"
"No." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Categorically. Unequivocally. Not happening."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You do not have the authority to refuse. You offered to help me find a husband. Lord Fawlton is a Marquis. He is wealthy. He is titled. He is—"
"A disaster in breeches," Richard interrupted.
"Fawlton is Robert's friend, which should tell you everything you need to know about his character.
He has the morals of a tomcat and the attention span of a gnat.
He will ruin you before dessert and move on to the next conquest before the scandal sheets dry. "
"I am not so easily ruined." Caroline's chin lifted in defiance.
"Fawlton specialises in women who believe they are immune to ruin," Richard countered. "It is one of his primary talents, second only to losing at cards and fleeing his creditors."
Her jaw clenched. "He is still a viable prospect. And I demand an introduction."
"I will not introduce you to a man who will hurt you." The words came out harsher than he intended.
Caroline blinked. "Hurt me? Colonel, I am not some wilting debutante. I can handle a rake."
"You think that now. And then you will find yourself compromised in a garden with a man who has no intention of marrying you, and I will have to call him out, and it will be a tremendous inconvenience for everyone involved."
"Call him out?" She let out a laugh so sharp it could have cut glass. "Why would you do that? I am not under your protection, Colonel. If I require a duel fought on my behalf, I have a brother for that."
"Bingley? Bingley who cannot win a battle with a poodle?"
"He will defend my honour, Colonel, I have no doubt."
"I would rather do it myself."
She studied him, the noise of the rout fading into a dull hum. For a moment, it was just the two of them, standing too close, surrounded by the wreckage of their mutual insults.
"Why are you acting so strangely?" she asked, quieter now.
"I am not acting strangely."
"You complimented my lack of orange. You refused to introduce me to a Marquis. You look as though you are in physical pain. What is wrong with you?"
Everything. Nothing. The fact that he had spent the afternoon discovering she was secretly kind and generous, and it had upended his entire worldview like a poorly balanced teacup.
"I met your maid today," he blurted.
She went very still. "Schmidt?"
"At a tea shop. I bought her lemon cakes."
"You what?"
"She was carrying parcels. I offered to help. We talked." He watched her face carefully. "She told me about her nephew. Thomas."
The colour drained from Miss Bingley's face, then rushed back in a wave of mortified crimson. "She told you?"
"She did."
"She had no right—"
"She was defending you. Quite passionately, in fact. She said she would give an arm for you."
Caroline's hands clenched at her sides. "It is none of your concern, Colonel."
"You pay for his schooling."
"It is my money. I may spend it as I wish."
"You told Schmidt that ignorance is a sin and stupidity is a choice."
"It is true."
"You have never met the boy."
"What does that matter?" Her voice rose, sharp and defensive. "He is Schmidt's family. She is loyal to me. I reward loyalty. It is basic economics."
"It is kind."
"It is practical."
"It is kind," he repeated, stepping closer. "And you refuse to take credit for it because you are afraid that if people know you are capable of kindness, they will think you are weak, and your entire fortress of sarcasm will crumble."
Miss Bingley stared at him, her breath coming faster. "You do not know me, Colonel."
"I am beginning to think I do."
"You think one act of charity makes me virtuous?" she scoffed. "You think paying for a servant's nephew absolves me of being sharp and difficult and thoroughly unpleasant?"
"I think," Richard said slowly, "that you are more complicated than I gave you credit for. And I think I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"For misjudging you. You are prickly and fierce. But not bad to the bone."
She laughed, a real, surprised sound that hit him like a cannonball to the chest.
"You are the worst apologiser I have ever met. I despair of you." She shook her head, with a faint smile.
"I am a soldier. We do not apologise. We tactically retreat and call it strategy."