Chapter Eleven Tea and Torment #2
"I am not nervous." Caroline sat back down, arranging her features into a nun's serenity.
"Of course not." Mrs Darcy offered the plate of lemon cakes to her husband. "You merely look as though you are calculating the exact distance to the nearest exit."
"I have no intention to escape, if that is what you mean."
Lord Keathley leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "Miss Bingley, I must say, you are handling this with remarkable composure. I would have run screaming by now."
"You run screaming from kittens, my Lord," his wife said mildly.
"They have claws! Tiny, vicious claws!"
"They are kittens."
"Miniature tigers," the Viscount insisted. He turned to Caroline. "Tell me, Miss Bingley, how is your brother? Still apologising to furniture?"
"He is well, my Lord. And yes. Last week he apologised to a hatstand for existing in his general vicinity."
Lord Keathley roared with laughter. "Excellent! The man is consistent. I admire that in a person. Consistently absurd, but consistent nonetheless."
Caroline found herself smiling. Actually smiling. At a man who had every reason to despise her for attempting to sabotage his wife.
Miss Darcy, who had been quiet through the exchange, cleared her throat. "Miss Bingley, I wanted to thank you."
Caroline blinked. "For what, Miss Darcy?"
"For the advice you gave me last year. About posture. You told me to imagine I was balancing a book on my head whilst walking. It helped tremendously."
"You gave Georgiana deportment lessons?" Mr Darcy's eyebrows climbed.
"It was a single comment," Caroline said quickly. "Hardly a lesson."
"It was kind," Miss Darcy insisted. "And I appreciated it. You did not have to help me. But you did."
The room went quiet. Caroline stared at the girl—the young woman, really—and the walls around her heart developed another crack.
"It was nothing," she managed.
"It was not nothing," Mrs Darcy said softly. "Kindness is never nothing. Even when we pretend it is."
Before Caroline could respond, the door burst open with the subtlety of a cannon blast. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam strode into the room, still in his scarlet regimentals, his face flushed and his cravat a casualty of haste. He looked as if he had run across half of London without stopping.
His eyes swept the room, landed on Caroline, and his entire body sagged with relief.
"Miss Bingley," he said breathless. "You are here."
Caroline stood, her heart doing traitorous, inconvenient things inside her chest. "Colonel. What are you doing here?"
"I came to—" He stopped, glanced around the room, seemed to notice for the first time that they had an audience. "That is. I was informed. By Georgiana. That you were attending tea."
Miss Darcy looked as though butter would not melt. "I may have mentioned it. In passing."
"You sent me a note," the Colonel said flatly. "With explicit instructions to arrive by half past three to 'ensure Miss Bingley was not overwhelmed.'"
"Did I?" Miss Darcy examined her fingernails. "How thoughtful of me."
Mrs Darcy and Lady Keathley exchanged glances. The Viscount grinned like a demon.
Caroline's face burned. "I am not overwhelmed, Colonel. As you can see, I am perfectly fine."
"You were perched on the edge of your chair like a bird preparing for flight."
"I was sitting."
"Defensively."
"There is no such thing as defensive sitting!"
"There is when you are doing it," the Colonel countered. He turned to his family. "Have you been interrogating her?"
"We have been offering her tea," Mrs Darcy said, her voice dripping with innocence. "And lemon cakes. And pleasant conversation."
"How dare you," the Colonel said, his eyes narrowing.
"Richard," Lord Keathley drawled, "are you accusing us of being kind? How scandalous."
"I am accusing you of scheming."
"We do not scheme," Lady Keathley said gently. "We facilitate."
"It is the same thing!"
Caroline, who had been watching this exchange with growing bewilderment, sat down and cleared her throat. "Colonel. I do not require rescue."
He turned to her, his jaw set. "Are you certain?"
"Quite certain. Lady Keathley has been nothing but gracious. Mrs Darcy as well."
Mrs Darcy laughed. "Gracious! Mr Darcy, did you hear that? I have been elevated to gracious."
"A significant improvement," her husband agreed. "You were insufferable this morning."
"I was not!"
"You hid my boots."
"You deserved it."
Caroline found herself relaxing, the tension in her shoulders easing as the Darcys bickered with the familiarity of people who genuinely liked each other. It was strange. And oddly comforting.
The Colonel was still staring at her. "If you are certain you do not need assistance—"
"I am certain."
"Then I shall leave you to your tea."
He did not move.
Caroline raised an eyebrow. "Colonel. You are still standing in the doorway."
"I am aware."
"Then kindly remove yourself from it. You are blocking the light."
Lord Keathley snorted into his teacup. "Oh, I like her. Richard, she is delightful when she is eviscerating you."
"She is always eviscerating me," the Colonel muttered. But he was smiling. Just slightly. "Very well, Miss Bingley. I shall leave you to your salon. Try not to traumatize my brother."
"I make no promises."
He bowed, turned, and left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Then Mrs Darcy leaned forward, her eyes gleaming in wonder. "Miss Bingley. That was extraordinary."
"What was?"
"The way you handled him. Most women simper when Richard arrives in uniform. You told him to move because he was blocking the light."
"He was blocking the light."
"He was checking to ensure you were safe," Lady Keathley chimed in. "He stormed in here like a knight charging into battle. For you."
Caroline's throat tightened. "He was being ridiculous."
"He was being protective," said Miss Darcy.
"Why would he be protective of me? We barely tolerate each other."
The three women exchanged glances that made Caroline feel deeply uneasy.
"Miss Bingley," Mrs Darcy said, setting down her teacup. "How much do you know about the Colonel's current predicament?"
"What predicament?"
"The deadline," Lady Keathley explained. "Easter. His father's ultimatum."
Caroline frowned. "I know the Earl expects him to marry. But what does that have to do with me?"
Another exchange of glances.
Mr Darcy, who had been silent through most of the exchange, sighed. "Elizabeth. Do not meddle."
"I am not meddling. I am clarifying."
"You are scheming."
"I am facilitating," his wife disagreed primly. She turned back to Caroline. "Miss Bingley, the Colonel has three weeks to secure a wife. Or his father sends him to the West Indies."
Caroline's stomach dropped. "Three weeks?"
"Easter Sunday," Miss Darcy confirmed. "And he has been spending every waking moment with you or trailing behind you. One wonders what could that mean, do you not think?"
"He has been helping me find a husband."
"Has he?" Mrs Darcy's smile was sharp. "Or has he been sabotaging every man who looks at you whilst pretending it is strategy?"
Caroline's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. "Oh," she said faintly.
"Oh indeed," Mrs Darcy agreed, looking entirely too pleased.
Caroline's mind assembled the evidence. The Colonel's refusal to introduce her to Lord Fawlton.
His insistence she wear subdued colours.
His fury at the opera. His panic at Rotten Row.
His relief when he saw her sitting safely in this drawing room.
Three weeks until Easter. He required a wife. A wife with a dowry. She had a dowry.
The drawing room tilted. Caroline's fingers dug into the arm of her chair, her knuckles blanched white.
"Miss Bingley?" Lady Keathley leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "Are you unwell? You have lost all colour."
"I am perfectly well," she lied. Her voice sounded distant to her ears, as though it belonged to someone else.
Mrs Darcy's sharp eyes missed nothing. "You look as though you have seen a ghost, Miss Bingley."
Caroline stood. Too abruptly. The teacup rattled against its saucer, sloshing tea over the rim.
"I must leave." The words emerged clipped, breathless. "My sister—Louisa—she is unwell. I must attend to her."
The lie was transparent. They all knew it.
Lady Keathley rose, her skirts whispering against the carpet. "Miss Bingley, please stay. Whatever troubles you—"
"There is no trouble." Caroline forced her lips into a smile. It felt like pressing shards of glass against her skin. "Thank you for the tea. It was... enlightening. Just like you promised in your invitation."
She curtsied—too quick, too shallow—and turned for the door.
"Miss Bingley, wait—" Miss Darcy's voice followed her, but Caroline was already moving.
She crossed the drawing room in five strides, her heels clicking against the parquet. The butler materialised, professional neutrality giving way to alarm as she wrenched open the door.
"Miss Bingley, shall I summon a carriage—"
"No." She did not slow. "I prefer to walk."
The late afternoon air struck her face like a slap. Cold. Sharp. She walked. Then faster. Then she was nearly running, her spencer flapping behind her, her bonnet slipping askew.
I am not crying, she told herself. A tear betrayed her, hot and traitorous, sliding down her cheek. I do not cry.
Another tear fell. Then another.
By the time she reached Portman Square, her breath came in ragged gasps, and her vision blurred. Her invincible composure lay in ruins at her feet.
What a fool I have been.
She had thought—God help her, she had actually believed—that the Colonel might care for her. That his refusal to introduce her to Lord Fawlton stemmed from protectiveness, not calculation. That his fury at the opera had been genuine concern, not an investment in a potential asset.
That when he looked at her, he saw Caroline. Not twenty thousand pounds wrapped in sarcenet.
Fool. Idiot. Desperate, naive fool.
She had let herself hope. And hope was the cruellest weapon of all.
The townhouse loomed ahead. Caroline fumbled for the door. The butler opened it, his professional mask slipping into concern.