Chapter Seven The Potted Plant Revelation #2
Her hair, that mass of red-gold that usually bristled with feathers and defiance, had been tamed into an elegant arrangement atop her head.
Soft curls framed her face, whilst the bulk of it was swept up and secured with simple ivory combs.
The style revealed the graceful curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, the small, shell-like perfection of her ears.
She wore no jewels save for a single strand of pearls at her throat.
She looked… refined. Restrained. Dangerous.
Richard's mouth, which had been hanging open in a manner unbecoming to a Colonel of His Majesty's forces, snapped shut with an audible click.
Miss Bingley swept into the ballroom on the arm of her brother, who looked as he always did, cheerful, vapid, and utterly oblivious to the fact that half the room had turned to stare.
Charles Bingley wore a coat of pale blue.
His cravat was tied in an elaborate knot that had clearly taken his valet an hour to achieve and would survive approximately ten minutes before collapsing.
But it was not Bingley who drew the eye. It was his sister.
Caroline's green eyes swept the ballroom. Her chin was lifted. Her spine was straight. She moved through the crowd, knowing fully well that she was being watched by the ton and intending to make it worth their while. And then her gaze landed on him.
She did not smile or frown. She simply looked at him for a beat too long, her eyes narrowing fractionally, before she returned her attention to her brother, who was babbling about the splendour of the chandeliers.
Richard pushed away from the potted palm and crossed the ballroom, weaving between clusters of gossips and debutantes, until he reached the Bingleys.
"Miss Bingley." He executed a flawless bow. "Mr Bingley. What a delightful surprise. I had no idea Lady Sefton extended her invitations so broadly."
Bingley beamed, utterly missing the insult. "Colonel Fitzwilliam! How marvellous! I was just telling Caroline what a stroke of luck it was to receive an invitation. We were not expecting one, you know. The post was quite late this morning. I nearly missed it entirely. I was in my dressing gown!"
"A tragedy narrowly averted," Richard replied dryly.
Caroline's eyes met his over her brother's head. "How extraordinary to receive Lady Sefton's invitation this morning, Colonel. So unexpected. So remarkably well timed. One might almost think that someone with significant influence had taken a sudden interest in my social calendar."
"Lady Sefton is known for her impeccable taste in guests."
"How strange, then, that her taste improved overnight. Why, only last week I was informed her guest list was quite full."
Richard's mouth curved. "Circumstances change, Miss Bingley. Perhaps she had a cancellation."
"How fortunate. And how even more fortunate to find you here, lurking by the refreshments, looking as though you have been lying in wait."
"I do not lurk. I observe strategically."
"From behind a potted palm?"
"The palm provided excellent cover."
Bingley laughed, the sound bright and utterly bewildered. "You two are so droll! I never understand half of what you say to each other. It is like listening to a play performed in Greek!"
"I assure you, Charles, the Colonel and I understand each other perfectly," Caroline said, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Before Richard could respond, a flash of movement caught his eye. Across the ballroom, near the orchestra, Colonel Edmund Lindon had straightened. The man looked politely bored, until his gaze landed on Miss Bingley.
No.
Absolutely not.
Lindon began threading through the crowd, moving determinedly to secure a dance.
Richard stepped directly into Miss Bingley's line of sight, blocking her view of the approaching officer. "Miss Bingley, might I have a word? In private?"
She blinked up at him. "We are in the middle of a ballroom, Colonel. Privacy is not readily available."
"Then we shall settle for the illusion of it." He offered his arm. "Mr Bingley, you will excuse us."
Bingley waved them off, already distracted by a young woman in white muslin who possessed improbably blue eyes and all the intellectual vivacity of a porcelain doll. "Oh! Of course! By all means! I shall just… ah, there is Miss Whitmore! Lovely girl! Plays the harp, you know!"
And he was gone, trailing after the blue-eyed angel like a spaniel after a particularly slow rabbit.
Caroline placed her gloved hand on Richard's arm as if touching an eel. "I suppose subtlety is beyond you, Colonel."
"Subtlety is for men with time to waste. I am efficient." He steered her away from the centre of the ballroom, towards the relative shelter of a marble column draped in greenery. Behind them, Colonel Lindon skidded to a halt, caught Richard's glare, and promptly retreated in the opposite direction.
"Was that Colonel Lindon?" Caroline asked, craning her neck to observe the fleeing officer.
"It was. And he has urgent business elsewhere."
"He looked as though he was approaching to ask me to dance."
"He was mistaken."
Miss Bingley stopped walking, forcing him to halt or risk dragging her across the floor like a recalcitrant mule. "Mistaken? About what, precisely?"
"Your availability."
"I am perfectly available, Colonel. That is the point of attending a ball. One dances. One converses. One secures admirers and, ideally, a proposal before the Season concludes."
"Not tonight."
"I beg your pardon?"
Richard turned to face her fully, positioning them so that his broad shoulders blocked her from the worst of the crowd's scrutiny. "Your goal tonight, Miss Bingley, is not to dance."
"Then what, pray tell, is my goal? To stand here like an ornamental shrub whilst you glower at prospective suitors?"