Chapter Nine The Secret Kindness #3
"Is that what this is?" she asked. "A tactical retreat from insulting me?"
"Call it what you will, Miss Bingley."
"What am I, then?"
He looked at her—the grey gown she despised, the cross she wore like armour, the green eyes that watched him with equal parts suspicion and curiosity.
"A lemon."
"A lemon, Colonel? Truly?"
"You are a lemon with sugar," he said quietly. "The kind people only find if they bother to look past the sour."
Caroline's breath caught. For a moment, she looked young. Uncertain. Then the mask slammed back into place.
"That is the second-worst compliment I have ever received, Colonel," she said. "The first was when a gentleman compared me to a radiant carrot."
"I stand by the lemon metaphor."
"You would." She squared her shoulders, the general preparing for battle. "Now. About Lord Fawlton—"
"No."
"Colonel—"
"I will not introduce you to a man who will use you and discard you." Richard was absolute. "I refuse."
"Then what do you suggest I do?" she demanded. "Stand here in grey silk until I fossilise?"
Richard opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, before his brain could stop him, he said, "Dance with me."
Her eyes widened. "Dance with you?"
"It will give you visibility." He already regretted the words. "Show the room that you are desirable. Make the other men jealous."
"Or it will make them think I am desperate."
"Or," Richard countered, "it will make them think that an Earl's son finds you worth his time. Which will make you instantly more valuable."
Her head tilted as she studied him. "This is still part of your scheme, is it not? Helping me find a husband."
"Of course."
"And you expect nothing in return?"
Everything. He wanted to demand answers. He wanted to know why she hid her kindness. He wanted to know if she wore grey because he told her to or because she was afraid.
But instead, he offered his hand. "Just a dance, Miss Bingley. Nothing more."
She looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then she placed her gloved fingers in his.
"One dance, Colonel. And then you will introduce me to Lord Fawlton."
"We shall see."
"That is not an agreement."
"It is all you will get."
He led her onto the floor, his heart racing. One dance with a woman who was not what he thought. And that country dance was a catastrophe in the making.
Not because Richard lacked skill—his mother had drilled proper footwork into him relentlessly. No, the disaster lay in the fact that Caroline Bingley was eyeing him as though he had suddenly grown a second head, and that head was reciting very bad verse.
They took their places in the set. Her gloved hand rested in his, tense as a drawn bowstring. The music began.
They moved through the opening figures in silence. Turn. Step. Pass. The dance required no conversation, which was just as well, since Richard's ability to form coherent thought had vanished the moment her fingers brushed his palm.
She was light on her feet. Graceful. And the grey gown she despised caught the candlelight and made her look like smoke given shape.
"You are staring," Miss Bingley said as they came together for the next turn.
"I am observing."
"It is the same thing."
"Observation is tactical," Richard retorted. "Staring is rude."
"And what exactly are you observing, Colonel?"
"You, naturally."
They separated, wove down the line, and rejoined. Her cheeks were flushed—whether from exertion or irritation, he could not say.
"You dance well," he admitted.
"Do not sound so astonished."
"I am not astonished," he lied. "Merely... impressed."
"Careful, Colonel. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"I am capable of compliments."
She looked doubtful.
The dance spun them apart again. When they came back together, she was biting her lip to suppress a smile.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice low.
"Dancing?" He feigned innocence. "It is the customary activity at a ball."
"Helping me. Refusing Fawlton. Being nice." Her gaze searched his face. "What do you want, Colonel?"
"I want..." he hesitated, "to ensure you do not marry a scoundrel."
"Why?"
"Because Schmidt would never forgive me if I allowed you to ruin yourself under my temporary supervision."
"Schmidt?"
"She is scary," Richard said solemnly. "I fear her more than I fear French cavalry."
Caroline laughed, a real, unguarded sound that cut through the din of the ballroom like a blade. Several heads turned.
"There," he said with a broad smile. "That is what you should do more often."
"Laugh at you?"
"Laugh in general. It suits you better than pinched lips."
The music swelled, signalling its finale. They moved through the last figures, and when the dance ended, Richard found himself oddly reluctant to let go of her hand.
"One dance," she reminded him. "As promised. Now introduce me to Fawlton."
"No."
"Colonel—"
"Find another Marquis, Miss Bingley." He was already stepping back. "That one will destroy you."
He bowed, turned, and walked away before she could protest. Behind him, he heard her mutter, "Insufferable man."
He was still smiling when he left the ballroom.