Chapter Thirteen The Architecture of Defiance #2
"I am merely expensive, my Lord." Her chin lifted. "Most men find the cost of my conversation far exceeds their mental budget. And I have a very low tolerance for those who attempt to barter with empty pockets."
She turned to leave.
His hand caught her wrist. Not hard. Not painful. But enough to stop her. Enough to make a point about who held the power in this particular exchange.
"Do not walk away from me, Miss Bingley." His voice was soft. Pleasant. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted. "I was not finished speaking."
Caroline looked down at his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Then slowly, up at his face. If looks could etch glass, his would be in ribbons.
"Remove your hand, Lord Fawlton. Or I shall remove it for you. And I should warn you—I have very sharp hairpins and absolutely no compunction about using them."
For a moment, they stood frozen—a tableau of barely concealed hostility that was beginning to attract attention from the surrounding guests.
Then a voice cut through the tension like a cavalry sabre through silk.
"Fawlton."
Caroline's stomach dropped to her slippers.
Fawlton removed his hand.
She knew that voice. She knew the particular vibration of barely contained fury that made consonants sound like threats. She knew—without turning around—exactly who had just arrived and exactly how much worse this evening was about to become.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was not walking across the ballroom.
He was advancing. His face was a mask of martial fury that Caroline recognised from stories of the front lines. He was actively calculating where to hide the bodies and whether the rhododendrons would provide adequate cover.
His boots struck the parquet with a rhythmic, lethal intent that seemed to silence the room in his wake. Guests parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, if Moses had been significantly angrier and wearing regimentals.
He reached them and ignored the Marquis entirely. His focus was pinned on Caroline with an intensity that made the feathers in her hair quiver.
"Miss Bingley." His voice was low. Controlled. "A word."
Caroline curtsied with the frigid precision of a glacier that had developed strong opinions about being addressed.
"Colonel. I was unaware you were a guest of Lady Faversham's this evening.
" She smiled. It was the smile of someone fantasising about violence.
"Or do you merely perform reconnaissance in every ballroom you find insufficiently guarded?
I am surprised you found the time, given your... pressing deadlines."
His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched near his temple. His gaze flickered to Lord Fawlton and the look that crossed his face was enough to wither a hothouse orchid at forty paces.
"I go where I am needed, Miss Bingley." His voice had dropped to nearly a growl. "And currently, I see a great deal of rubbish that requires clearing. It is a messy job, but someone must attend to it."
Lord Fawlton straightened, taking a step back—though whether from self-preservation or pride, she could not tell.
"Fitzwilliam. I see the army has not managed to improve your manners.
" His tone was bored. Dismissive. The verbal equivalent of examining one's fingernails.
"I believe I was in the middle of a conversation with Miss Bingley.
A conversation that did not require a military escort. "
"The Marquis was just remarking on my 'tropical' nature, Colonel," Caroline interjected before he could respond with something that would require seconds and surgeons.
She flicked her fan open, the orange silk a barrier between herself and the Colonel's intensity.
"It seems I am a bird of paradise. Although, as you once noted, birds of paradise are rarely found in the company of common sparrows.
" She paused, letting the barb land. "Or perhaps you were referring to my 'hidden sugar'?
I find I have quite run out of the substance tonight. "
Richard's eyes flashed. "Miss Bingley—"
"Miss Bingley," she continued, her voice rising just enough to carry, "is currently enjoying the company of a Marquis.
Rank, as you are so fond of reminding everyone, has its privileges.
" She stepped closer to Fawlton—not because she wanted to, but because the Colonel's jaw did something satisfying when she did.
"And I have spent quite enough time following your 'tactical' advice.
I find I prefer my own instincts. They are less prone to ulterior motives. "
She turned her back on him. Deliberately. Dismissively. Offering Lord Fawlton a smile so brilliant and so hollow it could have been used as a mirror.
"Do go on, my Lord. You were mentioning how dangerous I am. I find the Colonel's presence provides rather a dull background for such an interesting topic."
Behind her, the Colonel made a sound that was not quite human.
"Fawlton." His voice had gone very quiet. Very calm. The kind of calm that preceded catastrophic violence. "Leave. Now. Before I forget we are in a ballroom and remember that I have very little patience for men who hunt in gardens."
The Marquis let out a short, barked laugh.
"You have no authority here, Fitzwilliam.
Unless you intend to make a scene that will ensure Miss Bingley is never invited to tea again.
" His gaze swept over Caroline's gown with theatrical disdain.
"Though, looking at that dress, I suspect she has already made her own arrangements for social suicide. "
Richard's hand moved towards his hip.
It was purely instinctive—the gesture of a soldier reaching for a weapon that was not there, because gentlemen did not wear swords to ballrooms, no matter how much they might wish to. But the movement sent a ripple of gasps through the nearby guests.
Caroline felt a surge of vicious triumph and maybe a little bit of grief.