Chapter Thirteen The Architecture of Defiance #3
He looked protective. He looked jealous. And she knew now, with a clarity that tasted like copper and salt, that it was all a performance. A tactical play. A calculated display designed to secure her dowry before his Easter deadline.
She would not cry. She would not cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
Before the Colonel could utter a retort that would lead to pistols at dawn, a second red coat materialised at his side.
Colonel Lindon's blond curls were slightly dishevelled—possibly from running across the ballroom to prevent murder—and he seemed caught somewhere between alarm and resignation.
"Fitzwilliam." His hand landed on the Colonel's arm. "Steady on, man. Steady."
The Colonel did not look at him. His eyes were still fixed on Caroline with a raw and desperate quality which she refused to interpret.
Lindon turned to her with a bow that was almost a plea.
"Miss Bingley. Might I have the honour of the next dance?
I believe it is a waltz, and I should be most grateful for the opportunity to...
" He glanced at Richard. Then at Fawlton.
Then at the gathering crowd of fascinated onlookers.
"...steer everyone away from the heat of the fire.
The floor is quite crowded, and a gentle turn might be just the thing. "
Caroline looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam.
His eyes were burning with something unspoken. His knuckles were white. His entire body was coiled like a spring about to snap.
She looked at Lord Fawlton, who was enjoying the spectacle far too much.
She looked at Colonel Lindon, whose priorities had visibly shifted from "preventing a duel" to "surviving the evening with all limbs intact."
Then she placed her hand on Lindon's sleeve and smiled.
"I should be delighted, Colonel Lindon. I find the air near the pillars to be increasingly stale." She didn't look at the Colonel. She refused to look at him. "And I have always found your conversation to be remarkably... uncomplicated."
She let Lindon lead her away. She did not look back.
Colonel Lindon danced as if he had been taught the steps at gunpoint and never quite recovered from the experience.
His focus was split between not treading on her orange hem and watching the edge of the ballroom, where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood frozen like a particularly furious statue.
The man had not moved. Had not spoken. He simply stared, tracking Caroline's progress across the floor with the intensity of a hunter watching prey escape.
"Miss Bingley," Lindon said after they had completed their first circuit, his voice barely audible above the strings. "I must tell you something."
"Must you?" Caroline's spine was a pike. Her smile was porcelain. Her heart was doing inconvenient, traitorous things that she refused to acknowledge. "I find I have had quite enough revelations for one week, Colonel Lindon."
"Please. It is about Fitzwilliam."
"I know everything I need to know about Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice could have cut glass. "He requires a hefty dowry by Easter. I possess one. The mathematics are not complicated."
Lindon winced. "It is not—that is to say, things are not always what they appear."
"No?" She raised an eyebrow. "Then please, enlighten me. What does it appear to be when a man with a deadline spends weeks cultivating a woman with a fortune? Strategy? Coincidence? A passionate interest in millinery?"
"He has a heart, Miss Bingley." Lindon's steps faltered slightly as he narrowly avoided her train. "Even if he hides it beneath a great deal of scarlet and arrogance. I have known him for years. I have seen him in battle. I have seen him—"
"I have no interest in what you have seen, Colonel Lindon." Caroline executed a perfect turn, her feathers swaying like a cavalry charge. "I have seen enough for myself."
"Miss Bingley, every coin has two sides."
"Coins." Her tone was crystalline. "Yes, they have two sides.
Both cold to the touch." She met Lindon's eyes with a gaze that had frozen harder men.
"Tell your friend that I am not in the business of lending my capital to those who cannot afford the interest. My fortune is not for sale, and neither am I. "
They turned again. The music swelled.
At the edge of the floor, Colonel Fitzwilliam had not moved.
Caroline caught his eye—accidentally, she told herself, purely accidentally—and ensured her smile was as cold and bright as the gold he so desperately required.
Let him watch. Let him suffer.
She was Caroline Bingley, and she was done being anyone's strategic asset.
The waltz ended. She curtsied to Lindon—shallow, perfunctory—and swept away before he could offer another word.
She did not look back at the man in the red coat.
She absolutely did not notice that his expression, as she walked away, looked less like calculation and more like a heart breaking in real time.
That was not her concern.
She had feathers to maintain and a reputation to rebuild.
And if her own heart was shattering beneath her stays, well.
That was what corsets were for.