Page 12 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"In the blue guest chamber. The surgeon has set her leg. She will require several weeks of recovery before she can be moved."

Another silence. This one lasted four seconds.

"Several weeks." The Dowager set down her tea cup with a care that suggested she would rather have thrown it. "In this house. During your engagement party."

"I was not aware that broken bones consulted social calendars before occurring, Mother."

"Do not be flippant with me, Frederick." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Most irregular. But I suppose one cannot leave the Queen's sister lying in a ditch. Charity has its place, even when inconveniently timed."

"How fortunate that Lady Florinda's suffering can be classified as an act of charity." Frederick selected toast he did not want and placed it on a plate he did not need. "I shall inform her that she is being appropriately grateful."

"Frederick—"

"Kippers, Your Grace?"

He turned. Penelope had risen from her chair and was gesturing toward the sideboard with one elegant hand. Her face held nothing but solicitous concern.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kippers." She smiled—a perfectly pleasant smile, perfectly appropriate to the situation. "You must be exhausted after such an ordeal. Kippers are most restorative."

Frederick stared at her.

He had carried a woman a mile and a half with her leg bent at an angle that would haunt his dreams. He had listened to her scream when he lifted her, felt her fingers tear the fabric of his waistcoat, watched her face go grey with shock. He had stood outside her door while the surgeon worked and counted the minutes until he was permitted to confirm she would live.

And his fiancée was offering him kippers.

"Thank you," he heard himself say. "Perhaps later."

From the far end of the table, Lord Ashworth cleared his throat. Penelope's father was a man of middling height and considerable ambition, his thinning hair carefully arranged to disguise its retreat, his eyes sharp beneath the performance of geniality. He had been watching Frederick since he entered the room—not with concern, Frederick realised, but with calculation.

"Lady Florinda Ashbourne," Lord Ashworth said, as though tasting the name. "The youngest of the Ashbourne sisters, if I recall. Unmarried, is she not?"

"I believe so."

"And you carried her yourself? All that distance?"

"There was no one else available, and I could not leave her on the road."

"No, no. Quite right." Lord Ashworth nodded, his face sympathetic, his eyes still calculating. "Most heroic, Your Grace. Though I wonder—will there be talk? An unmarried woman, carried in the arms of an engaged man... You know how the county gossips enjoy their speculations."

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

"I imagine," Frederick said, his voice gone cold, "that anyone who would prefer I had left the Queen's sister to die of exposure rather than risk gossip is not someone whose opinion I value. Would you agree, Lord Ashworth?"

Lord Ashworth's smile did not falter. "Of course, of course. I merely meant⁠—"

"I have sent word to His Majesty informing him of his sister-in-law's condition." Frederick set his untouched plate on the sideboard. "The family will send someone to collect her when she is well enough to travel. Until then, she is a guest in this house and will be treated as such. Is that understood?"

The question was directed at all of them, but his gaze rested on Lord Ashworth.

"Perfectly, Your Grace." Lord Ashworth reached for his tea. "Perfectly understood."

Frederick excused himself before he could say what he was thinking.

* * *

His study was at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens. It had been his father's study before him, and his grandfather's before that—a room built for dukes to do ducal things, whatever those might be. Frederick had never quite felt he belonged in it.