Page 17 of How Not to Marry a Duke

This was, Florinda decided, proof that the universe possessed both a cruel sense of humour and an excessive fondness for irony.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing. She thought instead of arms around her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all. The voice in her ear—had he said her name? She thought he had said her name. The memory was fragmentary, blurred by pain and cold, but she could almost hear it: Stay awake. Stay with me.

And there had been counting. She was almost certain there had been counting—a rhythm beneath his breath, steady as a march, as though the numbers were keeping him upright.

She had not seen him since waking. He had not visited, which was proper. He was her host, not her friend. He was engaged to a kind, clever woman who brought laudanum and Gothic novels to invalids. He was not the sort of man who should be visiting unmarried women in their bedchambers, even if he had carried those women two miles with shattered legs.

This was all perfectly sensible.

Florinda was annoyed to discover that she was disappointed anyway.

It is the head injury, she told herself firmly. The shock. The laudanum. You are not lying awake thinking about a man you kissed nine years ago who is engaged to marry someone else. You are processing the trauma of nearly dying. This is a perfectly normal response to a near-death experience and has absolutely nothing to do with the way he said your name.

The fire crackled. The blue curtains shifted in some imperceptible draft. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight.

Florinda stared at the ceiling and did not think about Frederick. She did not think about the warmth of his arms or the steadiness of his stride or the way he had counted his steps as though the numbers were the only thing between him and disaster.

She thought about all of it anyway, and was thoroughly irritated with herself for doing so.

When sleep came at last, she dreamed of being carried through snow that had turned inexplicably to blue wallpaper, and when she woke to grey morning and the distant sound of hooves on gravel, she had the distinct and thoroughly unwelcome sense that her life had just become significantly more complicated.

Chapter Six

The Staircase

"She must be going quite mad in that room."

Frederick looked up from his breakfast. Penelope was watching him with the earnest concern she brought to all household matters, her teacup cradled in both hands.

"Lady Florinda," she clarified. "Two weeks in that chamber with nothing but novels and needlework. I visit her every afternoon, but it cannot be enough. She needs fresh air. A change of scene. The morning room, perhaps, or the garden when the weather permits."

"The surgeon has forbidden her to walk," Frederick said.

"Well, yes, but she needn't walk." Penelope set down her teacup. "She could be carried. The footmen are quite capable."

Frederick opened his mouth to agree that yes, the footmen were indeed capable, and found himself saying instead: "I could carry her."

Penelope blinked. "You, Frederick?"

"I carried her two miles when I found her. A single staircase seems rather less demanding." He reached for his coffee. "And I should not wish to pull the footmen from their duties."

This was a lie. He had an army of servants whose entire purpose was to be assigned duties. But Penelope merely smiled.

"How thoughtful of you. I shall go tell her at once—she will be so pleased to escape that room." She rose from the table. "I've been reading The Italian to her, and she's begun to identify rather too strongly with the imprisoned heroine."

She departed with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had found a project, leaving Frederick to contemplate the spectacular foolishness of what he had just volunteered to do.

* * *

When he reached the blue guest chamber, Penelope was already there, helping Florinda arrange herself against the pillows.

"There you are!" Penelope beamed at him. "I've told Lady Florinda about your generous offer. She was quite overcome."

"I was not overcome," Florinda said. Her golden hair was pinned up properly today, though several strands had already escaped to curl against her neck. "I merely expressed appropriate gratitude whilst privately questioning His Grace's sanity."

"His sanity is quite intact," Frederick said. "I have carried heavier things."

"What a charming compliment. I shall treasure it always."