Page 18 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Penelope laughed. "You see? She is in desperate need of entertainment. Two weeks of confinement have made her quite sharp."

"I was sharp before the confinement," Florinda said. "The confinement has merely removed my incentive to pretend otherwise."

Frederick found himself fighting a smile. This was inappropriate. This was precisely the sort of reaction he should not be having in front of his fiancée.

"Shall we proceed?" He moved toward the bed. "The morning room awaits."

"I shall go down and ensure everything is ready," Penelope said. "Lady Florinda, I'll have Cook prepare that ginger tea you liked. Frederick, do be careful on the stairs."

She swept out, leaving them alone.

The silence that followed was approximately three seconds long. Frederick counted them.

"Your fiancée," Florinda said, "is a genuinely kind person."

"She is."

"She has visited me every afternoon for two weeks. She reads Gothic novels aloud with excellent dramatic flair. She brings me biscuits when Cook isn't looking." Florinda's voice was carefully neutral. "I like her very much."

"I am glad," Frederick said, and meant it, and hated himself for what he was about to do.

He approached the bed. "Put your arm around my neck. Yes, like that⁠—"

He lifted her.

She made a small noise—her leg, despite the splint, did not appreciate being jostled—but did not complain. Her arm tightened around his neck, and then she was there, pressed against his chest, her breath warm against his collar, her escaped hair brushing his jaw.

He was going to die. He was going to die carrying this woman down fourteen stairs whilst his fiancée—his kind, trusting, generous fiancée—waited below with ginger tea, and when they found his body, everyone would know exactly why.

"Fourteen stairs," he said, because speaking was better than thinking. "We shall manage."

"You counted the stairs?"

Damn.

"The house has been in my family for four generations." He moved toward the door. "One becomes familiar with the architecture."

"How many steps from the front door to the stables?"

"Two hundred and forty-seven." The words emerged before he could stop them. He closed his eyes briefly. "That proves nothing."

"It proves you count things." Her voice carried no judgment—only curiosity. "You count everything, don't you."

They had reached the top of the stairs. He paused, adjusting his hold on her.

"Only the things I cannot control," he said.

One step. Two.

"That must be exhausting."

Three. Four.

"It is the only thing that isn't."

She was quiet for a moment. Five steps. Six. He could feel her breathing against his chest—measured, deliberate, as though she were counting too.

"I understand," she said, so soft he almost missed it.