Page 21 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Frederick stood abruptly. "Tea would be excellent. I was just—we were discussing horses."

"How lovely." Penelope crossed the lawn toward them, her smile warm and uncomplicated. "Lady Florinda has excellent taste in horses. I've heard her speak of her mare with such affection—it's clear she knows her way around a stable."

"We were comparing notes on difficult temperaments," Florinda said. "Apparently His Grace's Ajax is as opinionated as my Tempest."

"How nice that you have so much in common." Penelope settled onto the bench beside Florinda, arranging her skirts. "I confess I've never had much of a head for horses myself. They're very large and have opinions I don't understand. But I do enjoy watching people who love them talk about them. There's such... passion in it."

She said the word passion without any particular emphasis. Frederick told himself he was imagining the way it landed.

* * *

That evening, when he carried Florinda back to her chamber, Penelope walked ahead with a candle, chattering about tomorrow's plans.

"I thought perhaps the library tomorrow. The afternoon sun is so pleasant there. And I must write to my aunt—I've been putting it off dreadfully—so you'll have the room to yourselves for a bit."

Florinda's fingers tapped against Frederick's shoulder. One, two, three. Counting the stairs with him.

Fourteen stairs. Twelve breaths. One woman in his arms and another walking ahead, trusting and kind and oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding behind her.

He set Florinda down on the bed with more care than necessary. Penelope bustled about with pillows and curtains.

"Sleep well, Lady Florinda. Frederick, shall we? I want to show you the roses before it gets too dark—the gardener has done wonders with the yellow ones."

She took his arm, steering him toward the door with wifely propriety.

"Good evening, Lady Florinda," Frederick managed.

"Good evening, Your Grace. Lady Penelope."

He did not look back. He could not afford to.

The roses were, indeed, spectacular. Penelope pointed out the yellow ones, the pink ones, the climbing variety that had overtaken the south wall. Frederick nodded and made appropriate noises and counted the seconds until he could escape to his study.

"You're very good with her," Penelope said, as they walked back toward the house.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Lady Florinda. You're patient with her, and you make her laugh." Penelope's voice was warm. "It's kind of you. She's been so isolated these past weeks—I think she needed a friend."

"She is your friend," Frederick said. "I am merely... providing transportation."

Penelope laughed. "You undersell yourself. She speaks of you quite fondly, you know. Our conversations are always livelier after you've visited."

Frederick did not know what to say to this. He settled for: "I am glad the arrangement is working."

"So am I." Penelope squeezed his arm. "Good night, Frederick. Sleep well."

In his study, he stared at a blank page for seventeen minutes before writing:

You looked at my horse and knew his breeding from fifty yards. You are counting the stairs with me. My fiancée calls me kind and patient and tells me you speak of me fondly.

She trusts me. She should not trust me.

This is not a love letter. This is the confession of a man who does not deserve the faith anyone has placed in him.

He folded the paper, placed it in the drawer with the others, and went to bed.

He did not sleep.