Page 27 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I find sentiment clouds judgment, Your Grace. In cards and elsewhere."

The Dowager's gaze held hers for a beat longer than comfortable. "Hmm."

It was not approval, exactly. It was closer to acknowledgment—the recognition of one strategic mind by another.

Florinda told herself this should not feel like a victory. She told herself the warmth spreading through her was merely satisfaction at the game well played.

She told herself many things that evening. None of them were true.

* * *

The letters arrived the following morning.

Florinda recognized Charlotte's handwriting from across the room—large, dramatic loops that had been improving when she left and had apparently continued to improve in her absence. The second letter was in James's careful, wobbly script. The third appeared to be a series of enthusiastic scribbles that might have been from Charles, assisted by a patient nursemaid.

She waited until she was alone to open them.

Dear Aunt Flor, Charlotte had written, The pond has been declared OFF LIMITS for swimming because Cook says it is too cold and Mama agrees but I think they are being ridiculous. I am not a baby. I am nearly SEVEN.

James has learned to write his name without the letters going backwards. He is very proud. I told him you would be proud too.

Charles drew you a picture. I do not know what it is. He says it is a horse but I think it is a potato.

When are you coming back? Nobody plays pirates properly anymore. Miss Hendricks says pirates are not appropriate but she does not understand ANYTHING.

I miss you. James misses you. Charles misses you but he cannot write that himself so I am writing it for him. Please come home soon.

Your loving niece (not really but almost),

Charlotte

James's letter was shorter: Dear Ant Flor I can rite my name now. JAMES. I mis you. Love James. P.S. I had jam today.

Charles's contribution was, as advertised, a potato. Or possibly a horse. The distinction was unclear.

Florinda clutched the papers and let the tears fall.

This was absurd. She was a grown woman weeping over a six-year-old's complaints about pond access and a four-year-old's breakfast report. She had no claim on these children—they were the Queen's, Ella's, and Florinda was merely the aunt who played pirates and read stories and would, eventually, return to being a convenient visitor rather than a daily presence.

They were growing so fast. Charlotte's letters had improved visibly since Florinda had last seen her. By the time Florinda returned—if she returned—James would probably be reading chapter books and Charles would be speaking in full sentences and she would have missed all of it.

She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve. This was foolish. She was being maudlin. She would see them again soon, and in the meantime, she had letters, which was more than many aunts could claim, and she should be grateful rather than weeping like some sort of⁠—

"Lady Florinda."

She looked up to find Frederick in the doorway, his face shifting from polite enquiry to alarm as he registered her tears.

"Are you—what is wrong? Are you in pain? Shall I send for the surgeon?"

"I am perfectly well." She attempted to compose herself, which was difficult when one's nose was running and one's eyes were almost certainly red. "I was merely reading correspondence. From the children. The royal children. Who write to me. As children do."

She was babbling again. Wonderful.

Frederick crossed the room, and she did not watch him approach. She did not count his steps. She absolutely did not notice the way his brow had furrowed with concern or the way he lowered himself into the chair beside hers as though she were a skittish horse he did not wish to startle.

"May I?" He gestured at Charles's artwork, which had slipped from her grasp.

She nodded, her voice gone unreliable.