Page 40 of How Not to Marry a Duke

You see me. Not the title, not the estate, not the duty. You see the man who counts things because the world is too loud and numbers make it quiet. You see the man who breeds horses because they are honest in ways that people never are. You see me, and you are not afraid of what you find.

I am to marry another woman.

I know this. I have always known this. I shall stand before God and make vows to Penelope Ashworth and every word will be a lie, because the only vows I want to make are to a woman with golden hair who reads Clausewitz for entertainment and loses at chess on purpose to spare her opponents' feelings.

(She did not lose on purpose. She had told him that. He had not believed her.)

This is not poetry. I am not capable of poetry. This is simply the documented descent of a duke into complete irrationality.

You have undone me.

Yours,

F.

* * *

Florinda read the letter twice.

Then a third time, because the words refused to arrange themselves into sense.

He loved her.

Frederick loved her. Not since the stable—he had put that aside, told himself it meant nothing. But since the garden. Since he had seen her barefoot and laughing, and a door inside him had cracked open that he could not close again. He had carried her up and down those stairs not from duty but from want, and he had stopped because he could not trust himself, and she had believed⁠—

She had believed she was nothing to him. A childhood acquaintance. A houseguest to be tolerated. A woman past her prime with a broken leg and too much pride.

You have colonised my arithmetic.

Her hands were shaking now. She could not seem to stop them.

He had never meant to send this. The letter had been written for himself alone—a confession made to paper because he could not make it to her face. And now she held it in her trembling hands, and she knew everything, and she could not unknow it.

He loved her.

He was going to marry Penelope.

The mantel clock struck two.

"Lady Penelope Ashworth," the butler announced from the doorway.

* * *

Florinda shoved the letter beneath the cushion.

Her hands moved without thought—gathering the pages, crushing them against her thigh, sliding them under the embroidered silk before Penelope had fully entered the room. The other letters—the proper ones, the safe ones—remained scattered on her lap like evidence of innocence.

"Florinda!" Penelope swept toward her, all warmth and concern, a box tucked under her arm. "I promised chocolates, and here I am. How are you feeling? You look pale—has the journey home been very trying?"

"I am well." The words came out steadily. Florinda was distantly impressed with herself. "Merely tired. Please, sit—tell me everything about the wedding preparations."

Penelope settled into the chair across from her, arranging her skirts with practiced grace. "Oh, dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. My father has opinions about everything, the Dowager has opinions about everything else, and Frederick—" She stopped, her smile faltering. "Frederick has been impossible since you left, you know. Barely speaks at dinner. Rides out at dawn and does not return until dark."

Beneath the cushion, the letter burned.

"I am sorry to hear it," Florinda said. "Perhaps he is merely occupied with estate matters."

"Perhaps." Penelope's smile wavered. "But enough of Frederick." She set the chocolate box on the table and reached into her reticule, producing a small pot wrapped in muslin. "I nearly forgot—he asked me to bring you this. An orchid cutting from the Carthedge conservatory. He said you admired them."