Page 44 of How Not to Marry a Duke

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Not quite.

* * *

Frederick had not planned what to say.

He had ridden the three miles from Carthedge to Ashbourne with his mind churning through a thousand openings—apologies, explanations, desperate pleas for her to forget what she had read. None of them had seemed adequate. None of them had captured the magnitude of what he had done.

Now he stood in her garden, the stephanotis clutched in his hands like a shield, and honour demanded his silence.

She knew. He could see it in the careful way she did not quite meet his eyes, in the steadiness of her voice that was a fraction too controlled. She had read every word, and she was not going to speak of it, and he⁠—

He would not either. He could not. To acknowledge the letter would be to make it real, and if it became real, he would have to act upon it, and acting upon it would destroy them both.

"Your roses are thriving," he said instead.

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"The roses." He gestured vaguely at the blooms surrounding them. "They appear... healthy."

"They are roses, Your Grace. They require very little beyond sun and water and the occasional firm word."

"You speak firmly to your roses?"

"When they require it." She picked up her trowel again, turning it over in her gloved hands. "The yellow ones are particularly stubborn. They sulk if not pruned correctly."

"I did not know roses could sulk."

"All living things sulk, Your Grace. Some are merely more obvious about it than others."

They were discussing roses. He had ridden three miles in a cold sweat, certain that his life was about to collapse around him, and now they were discussing the temperament of yellow roses whilst a three-year-old scolded a cat in the kitchen garden.

It was absurd. It was also the only conversation he could bear to have.

"How is your recovery progressing?" he asked. "Dr. Blackwell's reports have been encouraging."

"You receive reports on my recovery?"

"I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The accident occurred on my land. It seemed appropriate to monitor your progress."

"How conscientious of you."

"It is merely⁠—"

"Duty. Yes." She set down her trowel. "You are very devoted to duty, Your Grace."

The words hung between them. Neither acknowledged what lay beneath them.

* * *

He was too close.

Florinda could feel the heat of him—the warmth radiating from his body, the faint trace of sandalwood and horse and a deeper note underneath that was simply Frederick. She could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his hands had tightened around the pot until his knuckles went white.

He set the stephanotis on the garden bench—carefully, as though it were precious, as though his hands needed to be occupied. Then he moved closer, and closer still, until he stood beside her chair.

"You have dirt on your face," he said softly.

"I was gardening."