Page 46 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"Was that the Duke of Carthedge's horse I saw leaving?"

Florinda lowered her hand quickly. Margot stood in the garden doorway, Hope balanced on her hip and a tea tray in Martha's hands behind her.

"He came to enquire after my recovery," Florinda said. "And to bring a cutting from the Carthedge conservatory."

Margot's gaze moved to the stephanotis on the bench. Her face remained carefully neutral. "How thoughtful of him."

"He is very conscientious about his duties as a neighbour."

"Indeed." Margot set Hope down, and the child immediately ran toward the kitchen garden, calling for Marmalade. "Martha, you may leave the tray. I shall pour."

Martha withdrew. Margot settled into the chair Frederick had not occupied, arranged her skirts, and began to pour tea with the precise movements of a woman who was determining how best to broach an uncomfortable topic.

"Mrs. Finch has done a wonderful job taking care of things here," she said. "I had worried, being away so long, but she has kept everything in excellent order."

"She has always been reliable."

"She has. And she mentioned that Lord Camberton has ridden past the house twice this week." Margot handed her a cup. "Apparently he has been asking about you in the village."

Florinda's stomach tightened. "Lord Camberton?"

"He inherited Thornbury Park last year. A bachelor. Respectable fortune. Mrs. Finch says he is quite taken with the notion of meeting you—your reputation for horticultural knowledge has apparently reached him." Margot's eyes met hers over the rim of her cup. "I thought I might invite him to call. If you are amenable."

"You wish to play matchmaker."

"I wish to see you settled. Happy." Margot set down her cup. "He is very eligible, Florinda. His estate is prosperous, his temperament is steady, and he apparently has a passion for hedgerows that borders on the obsessive."

"Hedgerows."

"Many men have less interesting obsessions."

Florinda stared at her tea. Lord Camberton sounded kind. Lord Camberton sounded suitable. Lord Camberton had never written her a letter that made her forget how to breathe, had never almost touched her face with fingers that trembled, had never looked at her as though she were the answer to a question he had spent his whole life asking.

"Invite him," she said, her voice flat. "It would be rude to refuse an introduction."

Margot watched her for a long moment. Whatever she saw in Florinda's face, she did not comment upon it.

"Very well. I shall send word to Thornbury Park this afternoon."

They sat in silence, drinking tea whilst Hope's laughter drifted from the kitchen garden. The stephanotis perfumed the air between them.

Florinda did not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry.

But when she picked up her trowel, her hands were shaking.

* * *

Frederick rode the first mile at a gallop.

By the second mile, his horse was blowing hard and his own breathing had not steadied. By the third, he had slowed to a walk, but the pounding behind his ribs continued—a rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the woman he had left behind.

He had almost touched her.

He had knelt in the dirt beside her chair, and he had raised his hand, and he had come within inches of feeling her skin beneath his fingertips. And then she had said Penelope's name, and he had remembered who he was and what he owed and why he could not have what he wanted.

He looked down at his hand.

His fingers were still curved—still holding the shape of her cheek that he had not touched, still reaching for warmth that he had not felt. He watched himself flex them open, watched the strain release from his knuckles, watched his hand become ordinary again.