Page 53 of How Not to Marry a Duke

And then she would come home and marry Lord Camberton and learn to love hornbeams.

It was a plan. Not a good plan. But a plan.

* * *

The next day brought the promised drive to see Lord Camberton's hedgerows.

Florinda sat beside him in his open carriage, a blanket tucked across her lap against the November chill, and listened as he pointed out the particular merits of various plantings. The air was cold and clean, carrying the faint bite of coming frost. The countryside rolled past in shades of brown and grey—bare branches, fallow fields, the occasional flash of green where hardy evergreens refused to yield to winter.

"That hedge there," Lord Camberton said, gesturing, "is nearly sixty years old. My grandfather planted it. Hawthorn, unfortunately—I should have preferred hornbeam—but one must respect the decisions of one's ancestors."

"Must one?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Respect the decisions of one's ancestors." Florinda watched the hedge slide past, its bare branches catching the pale November sun. "Must one always honour what they chose? Even if they chose poorly?"

Lord Camberton considered this with the gravity he applied to all matters horticultural. "I suppose—" He paused, weighing the question. "One might replant. If the original choice proved truly unsuitable. But hedgerows take decades to mature. The investment of time..." He shook his head. "No. Better to work with what one has inherited than to tear it out and start fresh."

Florinda said nothing. She was not, she suspected, talking about hedgerows. She was not sure Lord Camberton realised they had stopped discussing landscaping three sentences ago.

"Miss Ashbourne." His voice had shifted—softer now, less instructional. "You seem troubled today. Is all well?"

She turned to look at him. His face held genuine concern, his brown eyes warm with the uncomplicated kindness that characterised everything about him. He was trying. He truly was. And she was sitting beside him thinking about another man's letters whilst he waxed poetic about shrubbery.

"Not at all." She arranged her features into pleasantness. "I received a letter from a friend. There is to be a ball in a fortnight, and I confess the prospect of so much society after my convalescence is daunting."

"A ball?" His face brightened. "How delightful. Where is it to be held?"

"Carthedge Hall."

"The Duke's estate?" Lord Camberton's eyebrows rose. "I had heard there was to be an announcement. The engagement ball, yes?"

"Yes." Flat. She could not help it. "The engagement ball."

"I confess I received an invitation myself—the Duke and I are not well acquainted, but we share a border, and these things are expected." He paused, a hopeful light entering his eyes. "Perhaps... that is, if you would not find it too presumptuous... we might attend together? As neighbours, of course. I should be honoured to escort you."

Florinda looked at him. At his open, earnest face. At his soft hands resting on the carriage seat. At the complete absence of complication in his brown eyes.

This was what she should want. A kind man offering his arm. A future that did not require pining after another woman's fiancé. A life built on hornbeam hedges and pleasant prospects and the slow, steady accumulation of contentment rather than the wild, impossible wanting that would only ever bring her pain.

"That would be lovely," she heard herself say. "Thank you, Lord Camberton."

His smile was radiant. Uncomplicated. The smile of a man who believed he was making progress.

Perhaps he was.

* * *

When he returned her to Ashbourne House, Lord Camberton helped her down from the carriage with exaggerated care—one hand extended, the other hovering near her elbow as though she might shatter at any moment.

She did not shatter. She had not shattered in seven weeks of wanting things she could not have. She suspected she was past shattering now.

"Miss Ashbourne." He did not release her hand. His thumb moved across her knuckles—once, twice—and she felt nothing. "I hope you know how much I have enjoyed these past weeks. Getting to know you. Sharing my passion for—" A self-deprecating smile. "Well. For hedgerows, I suppose. I am aware that I can be enthusiastic."

"You are devoted to your interests." She kept her voice warm. Kind. "There is nothing wrong with that."

"You are too kind." His thumb stilled. "I hope... that is, I should like to think that my interests might someday include..."