Page 58 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I shall leave food on the landing." Margot's voice was thick. "And blankets. It gets cold up here at night."

"I thank you."

"I love you, Florinda. Whatever you are feeling, whatever you have done or not done—I love you. Please remember that."

Footsteps retreating down the stairs. The creak of the landing. Then silence.

Florinda sat in the tower as darkness fell, the last light bleeding from the sky over Carthedge, and did not move.

Ten days until the ball.

Ten days to learn how to let go of a man who had never been hers to hold.

She was not certain ten days would be enough.

She was not certain a lifetime would be enough.

Outside, the wild roses scratched at the window glass like fingers seeking entry. Inside, Florinda let the darkness take her.

Chapter Seventeen

The Discovery

The report arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and bearing the seal of Thorne & Associates.

Frederick was in his study at Carthedge when a footman brought it in—the same study where he had spent the past week avoiding his mother's pointed enquiries, Penelope's nervous smiles, and the constant, grinding awareness that the ball was three days away and he had found no honourable escape from the trap Lord Ashworth had laid.

Three. The number sat in his mind like a stone. Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes until he would stand before three hundred guests and announce his engagement to a woman he did not love.

He was counting again. He could not seem to stop.

The study held the familiar aromas of leather and old books and the faint smoke of last night's fire. Frederick broke Thorne's seal with fingers that were not quite steady and began to read.

By the third paragraph, he had ceased to breathe.

* * *

Your Grace,

I write to inform you of discoveries that shall materially alter the circumstances of your betrothal contract.

Lady Penelope Ashworth was married. Three years ago, in secret, to a man named Thomas Harrison—a dancing master employed briefly at the Ashworth estate. The ceremony was performed by special licence at St. Michael's Church in the village of Wellow, outside Bath. Witnesses included the church sexton and a chambermaid from the village inn.

Frederick's hands tightened on the paper. The words blurred. He forced himself to read on.

Lord Ashworth discovered the marriage within a fortnight and acted to suppress it. He arranged for Thomas Harrison to be taken—forcibly, my enquiries suggest—to a ship bound for the Australian colonies. Lady Penelope was told her husband had died in a carriage accident. She was shown a death certificate, also forged, and encouraged to grieve privately rather than publicise her shame.

Thomas Harrison is not dead. He spent two years in New South Wales before managing to secure passage home. He has been in England for nearly a year, attempting to discover what became of his wife.

Lord Ashworth then produced documents purporting to show that the marriage had been annulled by ecclesiastical court.

These documents are forgeries.

Frederick read the sentence twice. Three times. The words did not change.

The judge whose signature appears on the annulment died seven years before the document was dated. The ecclesiastical court referenced does not exist. Lord Ashworth fabricated an entire legal proceeding to make his daughter marriageable again.

Lady Penelope Ashworth is still legally married to Thomas Harrison. The betrothal contract you signed is therefore void. You are, Your Grace, a free man.