Page 83 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Caroline looked—different. Smaller than he remembered, though she had always been slight. Thinner. The black mourning dress hung loose on her frame, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and troubles he did not yet understand.

"Caroline." He caught her hands, searching her face. "I did not expect—that is, I did not know you were coming. When did you arrive? How long are you staying? The children look well, though you—" He stopped, aware that he was cataloguing concerns rather than celebrating. "I am glad you are here."

"I am glad to be here." Her smile was wan but genuine. "I would not have missed my brother's wedding for the world."

"You are in mourning." The observation escaped before he could stop it. "I had not heard—that is, no one informed me⁠—"

"There was no time." Her voice caught. "It was very sudden. But Frederick, truly, today is not the day for such discussions. Mother is right—tonight is for you and your bride. Tomorrow I shall explain everything."

He wanted to press. Wanted to demand answers, to understand what had brought his sister back to Carthedge Hall after years of absence, why she wore black, why her children sat so still and silent in the pews as though they had learned that stillness was safety.

But Florinda was making her way toward him through the crowd, her face bright with joy and her bare feet leaving prints on the stone floor, and Caroline was right.

Tomorrow was for questions. Tonight was for this.

"Very well," he said, and squeezed his sister's hands. "But tomorrow, you shall tell me everything."

"Everything," Caroline agreed. "I promise."

He let her go and turned to meet his wife.

"Your sister looks sad," Florinda said quietly, once she had reached him. "I embraced her, but I do not think she wished to speak of it."

"She has promised explanations tomorrow."

"That is ominous."

"Extremely." Frederick tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "But you are correct—we ought not to borrow trouble from tomorrow. Today we have married. Today we are happy. Today—" He looked down at her bare feet. "Today you need to put your shoes back on."

Florinda followed his gaze. "I am comfortable."

"You are a duchess. Duchesses do not ride through the village in carriages whilst barefoot."

"Why not?"

"Because—" He stopped. Considered. "Actually, I cannot think of a compelling reason. But my mother would be horrified, and I should prefer to introduce scandal gradually rather than all at once."

"Very well." She sighed with theatrical reluctance. "For the sake of your mother's nerves. But only until we reach the Hall."

The footman who had been holding her shoes appeared with almost magical promptness—Frederick suspected he had been hovering nearby, awaiting precisely this moment—and Florinda slipped them on with the air of a woman making a significant concession.

"They still smell of fish," she observed.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Long story. Hope and Marmalade were involved." She took his arm again, her smile sharp and bright and entirely herself. "Now. I believe we have villagers to wave at. Shall we?"

The carriage ride through the village was brief but triumphant.

Word had spread, as word always did in small communities, and the streets were lined with well-wishers calling congratulations and throwing flowers. Children ran alongside the carriage, shrieking with excitement. The baker's wife wept openly, claiming she had known all along. The blacksmith raised a tankard in salute.

Frederick found himself smiling—genuinely smiling—for the first time in what felt like years.

"They seem pleased," Florinda observed, waving at a group of young women who were giggling behind their hands.

"They have been waiting nine years for this wedding. I suspect they are primarily relieved."

"Nine years is a considerable wait."