Page 16 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Florinda regarded the woman who was engaged to marry the man who had carried her two miles with a shattered leg. The woman who had every reason to view Florinda as an unwelcome complication in her neatly arranged life.

Penelope smiled—a warm, uncomplicated smile that contained no hint of rivalry or suspicion.

"I brought laudanum," she said, "and Gothic novels. Mrs. Radcliffe's The Italian, specifically. I find there is nothing quite like reading about someone else's imprisonment in a sinister convent to make one feel better about one's own circumstances."

Against her will, Florinda felt her mouth curve upward.

"You brought me laudanum and Gothic novels?" She raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me recovered, Lady Penelope, or pleasantly unconscious for eight weeks?"

"I thought I would leave the choice to you." Penelope settled into the chair by the bedside with easy grace. "You must be dreadfully bored already. And in pain, which is worse. The laudanum is for the latter; the novels are for the former. Though I suppose you could combine them for a truly transcendent experience."

Florinda discovered, with a sinking sensation in her chest, that she liked this woman.

This was, she reflected, deeply inconvenient.

"I confess I did not expect kindness," she said. "Given the circumstances."

"What circumstances? That you fell off your horse near my fiancé's estate?" Penelope's tone was easy, but her eyes were steady. "That seems rather more misfortune than malice. Unless you were attempting to throw yourself into his path as part of an elaborate romantic scheme, in which case I must admire your commitment to the theatrical whilst questioning your sense of self-preservation."

"I assure you, if I were scheming to attract a duke, I would choose a method that did not involve shattering my leg."

"Very sensible. I always thought the women in novels who feign illness to gain sympathy lacked imagination. So much easier to simply be charming." Penelope reached into the basket and withdrew the promised book. "Shall I read to you? I find The Italian is best enjoyed with company to gasp at the appropriate moments."

And so Florinda found herself spending the afternoon in the company of her host's fiancée, listening to tales of sinister monks and imperilled heroines while the blue guest chamber filled with the particular warmth of unexpected friendship.

Penelope read well—her voice rising and falling with the drama, her commentary sharp and surprisingly funny. "I do think Ellena should simply ask what is happening rather than wandering about being mysterious and frightened. If I were being held prisoner by monks, I would demand to speak with the management."

"Perhaps that is why Gothic heroines are never practical women," Florinda offered. "Practical women would resolve the plot in two chapters and then demand tea."

"And then what would we read?" Penelope turned the page. "No, I think we must allow them their dramatic suffering. It makes the rescue so much more satisfying."

Rescue.

Florinda thought of arms lifting her from the cold ground. A voice in her ear. The rhythm of footsteps, steady as a heartbeat.

She was being ridiculous. She was being precisely the sort of swooning fool she had just mocked. The head injury was clearly affecting her judgment.

"Lady Florinda?" Penelope was watching her. "You've gone pale. Shall I fetch the laudanum?"

"No. No, I am quite well." Florinda managed a smile. "Merely tired. The injury, you understand."

"Of course." Penelope set the book aside and rose. "I shall leave you to rest. But I will return tomorrow, if you will have me. We have only just reached the part where Schedoni begins to be properly sinister."

"I should like that." The words emerged before Florinda could consider them, and she realised with some dismay that she meant them.

Penelope paused at the door. "For what it is worth, Lady Florinda—I am glad His Grace found you. Truly. It would have been a terrible thing, to lose someone so... spirited."

She departed before Florinda could formulate a response.

* * *

That night, alone in the blue guest chamber with only the fire for company, Florinda could not sleep.

This was, she told herself, because of the pain. The laudanum had worn off enough to leave her leg aching and her mind inconveniently sharp. It had nothing to do with other matters. Nothing whatsoever.

She stared at the canopy above her head and catalogued everything she had learned today: that she was trapped, that she was helpless, that the woman whose fiancé she had once kissed was kind and clever and genuinely enjoyable company.

She liked Penelope. She genuinely, uncomplicatedly liked her.