Page 20 of How Not to Marry a Duke

By the third day, he had memorized things he had no business memorizing. The way Florinda caught her breath when he lifted her. The particular curve of her shoulder against his arm. The rhythm of her breathing: twelve breaths per flight of stairs.

He was counting her breaths because it was the only thing keeping him from doing monumentally stupid things.

* * *

The fourth day brought sunshine and a view of the stables from the garden bench. Penelope had been called away to mediate between Cook and Mrs. Pritchard, leaving Frederick with cheerful instructions to enjoy the weather.

He had intended to retreat to his study. He had intended to maintain appropriate distance.

But then Ajax had been led out of the stable for his morning exercise, and Florinda had looked up from her novel, and⁠—

"Arabian sire," she said. "But the dam was Andalusian. You can see it in the slope of the shoulder—see there?—and the way he carries his head. Lovely cross. Who bred him?"

Frederick stared at her.

She was looking at Ajax with the keen assessment of someone who actually knew horses—not in the decorative way that society ladies were expected to appreciate a fine mount, but in the practical, bone-deep way of a person who understood breeding lines and conformation.

"I did," he said. "He was foaled six years ago. The sire was imported from Arabia; the dam came from Madrid."

"The chest is extraordinary. What's his gait like?"

"Smooth. He collects beautifully. I've been training him for dressage, though he has the temperament for it only when he's in the mood."

"Horses with Arabian blood often do. They're brilliant, but they know they're brilliant, and they expect you to appreciate it." She smiled—a real smile, without the careful armor. "My mare has similar opinions about her own magnificence. I've been trying to convince her that cooperation is more rewarding than defiance, but she remains skeptical."

Frederick sat down on the bench beside her. He had not intended to sit.

"Your mare is recovering well," he said. "My head groom reports she's only bitten two stable boys this week."

"Only two? She must be unwell. Usually she manages four before breakfast."

He should not be sitting here. He should not be laughing with this woman whose wit cut through every defense he had built. Penelope trusted him. Penelope had left them alone because she trusted him.

"You know horses," he said.

"I was raised at Ashbourne House. Before everything changed, I used to help with the breeding program. My stepfather trusted my eye."

"You have a good one."

She turned to look at him. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A duke. Cold. Proper. Someone who talks about Parliamentary proceedings and never admits to counting the steps to the stables."

He felt his face heat. "I am all of those things. I am also, apparently, incapable of concealing my eccentricities from women with sharp eyes."

"Is that what I have? Sharp eyes?"

"You eviscerated Lord Ashworth using only pleasantries. I believe 'sharp' is an understatement."

She laughed—that bright, unexpected sound—and Frederick felt the last of his defenses give way.

She saw him. Not the title, not the estate. She saw the man who counted steps and bred horses and could not seem to stop finding reasons to be near her.

No one had seen him in years.

"Frederick? Lady Florinda?" Penelope's voice came from across the garden. "The crisis is resolved. Shall I have tea brought out?"