Page 36 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I could not forget you if I tried." Florinda meant it. In these weeks, Penelope had become the friend she had not known she needed—someone who understood what it was to want the wrong thing, to be trapped by circumstance, to smile when every instinct screamed otherwise.

Penelope embraced her—carefully, mindful of the splinted leg—and Florinda felt a knot loosen behind her ribs. Not relief. Grief, perhaps. The particular sorrow of leaving someone who had seen her clearly.

"Take care of yourself," Florinda murmured. "Write to me about everything. Even the dull bits."

"Especially the dull bits," Penelope agreed, her voice thick. "The dull bits are the best parts."

* * *

The wheeled chair Margot had brought was sturdier than the one at Carthedge—wooden wheels reinforced with iron bands, a cushioned seat, clearly commissioned the moment Margot had learned of the accident. Practical. Thoughtful. Devastating in its efficiency.

Florinda sat in it in the entrance hall, waiting to be wheeled out to the carriage, whilst Margot conferred with the Carthedge housekeeper about sending the remainder of Florinda's belongings by separate conveyance. Hope had been deposited in a corner with strict instructions not to bite anyone; she was currently engaged in a staring contest with a suit of armour that appeared to be losing.

Frederick emerged from the study.

She had not seen him since the previous evening—since the dinner, the staircase, the moment on the landing when his arms had tightened around her and neither of them had spoken. He had sent footmen this morning instead of coming himself, and she had understood. But understanding did not make it easier to look at him now.

"Lady Florinda." His voice was perfectly controlled. "I understand you are departing."

"Yes." Her own voice emerged steady. She was proud of that. "My stepmother has arranged for my continued convalescence at Ashbourne House. It is—" She swallowed. "It is more appropriate."

"Indeed." He stood three feet away from her. It might as well have been three miles. "I trust the journey shall not overtax you."

"Margot has arranged for frequent stops. She is—" Florinda's throat closed. "She is very thorough."

"Lady Raventhorn's reputation for efficiency precedes her."

They were speaking in platitudes. Polite, meaningless phrases that filled the space where actual words could not go. Florinda wanted to scream. She wanted to weep. She wanted to reach out and touch him, just once, before she left—to feel his hand in hers, to have some physical confirmation that these past weeks had been real.

She did none of these things. She was an Ashbourne. She knew how to suffer elegantly.

"I thank you," she said, "for your hospitality during my recovery. Your household has been most accommodating."

"It has been our pleasure." He paused. His jaw tightened. "I hope your recovery continues without incident."

"I am sure it shall."

They stared at each other. Three feet of marble floor between them, and an ocean of things neither could say.

"Florinda." Margot's voice cut through the moment like a blade. "The carriage is ready."

Frederick stepped forward. For one wild moment, Florinda thought he might—but no. He merely bowed, formal and correct, every inch the Duke.

"Safe travels, Lady Florinda."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Margot's footmen wheeled her toward the door. She did not look back. She could not look back. If she looked back, she would break, and Ashbournes did not break in public.

Twenty-three steps from the entrance hall to the carriage. She counted every one.

* * *

Frederick watched them go.

He stood in the doorway of Carthedge Hall—the doorway his father had stood in, and his grandfather before that—and watched the Raventhorn footmen lift Florinda carefully into the carriage whilst others secured the wheeled chair to the back, strapping it down with practiced efficiency. Watched her stepmother settle beside her, the small child scrambling onto Margot's lap with the boneless enthusiasm of the very young.

Twenty-three steps from the entrance hall to the carriage. He had counted them.