Page 38 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"Not for several hours, darling. Try to sleep."

"I do not wish to sleep. Aunt Florinda, tell me a story."

Florinda looked at her niece—four years old, imperious, blissfully unaware that the world contained anything so inconvenient as heartbreak. "What sort of story?"

"A story with a princess. And a dragon. And a tower."

"Very well." Florinda drew a breath. "Once upon a time, there was a princess with very long hair who lived in a tower⁠—"

"Why did she live in a tower?"

"Because," Florinda said, "it was safer than living in the world. In the world, there were dukes who counted things and broke one's heart without meaning to."

"What is a duke?"

"A very inconvenient sort of person."

Margot made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "Florinda."

"I am merely answering the child's questions."

"You are being dramatic."

"I have a broken leg. I am entitled to drama." Florinda turned her face toward the window, watching the countryside roll past—green fields and grey sky and the road stretching ahead.

She did not look back.

She wanted to.

Chapter Twelve

The Accidental Letter

The packet arrived three days after Florinda's return to Ashbourne House.

She was seated in the morning room—a different morning room, smaller and shabbier than Carthedge's, though she had once thought it perfectly adequate—when a housemaid appeared in the doorway with a silver salver.

"Post for you, miss. From Carthedge Hall."

Florinda's heart lifted. Penelope had promised to write every week, and here was proof that promises could be kept.

"Thank you, Jenny." Florinda took the packet and set it on her lap.

"It is Betsy, miss."

"Betsy. Of course." The girl was new—hired to help in the kitchens whilst Florinda was away, now pressed into service delivering post because Martha was occupied mending Florinda's travelling clothes. "Thank you, Betsy."

The girl bobbed a curtsey and withdrew.

The packet was thick—several letters bundled together. Florinda sorted through them. A formal report on the condition of her horse, written in a secretary's precise hand: recovering well, ready for transport within the fortnight. A note from the Dowager, stiff with courtesy, enquiring after her health in the manner of a woman performing an obligation. And there—Penelope's familiar looping script.

Florinda opened it first.

Dearest Florinda, Penelope had written, I hope this letter finds you well and that your recovery continues apace. I am writing to tell you that I shall call upon you this very afternoon—I leave for London tomorrow to begin the dreadful business of wedding preparations, and I could not bear to go without seeing you first. Expect me at two o'clock. I shall bring chocolates.

Florinda smiled. Two o'clock. She glanced at the mantel clock—half past eleven. Time enough to have Martha arrange her hair and change into a more presentable dress.

She set Penelope's letter aside and picked up the next.