Page 43 of How Not to Marry a Duke

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The garden had always been Florinda's sanctuary.

When Edwin had left her, she had come here—kneeling in the dirt, her hands buried in soil, coaxing life from seeds that did not care whether she was foolish or wise. When Edward had announced she was to be sent away, she had walked these paths until her feet ached, cataloguing every bloom as though she might never see them again.

Now she sat in her wheeled chair among the roses, a trowel in her gloved hands and a flat of seedlings at her feet, and she told herself that the letter tucked beneath her mattress did not exist.

It did not exist. She had not read it fourteen times. She had not memorised the way his handwriting grew more ragged with each confession, the ink blots where his pen had pressed too hard, the crossed-out words that revealed how many times he had tried to say what he meant.

Dearest, Darling Florinda. I have no right to write those words, but I feel I might die if I do not.

She jabbed her trowel into the earth with more force than the seedlings required.

"Miss Florinda?" Martha's voice came from the garden door. "You have a visitor."

Florinda did not look up. "If it is another neighbour come to gawk at my splint, tell them I am indisposed."

"It is not a neighbour, miss."

The tone in Martha's voice made Florinda's hands go still.

She looked up.

Frederick stood in the garden doorway, a potted plant in his hands and an unreadable look on his face. He was dressed for riding—boots, breeches, a coat that fitted his shoulders with the precision of expensive tailoring. Behind him, the afternoon sun cast his features into sharp relief.

Florinda's heart stopped. Then it started again, beating far too fast.

"Your Grace." Her voice emerged steady. She was proud of that. "This is unexpected."

"I came to enquire after your recovery." He stepped into the garden, and the space that had felt like a sanctuary moments ago now felt impossibly small. "And to bring you this."

He held out the plant. It was an orchid—no, not an orchid. Stephanotis, with waxy white blooms and a fragrance that carried across the distance between them.

"From the Carthedge conservatory," he said. "I thought it might... that is, I recalled you admired the collection."

"You brought me a flower that symbolises marital happiness." The words escaped before she could stop them.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. "I brought you a flower that is difficult to cultivate and rewards patience."

"Ah." She set down her trowel. "A commentary, then."

Martha cleared her throat. "Shall I fetch refreshments, miss?"

"Yes, tea would be lovely." Florinda kept her voice steady. Normal. This was a normal visit from a neighbour enquiring after her health. "Is Hope still in the kitchen garden?"

"Running about with the cat, miss. Shall I call her in?"

"No, let her play. She will find us when she tires of tormenting poor Marmalade."

Martha bobbed a curtsey and retreated toward the house. Through the garden gate, Florinda could hear Hope's high voice scolding the cat for some imagined offence. A child. Playing nearby. A perfectly adequate chaperone for a perfectly proper visit.

Frederick's eyes followed Martha's retreat, then flicked toward the gate where Hope's voice carried. "Lady Raventhorn's daughter?"

"My sister." The word still felt strange on her tongue. "Half-sister, I suppose, though Margot would scold me for the distinction. She is three years old and convinced that cats should learn to curtsey."

"A reasonable expectation."

"Marmalade disagrees."