Page 45 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"Yes." His voice had gone rough. "I can see that."

His hand rose.

She watched it move—watched his fingers drift toward her cheek as though drawn by a force neither of them could control. The distance between his touch and her skin narrowed. Inches. Then less than inches. She could feel the ghost of his warmth against her face, the promise of contact that would change everything.

From the kitchen garden, Hope's voice rang out: "Marmalade, you are a very naughty cat!"

Frederick's hand stopped. Hovering. The space between them electric.

"Penelope," Florinda said, her voice soft. "Penelope will make you a good wife."

His hand dropped.

The distance between them—which had been inches, which had been nothing—became a chasm. He stepped back, his face smoothing into the mask she remembered from the entrance hall at Carthedge, from the morning room, from every formal interaction they had endured whilst pretending they were nothing to each other.

"Yes," he said. His voice was steady. Only his eyes betrayed him. "Yes, she will."

* * *

He should leave.

He had come here to—what? To apologise without apologising? To stand in her garden and almost touch her face whilst she sat surrounded by flowers and a three-year-old scolded a cat beyond the garden wall?

Penelope will make you a good wife.

She was right. That was the worst of it. Penelope was kind. Penelope was suitable. Penelope had done nothing wrong except agree to a contract that would bind her to a man who could not stop counting another woman's freckles.

Seven freckles. He had counted them without meaning to.

"I should go," he said.

"Yes." Her voice was very quiet. "You should."

He did not move.

"The stephanotis," he said at last. "It prefers indirect light. Morning sun, afternoon shade. And it does not like to be overwatered."

"I know how to care for stephanotis, Your Grace."

"Of course you do." He took a breath. "Good day, Miss Ashbourne. I hope your recovery continues well."

"Good day, Your Grace."

He turned. Walked toward the garden door. Did not look back, because if he looked back, he would not leave, and if he did not leave, he would⁠—

He did not finish the thought.

* * *

Florinda watched him go.

She counted his steps—twelve to the garden door, another six through the passage, then the distant sound of the front door opening and closing. She heard him speak to his horse, heard the creak of leather as he mounted, heard the hoofbeats retreating down the drive.

Only when the sound had faded did she allow herself to breathe.

The stephanotis sat on the garden bench where he had left it. White blooms. Sweet fragrance. A flower for weddings and marital happiness, given by a man who was marrying someone else.

Her hand rose to her cheek—to the place where his fingers had almost touched, where the warmth of him had ghosted across her skin without ever making contact. She could still feel it. The almost. The not-quite. The inches of empty air that had held more intimacy than any kiss she had ever received.