Page 52 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I know." Florinda turned from the window. The fire had burned low; the room was growing cold. She crossed to the hearth, held her hands toward the fading warmth. "Lord Camberton has very strong opinions about hedgerows."

"Does he."

"He believes the hornbeam is underappreciated."

"How... thorough of him." Margot rose, joining her by the fire. Their shoulders nearly touched. "I am not asking you to love him, Florinda. I am asking you to consider him. There is a difference."

"I am trying, Margot." The words came out hoarse, scraped from somewhere deeper than she had intended to go. "He is everything I should want. Everything I ought to want. Safe and respectable and uncomplicated."

"But?"

But he does not count my gold threads. But he does not look at me as though seeing me might destroy him. But his letters—if he ever wrote me letters—would probably contain very detailed descriptions of hornbeam leaves.

"There is no but," Florinda said. "I am merely... adjusting my expectations."

Margot's hand found hers—a brief squeeze, there and gone. "Time." Her voice was soft. "Give yourself time."

But time was precisely what they did not have. The engagement ball was in fourteen days. Fourteen days until she would stand in a crowded room and watch Frederick pledge himself to another woman. Fourteen days to learn how to want what was possible instead of grieving what was not.

Fourteen. She was counting again.

She could not seem to stop.

* * *

The letter arrived at dusk, delivered by a rider in Carthedge livery.

Florinda recognised the handwriting through the drawing room window—the elegant loops, the careful spacing—and her stomach clenched before she had even broken the seal. Penelope. Writing to her. Penelope, who was engaged to the man Florinda could not stop thinking about, wanted to tell her things.

She waited until she was alone in her room—the door closed, the candle lit, the evening sounds of the household muted through the walls—before she unfolded the pages.

Dearest Florinda,

I hope this letter finds you well recovered. I have thought of you often since your departure from Carthedge—your kindness during my illness meant more than you know.

The ball is in a fortnight. The announcement ball. I am told I should be excited. I have a beautiful gown. My mother has opinions about the flower arrangements. Everything is proceeding exactly as it should.

Frederick has been distant since returning from London. He shuts himself in his study for hours. He does not speak of what business took him there. I do not ask. There is a great deal we do not ask each other.

I am writing to ask if you will come. I know it is a great deal to ask—the journey, the crowds, the dancing you will not be able to do. But I find I cannot face this ball without a friend. A real friend, not the society acquaintances who will smile at my gown and whisper about my prospects the moment I turn away.

Please come. I need you there.

Your friend always,

Penelope

Florinda read the letter twice. Her hands were steady. Her heart was not.

Frederick has been distant. The words caught like thorns. He shuts himself in his study for hours.

Writing letters, perhaps. Letters he would never send, to a woman he could not have.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was merely attending to estate business. Perhaps the distance had nothing to do with her at all.

She should not hope. She had no right to hope.

She would go to the ball. She would watch him announce his engagement. She would prove to herself—and to him, if he cared to notice—that she could stand in the same room without shattering.