Page 65 of How Not to Marry a Duke

She felt the peak building again—sharper this time, more urgent. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in short gasps as she climbed, climbed, climbed⁠—

"Let go." His voice was wrecked, barely recognisable. "I have you. Let go."

She shattered.

The pleasure broke over her like a wave, stealing her breath, stealing her thoughts, leaving nothing but the overwhelming sensation of him—inside her, around her, everywhere. She heard herself cry out, felt his arms tighten around her as he followed her over the edge, his own release shuddering through him with a groan that sounded like her name.

Nine years of wanting.

Released in a single, devastating surrender.

* * *

They lay tangled on the narrow settee as the rain continued to fall, their bodies cooling in the tower's chill, neither willing to move.

Florinda traced the scar on his shoulder—a puckered line, white with age—and felt him shiver beneath her touch.

"Salamanca," he said, without her asking. "A French cavalry officer with excellent aim and poor timing."

"And this?" She traced the scar across his ribs.

"Badajoz. I was careless."

"You survived."

"I had reasons to survive." He caught her hand, pressed it to his lips. "I did not know all of them at the time. But I know them now."

She felt tears prick her eyes—ridiculous, after everything, to cry now—and blinked them back.

"Marry me." His voice was quiet but certain.

"You are asking now?" She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "When we are both⁠—"

"Naked and compromised beyond any hope of recovery? Yes." His smile was crooked, devastating. "Be my duchess, Florinda. Let me spend the rest of my life counting things that belong to you."

"I refused a man who offered me hedgerows this morning."

"I am offering you Arabians. Better odds, I should think."

She laughed—truly laughed, for the first time in longer than she could remember. "What if you regret this? What if you wake tomorrow and realise⁠—"

"That I have loved you for nine years? That I climbed a tower of thorns in a rainstorm to reach you? That I have just made love to you on a dusty settee in an unheated room and would do it again in a heartbeat?" He pulled her down, kissed her soundly. "That is not the sort of thing one forgets overnight."

"Yes," she breathed against his mouth. "Yes. I shall marry you. I shall be your duchess. I shall let you count whatever you wish for the rest of our lives."

* * *

He left before dawn, as he had to.

"I must return to Carthedge." He was dressing in the grey light, his torn coat a ruin, his hands wrapped in strips torn from her petticoat. "Only a few miles. I shall send word to London, handle the legal matters, speak to my mother before the servants' gossip reaches her."

"And Lord Ashworth?"

"Lord Ashworth will learn that his fraud has been discovered. He will have the choice to withdraw gracefully or to face public exposure." Frederick's jaw tightened. "I suspect he will choose the former. Men like Ashworth always protect their reputations first."

Florinda rose from the settee, wrapped in a blanket Margot had left on the landing. "And the ball?"

"The ball will become an engagement ball after all." He crossed to her, cupped her face in his bandaged hands. "Just not the engagement anyone expected."