Page 66 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"You shall shock three hundred people."

"I shall shock my mother, which is considerably more terrifying." He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. "But I shall also stand before everyone who matters and declare that I choose you. Openly. Publicly. Without shame or apology."

"Promise me." Her voice cracked. "Promise you will come back."

"I swear it on every letter I have written you. On every gold thread I have counted. On the three miles I shall ride twice over because I am not capable of staying away from you any longer than absolutely necessary." He pressed his forehead to hers. "I shall return before nightfall. I promise."

She unlocked the tower door—the first time she had touched the key in days—and watched him descend the narrow stairs.

"No more locked doors," she called after him.

He paused at the landing, looked back. His smile was brilliant in the grey dawn light.

"No more locked doors."

She stood at the window and watched him mount his horse, ride out across the lawn, disappear into the morning mist toward Carthedge.

Before nightfall, she told herself. He promised.

The rain had stopped. The roses scratched at the window, their thorns dark with his blood.

Florinda watched until he was out of sight, and then she went to find Margot.

She had a ball gown to discuss.

Chapter Nineteen

The Truth Revealed

The morning of the ball dawned grey and cold, and Frederick had not slept in two days.

Two, he thought, watching the pale light creep across the ceiling of his study at Carthedge Hall. Two days since the tower. Two days since Florinda's hair had spread across that dusty settee like spun gold. Two days since he had promised to return before nightfall and kept that promise, riding the three miles between their estates until his horse knew the route without guidance.

He had spent those days handling the aftermath—meeting with Thorne, collecting affidavits, gathering the evidence that would destroy Lord Ashworth's carefully constructed lies. The leather folder sat on his desk now, heavy with documents that represented eighteen months of fraudulent engagement and three years of buried truth.

The study held the familiar aromas of leather and old books, the fire crackling low in the grate. Outside, servants were already preparing for the ball—three hundred guests expected, an announcement that would now be rather different than anyone anticipated. Frederick pressed his fingers to his temples and wondered, not for the first time, if he had gone utterly mad.

Then he remembered the weight of Florinda in his arms, the sound of her laughter, the way she had said yes with her whole body trembling.

Not mad. Free.

The difference, he was discovering, was considerable.

* * *

His mother arrived at precisely nine o'clock, as he had requested.

The Dowager Duchess of Carthedge swept into his study with the particular bearing of a woman who had been managing impossible situations since before Frederick was born. Her silver hair was immaculately dressed, her morning gown impeccable, her face arranged into the look of patient enquiry she reserved for moments when she suspected her son was about to disappoint her.

"You wished to see me." She did not sit. Did not remove her gloves. Her eyes swept the study, taking in the untouched breakfast tray, the leather folder on the desk, the shadows beneath Frederick's eyes. "Before I am to manage three hundred guests and an engagement announcement, you wished to see me privately. At nine o'clock in the morning. On the day of the ball."

"Yes."

"This does not bode well."

"That depends," Frederick said, rising from his chair, "on one's definition of well."

He crossed to where she stood, the leather folder in his hands. The morning light through the windows caught the grey in her hair, the lines around her eyes that had deepened since his father's death. She had aged, he realised. He had been so consumed with his own turmoil that he had not noticed her growing older.