Page 69 of How Not to Marry a Duke

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The hours until the ball stretched interminably.

Frederick spent them attending to the details that could not be delegated—reviewing Thorne's documents one final time, confirming that Thomas had received the invitation and would attend, ensuring that the servants understood the ball would proceed as planned regardless of what transpired behind closed doors.

But his mind was not on logistics. His mind was three miles away, in a tower room with dusty windows and a narrow settee and a woman whose golden hair had spread across his body like a benediction.

He had written to her every day since leaving Ashbourne House. Short letters—practical updates about the investigation, the evidence, the plan for the ball—but he had signed each one the same way: Counting the hours. Yours, F.

She had written back. Her letters were longer than his—filled with details about her recovery, about Margot's cautious hope, about the ball gown they were altering for the occasion.

She had signed each one: Counting with you. Yours, F.

Two Florindas. Two Fredericks. Both F. The symmetry had made him smile every time.

Now, as the afternoon light faded and the servants began to prepare the ballroom, Frederick stood at his study window and thought of her waiting. She would be at the ball tonight—she had to be, to witness the end of this chapter so they could begin the next. Margot would bring her. She would stand in the crowd and watch him navigate the wreckage of his false engagement, and then⁠—

And then he would find her. He would take her hand in front of everyone who mattered. He would make it clear, publicly and permanently, that she was his choice.

Not the safe choice. Not the convenient choice. The only choice he had ever wanted to make.

I shall come back to you, he thought, his eyes on the distant hills where Ashbourne House lay hidden beyond the horizon. I swore it. I meant it. And tonight, I shall prove it to everyone.

The clock struck five. Three hours until the ball.

Frederick turned from the window and went to dress.

Chapter Twenty

The Ball

Three hundred guests, and Frederick could feel every one of their eyes upon him.

The ballroom blazed with candlelight—four chandeliers, each bearing sixty-three tapers, casting the kind of golden glow that made everyone look beautiful and nothing look real. He had counted the candles without meaning to whilst waiting for the first dance to begin. Two hundred and fifty-two flames. Absurd. Pathetic. Wholly beside the point.

Penelope's hand rested in his as they moved through the opening measures of the waltz. She was pale beneath her powder, her smile fixed—but then, her smile was always fixed. They had been engaged for eighteen months and he could not recall ever seeing her laugh.

"You are tense this evening," she observed, her voice pitched beneath the music. "More so than usual."

"Am I?"

"Your jaw has not unclenched since we began dancing. And you have looked toward the entrance four times." Her grey eyes searched his face. "What is wrong, Your Grace? You look as though you are waiting for something dreadful to happen."

Frederick guided her through a turn, acutely aware of Lord Ashworth watching from the edge of the dance floor—that satisfied smile, that proprietary stance. The man had no idea what was coming.

"There is a matter I must discuss with you," he said. "Privately. When this dance ends."

Penelope's step faltered, just a fraction. "That sounds ominous."

"It is."

The waltz ended. Applause scattered through the room like rain on glass. Frederick tucked Penelope's hand into the crook of his arm and guided her toward the balcony doors—visible through the windows to anyone who cared to watch, but private enough for a conversation no one else could hear.

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The night air was cold, carrying the first bite of autumn. Penelope shivered but did not retreat inside.

"Whatever it is," she said, her voice admirably steady, "I would prefer you simply tell me. I find I do not care for suspense."