Page 70 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Frederick looked at her—at this woman he had been prepared to marry, this woman he had never loved and never would. She deserved the truth. She deserved to hear it from him before the chaos that was about to descend.

"I know about Thomas Harrison."

Penelope went very still. In the candlelight spilling through the balcony doors, her face looked carved from marble.

"I do not know what you⁠—"

"The dancing master. The man you married three years ago, in secret, at St. Michael's Church in Wellow." Frederick kept his voice gentle. "The man your father told you had died."

She pressed her hand to the balcony railing as though she needed it to remain upright. "How do you know about that? No one knows about that. My father swore—he promised me—" Her voice cracked. "He told me Thomas was dead. There was a carriage accident. He showed me the death certificate."

"The death certificate was forged."

Penelope's breath caught. "What?"

"Thomas is not dead, Penelope." Frederick watched her face as he spoke—watched hope and horror war across her features. "He is alive. Your father had him taken—forcibly—to a ship bound for Australia. He spent two years in New South Wales before he could secure passage home." He paused. "He has been in England for nearly a year. Searching for you."

"No." The word came out strangled. "No, that cannot—my father would not⁠—"

"Your father did. I have the evidence. Ship manifests. Witness statements. The forged death certificate itself." Frederick felt a twist beneath his ribs—not love, but an adjacent feeling. Pity, perhaps. Recognition. They had both been pawns in Lord Ashworth's game, moved about the board without consent. "The annulment papers he produced bear the signature of a judge who died seven years before they were dated. The ecclesiastical court referenced does not exist. Your marriage to Thomas Harrison was never dissolved."

Penelope's legs gave way. Frederick caught her arm, steadied her against the railing. Through the windows, he could see curious faces turning toward the balcony—noting the Duke and his betrothed in private conversation, storing the observation away for later speculation.

"I grieved him." Her voice was barely audible. "I wore black for a year. I wept until I thought I should drown in it. And all the while he was—" She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes swimming. "Alive. He was alive, and my father let me believe⁠—"

"I am sorry." Frederick meant it. "I know what it is to discover that the life you thought you were living was built upon lies."

"What happens now?" Her voice was barely a breath.

Frederick glanced toward the ballroom doors. "Now," he said, "we wait."

* * *

The doors burst open at half past nine.

Frederick heard it from the balcony—the crash, the hush that fell like a blade, and then the rising tide of gasps and murmurs that meant the extraordinary had occurred. He exchanged a glance with Penelope, who had gone very pale, and together they stepped back through the balcony doors into the ballroom.

His eyes found Florinda first—across the room with Lady Raventhorn, her golden hair dressed with pearls, her pale blue gown catching the candlelight. She was staring at the entrance, her hand pressed to her throat. When her gaze met his, he saw understanding dawn—and what could only be hope.

The crowd had parted like water before a ship's prow, and at its centre stood a man—travel-worn, wind-beaten, with the lean, weathered look of someone who had crossed oceans to reach this moment.

Thomas Harrison.

Beside him, Frederick heard Penelope's sharp intake of breath. Her hand found his arm, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Thomas?" The word escaped her like a prayer.

Three hundred guests turned toward the intrusion, their faces cycling through confusion, affront, and the particular gleeful anticipation of people who sensed scandal unfolding before them.

"I have come," Thomas announced, his voice carrying across the hushed room, "to reclaim my wife."

Gasps. Murmurs. One dropped champagne glass, shattering against the marble floor with a sound like breaking ice. Somewhere to Frederick's left, a woman appeared to be swooning—though whether from shock or an excess of drama, he could not tell.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The crowd parted further—not for Thomas this time, but for the man striding forward from the royal dais at the far end of the ballroom. King Edward's voice carried the particular authority of a monarch who had spent years learning to command attention without raising his voice. Beside him, Queen Ella had risen from her seat, her hand pressed to her throat, her eyes wide as she took in the scene unfolding before her.

Frederick felt a spark of amusement. Of course Edward would be the one to demand explanations. The man had never been able to resist inserting himself into a crisis.