Page 76 of How Not to Marry a Duke

James, who had been suspiciously quiet, chose this moment to approach Florinda with his small box extended. "I brought you a present," he announced. "For luck."

"That is very thoughtful, James. What is it?"

"A beetle."

Martha made a sound of alarm.

"A lucky beetle," James clarified, as though this distinction were crucial. "I found it in the garden. It is green, like your eyes."

"My eyes are not green."

"They are a bit green. When you are angry." He thrust the box toward her with the earnest determination of a child who had put considerable thought into his gift. "You can let it go after the wedding. But it should be present for the ceremony. For luck."

Florinda accepted the box with the gravity the moment required. "I shall treasure it. Thank you, James."

He beamed—a smile so like Edward's that it made her chest ache—and retreated to his mother's side, apparently satisfied that his duties had been discharged.

"The beetle is not to be opened until after the ceremony," Ella said firmly. "The vicar has enough to manage without insects."

She found Lord Raventhorn in the morning room, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back and his face unusually serious.

Her stepfather was not, as a rule, a serious man—he preferred to approach life with dry wit and an architect's practical assessment of structural weaknesses—but there was a quality in his bearing now that made her heart stutter.

"My lord." She curtsied from the doorway. "Drusilla said you wished to speak with me."

"I did. I do." He turned from the window, and she was struck by the grey at his temples, the lines around his eyes—the evidence of years she had somehow failed to notice accumulating. "I have been attempting to find the correct words all morning, but I find that architecture has not adequately prepared me for this particular conversation."

"You are alarming me."

"I am alarming myself." He gestured toward the chairs by the fire, and she sat, her wedding gown pooling around her in a cloud of white muslin. "I wished to ask you about the ceremony. About the processional."

"Yes?"

"Your father—" He stopped. Started again. "I know I am not your father. I know I came into your life when you were already half-grown and possessed of more opinions than any reasonable person ought to have. I know you did not choose me, and I know that your mother and I have not always—that is, we did not always understand⁠—"

"My lord."

"I am making a hash of this." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so uncharacteristically flustered that Florinda felt her throat tighten. "What I am attempting to say is that I should very much like to walk you down the aisle today. If you would permit it. If you would want—" He stopped again, and when he met her eyes, his own were suspiciously bright. "If you would want me there. Beside you. As your... as whatever I am to you."

Florinda could not speak.

She had not—she had not considered the aisle. Had not thought about who would walk beside her, who would give her away, who would stand in the place that ought to have belonged to a father she barely remembered and had spent most of her life pretending she did not miss.

"You do not have to," he said quickly, misreading her silence. "I understand if you would prefer Edward, or—or no one at all. I merely thought—Margot suggested—that is⁠—"

"Yes."

He blinked. "Yes?"

"Yes." Florinda's voice emerged thick and strange. "Yes, I should like that very much. I should like—" She had to stop, had to breathe through the tightness in her chest. "You are my father. Not by blood, but by choice. By stubborn, persistent, irritating choice. And I cannot think of anyone I would rather have beside me."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "Well," he managed. "That is... that is good, then. Settled."

"Settled."

They stood in silence for a moment, the morning light pressing close around them, and then he opened his arms and Florinda stepped into them without hesitation.

He smelled of sandalwood and paper and the particular mustiness of old buildings—the smell of home, she realised. The smell of the years he had spent rebuilding their family stone by stone, repairing what was broken, shoring up what threatened to collapse.