Page 77 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I am proud of you," he said against her hair. "I hope you know that. Whatever happens today, whatever the Dowager says or the ton whispers or the scandal sheets print—I am proud of the woman you have become."

"Even when I argue with you about roof tiles?"

"Especially then." He pulled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Now. I believe your sisters are waiting, and I have been reliably informed by my daughter that if the ceremony does not begin on time, she shall be forced to eat all the wedding cake herself to prevent it going stale."

"That sounds like Hope."

"She is alarmingly practical for a four-year-old." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

The carriage ride to the church was brief—the village was barely a mile from Ashbourne House—but it felt like an eternity.

Margot sat beside her, their hands clasped together on the seat between them. Lord Raventhorn had gone ahead to take his place, and the children had been dispatched in a separate carriage with strict instructions to Charlotte about beetle-related incidents.

"You are certain about this?" Margot asked quietly. "It is not too late to change your mind."

"I am not changing my mind."

"I know. I had to ask." Margot squeezed her fingers. "A mother's prerogative. Even a stepmother's."

The word no longer stung the way it once had. Margot was her mother—had been her mother since Florinda was twelve years old and too angry to recognise love when it was offered. The blood did not matter. The choosing did.

"He counted the threads in my hair," Florinda said. "Fourteen, the first time. He told me."

"I know. He told Edward. Edward told Ella. Ella told me." Margot's mouth curved. "The man has been desperately in love with you for nine years, Florinda. I am not certain 'certain' begins to cover it."

"He wrote me letters. Twenty-nine of them. He never sent them."

"I know that too."

"How do you know everything?"

"I am a mother. It is my sacred duty to know everything and pretend I do not." Margot released her hand and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from Florinda's skirt. "You are beautiful. You are loved. And if Frederick does not weep when he sees you walking down that aisle, I shall be very surprised and moderately disappointed."

The carriage slowed. Through the window, Florinda could see the church—small and grey and ancient, its stained glass windows glowing with coloured light.

"Oh," Margot said softly. "Here. I almost forgot."

She pressed a thing into Florinda's palm. Cool metal. A weight that felt like memory.

Florinda looked down. Her mother's locket—her real mother, the one who had died when she was too young to remember anything but the scent of roses and a voice singing in the dark.

"Margot—"

"She would have wanted you to have it today. I have been keeping it for you." Margot's voice was steady, but her eyes were bright. "A borrowed thing, and an old one. It belonged to someone who loved you before I did."

Florinda closed her fingers around the locket and did not trust herself to speak.

The church smelled of beeswax and old stone and the faint sweetness of roses.

Florinda stood in the doorway, her hand tucked into the crook of Lord Raventhorn's arm, and looked down the aisle at the small gathering who had come to witness her wedding.

Family. Only family, and the closest of friends. There had been no time for more—the banns had been read with almost indecent haste, and the ton would talk regardless of whether they were present to witness—but Florinda found she did not mind. This was not a spectacle. This was a promise, made before the people who mattered most.

Margot sat in the second pew, Hope beside her with the fierce concentration of a child who had been promised she could throw rose petals if she behaved. Drusilla sat with Marcus, her hand clasped in his, her face soft in a way Florinda rarely saw. Ella and Edward occupied the pew across from them with the children—Charlotte vibrating with barely contained excitement, James clutching his beetle box, Charles still blessedly asleep.

And in the front pew, where she belonged, sat the Dowager Duchess of Carthedge.

Her spine was rigid. Her face was composed. Her grey eyes—so like Frederick's—swept over Florinda with the assessing gaze that had terrified her for two months of convalescence at Carthedge Hall.