Page 79 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I am going to make a fool of myself with the vows."

"Probably."

"I wrote them down. In case I forgot. Which I shall, because I am looking at you and I have forgotten everything except—" He stopped, swallowed, visibly gathered himself. "Except that I love you. I love you, and you are barefoot, and you have flowers in your hair, and I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you."

"You could start," Florinda suggested, "by saying your vows."

"Right. Yes. The vows." Frederick turned to the vicar, who was waiting with the patient air of a man who had seen many unusual weddings and had learned not to comment. "I am ready. I think. Possibly."

"Take your time, Your Grace," the vicar said kindly.

Frederick took a breath. Opened his mouth.

And promptly forgot every word he had ever learned.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Wedding

Frederick had forgotten how to speak.

This was, he reflected with the small portion of his brain not currently consumed by panic, becoming a pattern. He had forgotten how to speak at the ball, too, when Florinda had stood before him in green silk with fury in her eyes and wildflowers would have suited her better. He had forgotten how to speak in the tower, when she had kissed him and the world had rearranged itself around the fact of her mouth against his.

He was beginning to suspect he would spend the rest of his life forgetting how to speak in her presence.

The vicar waited. The congregation waited. Florinda waited, her bare feet pale against the worn stone floor of the church, her golden hair falling past her waist in waves that caught the coloured light from the windows and scattered it like coins.

Seventeen, he thought. Seventeen threads catching the red from St. George's cloak in the eastern window.

He had not meant to count. He never meant to count. But his mind did it anyway, cataloguing and measuring, trying to contain the uncontainable in numbers that made sense.

The church smelled of beeswax and old stone and the faint sweetness of the roses woven through Florinda's hair. His hands were sweating inside his gloves. His cravat was too tight. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the spaces between his ribs.

"Your Grace?" The vicar's voice was gentle. Patient. The voice of a man who had shepherded many nervous grooms through this particular trial. "The vows?"

Frederick opened his mouth.

Nothing emerged.

Say anything, he commanded himself. You have rehearsed this. You have memorised these words. You have recited them to yourself forty-seven times since dawn⁠—

Forty-seven. The same number as the steps between them at the ball. The same number as the miles between London and Ashbourne. His mind seized on the coincidence, turned it over, examined it for meaning⁠—

Florinda's hand tightened around his.

He looked at her. At the curve of her mouth, which was not quite smiling but held the shape of a smile waiting to happen. At her eyes, which were bright with what might have been tears or might have been laughter or might have been both.

"Breathe," she whispered.

He breathed.

"Now speak."

"I cannot remember the words."

"Then find different ones."

The letter was in his breast pocket.