Page 8 of How Not to Marry a Duke

He was staring at you, a traitorous voice whispered. In the garden. He was staring at you like⁠—

Like nothing. He was staring at her like a man confronted with an unexpected spectacle. Horror, probably. Secondhand embarrassment. The particular expression of a gentleman forced to witness a lady's descent into complete social ruin.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Frederick was engaged, and Florinda was being disposed of, and Ashbourne House was waiting at the end of this road with its empty rooms and its overgrown gardens and its complete, blessed absence of anyone who might expect her to be something other than what she was.

The carriage turned onto the drive.

Ashbourne House rose from the twilight like something from a dream—familiar and strange all at once, its windows dark, its chimneys cold. The gardens had grown wild in the years since anyone had lived here properly. Roses climbed the eastern wall in unchecked profusion. The hedges had lost their careful shapes and become something softer, more organic, more alive.

It was, Florinda thought, rather beautiful.

It was also, she realised as the carriage rolled to a stop, going to require an explanation to the caretaker. And a message to Margot, who would be expecting her. And probably another message to Ella, who would be furious, and to Edward, who would be⁠—

Actually, Florinda found she did not particularly care what Edward would be.

She climbed out of the carriage, her travelling boots crunching on the gravel drive, and breathed in the scent of roses and growing things and home.

Tomorrow she would write her letters. Tomorrow she would face the consequences of her small rebellion. Tomorrow she would begin the tedious business of existing in a world that had decided she was surplus to requirements.

Tonight, she was simply going to find a bed and sleep in her own house for the first time in four years.

The caretaker, a Mrs. Finch, emerged from the servants' entrance with a lamp in one hand and an expression of profound bewilderment on her face.

"Lady Florinda? We weren't—that is, there was no word⁠—"

"I know." Florinda summoned her most reassuring smile. "It was rather a sudden decision. I shall require a room made up, and something simple for supper, and perhaps a very large glass of wine."

"Of course, my lady. Only—" Mrs. Finch's bewilderment deepened. "We've had the rooms closed up, you see. It will take some time to air them properly. And the linens⁠—"

"Any room with a bed and a blanket will suffice. I am not particular."

She was, actually, extremely particular, but tonight she could not summon the energy to care whether the sheets had been properly pressed or the mattress adequately turned. Tonight she wanted only to close a door behind her and exist, for a few hours, without anyone watching.

Mrs. Finch bustled off to make arrangements. The coachman began unloading trunks with the resigned air of a man who had given up attempting to understand the gentry. And Florinda stood in the entrance hall of her childhood home, surrounded by dust covers and memories, wondering if she had just done something very brave or very stupid.

Probably both.

The wine, when it arrived, was from their father's old cellar—a red that had been aging since before Ella's wedding, rich and dark and exactly what Florinda needed. She drank it in the morning room, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of cedar and lavender, watching the last light fade from the windows.

Tomorrow she would ride. There were horses in the stable, kept exercised by the groom who maintained the property. She would ride out at dawn, before anyone could stop her, and feel the wind in her hair and remember what it was like to move through the world without being watched.

Tomorrow she would begin again.

The road to the village ran between Ashbourne and the neighbouring estate. Carthedge Hall. She had not thought of that when she made her choice.

She was not thinking of it now.

She was thinking of nothing at all except the wine on her tongue and the silence in the house and the strange, fragile relief of having chosen—for once—exactly where she wanted to be.

Chapter Three

The Fall

Frederick had not slept.

He had arrived at Carthedge Hall well past midnight, delivered his horse to a bleary-eyed groom, and proceeded directly to his chambers with every intention of collapsing into bed and not emerging until the Ashworths demanded his presence at breakfast.

Instead, he had stared at the canopy above his bed and thought about golden hair tumbling below a woman's waist, about bare feet in wet grass, about a kiss in a stable nine years ago that he had never quite managed to forget.