Page 3 of How Not to Marry a Duke

You are engaged, he reminded himself viciously. You are promised. You are not the sort of man who ogles highborn women whilst their stockings are on display.

He was apparently precisely that sort of man, because he could not make himself look away.

The woman upon the grass—Florinda, his traitorous mind supplied, Florinda with the golden hair and the bare feet and the laugh like summer rain—looked up, laughter still upon her lips.

And saw them.

The transformation was immediate and, Frederick suspected, deeply painful.

The colour drained from her face, then flooded back in a tide of crimson that spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her hands flew to her skirts, scrabbling at the knotted ribbons with fingers that had gone clumsy with horror. She scrambled to her feet so quickly she nearly toppled, her mouth opening and closing in what appeared to be an attempt at coherent speech.

"Your Majesty—I—that is—" The words emerged in a strangled squeak. "The children required exercise and I did not anticipate—I was not aware that you had⁠—"

She was still tugging at the ribbons. They had tangled hopelessly, leaving her hem caught at an angle that continued to display one stockinged calf in all its unfortunate glory.

"Lady Florinda." Edward's voice carried the particular weariness of a man who had witnessed this sort of scene before. "Your skirts."

She looked down, made a sound of pure anguish, and gave the ribbons a desperate yank that only tightened the knot further.

"I am being punished," she muttered, apparently to herself. "I must be. This is divine retribution for—for something, I am certain."

"Perhaps," Edward offered, in tones of excessive helpfulness, "you might wish to make yourself presentable before I am obliged to explain to my ministers why the Queen's sister was discovered in a state of considerable dishabille upon the palace lawn. With a guest present."

"A guest—" Florinda's gaze snapped to Frederick, and if possible, her flush deepened. "Oh. Oh, no."

She dropped into a curtsey that wobbled alarmingly, still wrestling with her tangled hem. Her bare toes curled against the grass as though they might render themselves invisible through sheer force of will.

"Your Grace." Her voice had gone very small. "Welcome home."

Frederick bowed, grateful that his own voice emerged steady when everything within him had gone to riot. "Lady Florinda. You are⁠—"

Magnificent. Extraordinary. The most alive creature I have beheld since returning to this grey country.

"—well, I trust?"

"Quite well." She was not looking at him, her attention fixed upon the hopeless tangle at her knee. "Merely somewhat... indisposed at present. As you may have observed. Rather obviously. Impossible to have missed, really."

"So I observe."

Princess Charlotte, apparently immune to the tension crackling between the adults, tugged at Florinda's ruined skirts. "Aunt Flor, why is your face all red? Are you unwell?"

"I am perfectly well, darling." Florinda's voice had achieved a pitch that suggested she was anything but. "I am merely experiencing a moment of profound regret regarding several of my life choices."

"What does profound mean?"

"It means very, very large."

"Your regret is very large?"

"Enormous. Possibly the largest regret in recorded history."

"It means Aunt Florinda is going to take you both to your governess," Edward interjected, "and then she is going to locate her shoes, and her dignity, and perhaps a very strong cup of tea."

"Edward—" Florinda began.

"Now, if you please."

Something flickered across her features—hurt, perhaps, or embarrassment sharpening into that particular brand of defiance Frederick remembered from nine years ago—but she mastered it quickly. She gathered the children with what remained of her composure, abandoning the battle with her ribbons in favour of simply clutching the excess fabric in one fist.