Page 75 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"How faintly?" Florinda asked.

"Faintly enough that no one shall notice unless they are examining your feet very closely." Drusilla's mouth curved. "Which, at a wedding, they ought not to be doing."

Florinda felt some of the tightness in her shoulders ease. "Thank you for finding them."

"Thank Marcus. He is remarkably good at negotiating with four-year-olds." Drusilla paused, her head tilting in that particular way that meant she was about to say a thing she had been considering for some time. "Are you truly well? You seem... anxious."

"I am about to marry a duke."

"You are about to marry Frederick. The duke is merely an inconvenient attachment." Drusilla's voice softened. "He loves you, you know. Desperately, ridiculously, in a manner that would be embarrassing if it were not so obviously genuine."

"I know."

"Then why are you afraid?"

Florinda watched Martha's hands in the mirror, weaving flowers through gold. The scent of roses filled the room—sweet and heavy, the smell of summer and promises. Her chest felt tight with an emotion she could not name.

"Because I am happy," she said at last. "And I have learned not to trust happiness. It tends to disappear when one grows too comfortable with it."

Drusilla was quiet for a long moment. Then she rose, crossed to the dressing table, and wrapped her arms around Florinda from behind—a gesture so unlike her usual reserve that Florinda felt tears prick at her eyes.

"Then do not grow comfortable," Drusilla murmured against her hair. "Stay terrified. Stay uncertain. Stay desperately in love with a man who counts the threads in your hair because he cannot help himself." She squeezed once, fiercely. "But do not let fear steal your joy. You have earned this, Florinda. You have earned him."

Martha tactfully busied herself with a ribbon that required no attention whatsoever.

"When did you become wise?" Florinda managed.

"I have always been wise. You simply never listened." Drusilla released her and stepped back, her composure reassembling itself like armour. "Now. Ella has arrived with the children, and Margot is attempting to prevent Charlotte from rearranging the flower arrangements in the church. Lord Raventhorn wishes to speak with you before the ceremony—he has a matter regarding the processional. And the Dowager Duchess has sent word that she expects the bride to be punctual."

"The Dowager expects punctuality from everyone."

"She does. But she sent word specifically to you, which suggests she is making an effort." Drusilla's mouth quirked. "Or establishing dominance. With the Dowager, it can be difficult to distinguish."

Ella arrived as Martha was fastening the final buttons of Florinda's gown.

Her elder sister swept into the room like a summer storm—all warmth and energy and the particular radiance that had made her a queen in fact long before Edward placed a crown upon her head. Behind her trailed three children in various states of excitement: Charlotte, practically vibrating with anticipation; James, clutching a small box that probably contained a creature; and Charles, who had fallen asleep in his nurse's arms and was missing the proceedings entirely.

"Oh." Ella stopped in the doorway, her hand rising to her throat. "Oh, Florinda."

"Is it—" Florinda looked down at herself, uncertain. "Is it too much? Too simple? Martha suggested more pearls, but I thought the Carthedge pearls would be sufficient, and⁠—"

"You look perfect." Ella's voice had gone thick. "You look absolutely perfect. Like a creature from a story."

"She looks like a princess!" Charlotte announced with authority. "But better, because she is going to be a duchess, and duchesses do not have to curtsy to anyone except queens."

"You have been studying the order of precedence again," Ella observed.

"It is important to understand hierarchy." Charlotte drew herself up with the dignity of a child who had clearly inherited her father's sense of protocol. "When I am queen, I shall need to know who curtsies to whom."

"When you are queen, you shall have advisors to remember such things for you."

"Advisors can be wrong. I prefer to verify independently."

Florinda met Ella's eyes over Charlotte's head, and for a moment, they shared the particular look of elder sisters confronting a younger generation that was entirely too clever for comfort.

"She is eight," Florinda said.

"She is terrifying," Ella agreed. "Edward is already planning her diplomatic career."