Chapter Sixteen

August 11, 1812

J ohn swore at his reflection.

"If your lordship would like a little help with—"

"I can do it," he said gruffly, turning back to the damned mirror with his damned cravat and his damned thumbs. "It's not like it is difficult, after all."

His valet, wisely, remained silent.

It was ridiculous. John had told himself he could get himself ready to see Florence without the help of another, and in many cases, that was true. He was mentally prepared. Their wedding was only a few days away, and this would be the last time they would see each other until then.

Florence had been most clear. She was a traditionalist, she had said with a smile, in most cases.

A smile crept across John's lips as he remembered the cases in which they had been most untraditional.

And as he was about to see Florence for the last time for two days, a length of time which felt impossible to go without her, that meant he wanted to look good.

"Ouch!"

John wrung his hand, his thumb throbbing after being trapped so perfectly within the fabric of his cravat. Who knew these things could be so complicated?

"I really do think—"

"I don't need your help, go on with you," said John—not unkindly. "If I need you, I'll ring the bell."

His valet gave him a look. It was a look that said, without any words needing to be spoken, that John was out of his depth, that cravats were some of the most complicated machinery in the world, and that he was being an idiot attempting to tie it himself.

However, the words out of the man's mouth were, "Very good, my lord."

The door closed behind him. John turned with a heavy sigh back to his looking glass.

It was probably ridiculous of him to attempt this, but there was something so delightful about preparing to see Florence on his own. Even if his thumbs were suffering for it.

His patience was also suffering. After another ten minutes had gone by and John had still managed to do nothing but get one end of the fabric tied in a knot he could not undo, he was starting to wonder whether calling his valet back would be the worst idea. After all, at any moment—

A heavy jangling echoed around the house.

John cursed under his breath.

Less than a minute later, the door to his dressing room opened and a footman dressed in livery stepped in, bowing low. "My lord, Miss Bailey is—"

"Yes, yes, and right on time, too," said John with a grin, unable to help himself.

He wasn't completely dressed. His cravat was still misbehaving, he had not permitted his valet to attire him with his waistcoat, and he had no idea where his jacket was. He wasn't, however, completely undressed, either.

Pushing past the footman, John stepped onto the landing and clasped the bannisters with both hands. "Florence?"

A face came into view, looking up the staircase with a frown. "John?"

"I'm almost ready for you, but not quite," he called, feeling foolish for his delay.

What, was he a popinjay now who spent more time in front of the looking glass than actually with his guests?

It appeared the same line of thinking was moving through Florence's mind. As she called up to him, there was a teasing lilt in her voice that he had only recently started hearing. "H-Have you b-beautified yourself for m-me?"

John considered swearing again, but there was a chance she could hear him, and that would never do.

Besides, his stomach was too busy lurching as he recalled Florence's own beauty. The luscious hair which had only yesterday been spread across his pillow. The soft skin which had been under his fingertips. The liquid desire in her eyes as she had—

"In y-your own t-time, I'm sure!"

John grinned. "I won't be long!"

That, of course, was a matter of opinion. He strode back into his dressing room but left the door open so he could still call out to Florence down the staircase, and frowned decidedly at the cravat in the reflection of his looking glass.

He was not going to be outdone by a scrap of fabric. He was a Chance! He was the Marquess of Aylesbury!

After another minute, John was almost ready to admit he was going to be outdone by a scrap of fabric.

"D-Do you plan to be late to our w-wedding, too?" called out a teasing voice.

John's stomach slipped sideways, as though the whole earth had decided to take a sudden lurch to the left.

Their wedding.

Two days away. Two days! That was almost nothing. The day after tomorrow. Just two more sleeps, and he would be standing at the top of an aisle waiting for his bride.

His Florence.

It seemed almost ridiculous that just a few months ago, he could barely recall her name. She had been a mere passing flirtation, someone to entertain him while he had been bored. True, the kiss they had shared had been one of the best of his life, but it had been something he had been able to forget.

The idea of forgetting her now . . .

"There are t-two letters here!"

John nodded, forgetting for a moment that Florence was still downstairs in the hall waiting for him. She must have noticed the silver tray Humphreys was in the habit of placing on the dresser in the hall. John's habits were so varied, it was apparently impossible to find him when the post arrived. Easier to just place it there, by the front door, so the master could collect his letters when he came in.

"I bet one of them is from Cothrom," John called, frowning as he attempted to pull his cravat through the small hole he had managed to make.

There we go—a small twist there, a tug there—

"Your brother?"

John swore under his breath. Somehow the damned thing had fallen apart in his fingers. How on earth had that happened?

"J-John?"

"Wh—oh, yes, my brother," said John with a lazy grin, thinking of the oldest Chance. "He promised to send me some marital advice, God help us."

"N-Not sure if we need that," came the coquettish reply.

John's manhood twitched in his breeches. Dear Lord, she was a minx. Shouting that in their own house—as though no servant could possibly hear!

Oh, their marriage was going to be something special. Something different from all the staid, dull marriages made in Society every year. Not for them the tired, polite mutterings of a couple who were forced together.

No, their lives were going to be full of passion, and—

Laughter echoed up the staircase and into his dressing room. "It has your brother's seal! What do you th-think it says?"

John groaned. "Heaven knows."

As long as the man did not attempt to give him advice for the bedchamber, he supposed he could take it with relative equanimity. The man did mean well. Cutting him from the family fortune was perhaps one of the best things Cothrom had ever done for him, after all.

Though he would of course never admit to such a thing.

"Open it up," John called, hoping the letter would suitably distract Florence from how long he was taking to come down. "You'll see how he berates me all the time!"

There was silence below as Florence undoubtedly took up his suggestion and read through the damned letter.

Perhaps Alice, Cothrom's wife, had advised him on the guidance, John thought wryly as he attempted, for what felt like the hundredth time, to tie the damned cravat. Now that would be interesting. Alice had certainly brought a calm to his brother's life that had never been there before. Perhaps her advice would be worth listening to.

So focused on his fingers and thumbs was John as he finally—finally—managed a serviceable knot that for a few minutes, he did not think about the letter from his brother which was undoubtedly being read downstairs. He did not think about it as he searched for his waistcoat, which had slipped to the carpet, or his jacket, which had been carefully folded then hidden by his nightshirt.

It was only as he buttoned up his waistcoat that John called out, "So, what is the old man complaining about this time?"

And Florence did not answer.

John frowned as he picked a little fluff from his jacket. It could not be that bad, could it? He had been honest... well, mostly honest with Florence about his own faults. She certainly already knew a great deal more about him than most people. Even his brothers. Especially his brothers.

And he knew her. Yes, he knew her, John thought with a grin as he slipped on his jacket. "You're not offended, are you?"

And still there was no answer.

A thrum of foreboding shivered through John's chest. It was most unusual for Florence not to answer him, even if she was having difficulty with her words.

Perhaps she was overcome by the well wishes, John thought as he found his top hat and glanced at his reflection to check he was suitably attired. Yes, that had to be it. Perhaps Cothrom had overdone the thing, his relief at having his younger brother married dripping out onto the page in an excess of enthusiasm.

As he left his dressing room and descended the stairs, it was to see Florence standing in the hallway, wearing an elegant gown covered with a spencer jacket and a reticule hanging from her arm. She was holding a letter. Her eyes did not depart from it as he approached her.

"What is Cothrom complaining about?" asked John jovially, repeating his question.

And Florence did not look up. Neither did she reply. She merely stood there, her face pale—far paler than normal, now he came to think about it.

John's pulse skipped a beat. "What is it?"

Only then did Florence look up. As she did so, the piece of paper in her hands moved. Became two.

There were two pieces of paper. Most strange. Had she opened two letters—or had Cothrom really had that much to say?

"I think," said Florence tranquilly, "this is yours."

John stood at the bottom of the stairs, mystified, as the woman he loved held out one of the pieces of paper to him. She did not meet his eye.

What could Cothrom have written to upset her so? Perhaps his brother, John thought darkly, had attempted to be funny and failed. Well, the man had many fine qualities, he would be the first to say that, but his humor—

"Take it," she said, still not meeting his eyes.

His curiosity overwhelming him, John obeyed. He reached out and took the paper, noticing curiously how Florence managed to pass it to him while not once touching his fingers. The lack of contact burned like ice.

He looked at the paper.

I promise that I am only marrying Florence Bailey for her money. For her stupendous dowry, and nothing else.

John Chance, Aylesbury

John's stomach lurched painfully and a roaring echoed through his ears, making it impossible to think.

No. No, this was not happening—this was a disaster. How could this have happened?

He looked up and saw Florence's face. Saw the hurt, the pain, the distrust. Saw the confidence they had built in one another, the connection which had grown since that fateful day when she had suggested a marriage of convenience, all fade away.

He had to fix this.

"Florence, I can explain—"

"I don't want to hear it," Florence said quietly. There was no cordiality in her voice, but also no censure. Just dull acceptance of an ending.

His heart rebelled at that, refusing to accept this was over.

Over? It could not be over. He loved Florence Bailey, and this was all one tremendous mistake. One of his own making, to be sure, but that meant he could unmake it.

He had to unmake it.

John took a step forward and hated that Florence immediately took a step back. "I know how it looks. It looks bad."

"You know what I said, how I felt about—ab-bout men wanting me only for my dowry," she said dully.

The flaring panic was making it impossible to think. "And that's not me, I would never—"

"You wrote it," Florence said faintly. "It is in your hand. Your signature at the—"

"I never thought you would see it," John said desperately.

It was the wrong thing to say. Something like fire flickered, just for a moment, in the eyes of the woman he loved. "I s-see. Well, that is—"

"No, you don't see—damn, I'm doing this all wrong!"

"I q-q-quite agree," Florence said in a monotone. "I s-suppose I sh-should have seen th-this after the w-wedding, when it was t-too—"

"No! Look, I can explain," John said fiercely, his pulse racing.

He had to explain. Had to, because Florence was looking at him as though he were a stranger. As though the idea of marrying him would be a torment, a punishment.

"I don't w-want to hear any explan—"

"You have to hear, because I love you, Florence," John said urgently, reaching out to take her hand.

Florence moved away. "S-Someone who l-loved me wouldn't—"

"Florence, please!"

He had never had anything to lose, not like this. Oh, his reputation, his name, but what did they matter? Only someone like Cothrom cared about such inconsequential things.

They were nothing to this. Florence clearly wished she were anywhere else. The pain in her expression could not have been plainer if he had hurt her, physically hurt her. It was as though he had bruised her soul, brought up welts across her heart as she saw him now for who he truly was.

A man always in need of a second chance.

"When I wrote that, I was being teased by my brother—I would never normally do such a thing, I was showing off," John said, waving his hands as though that could explain it, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to speak.

Florence's gaze was brutal in its clarity. "You s-still wrote it. It's your words—"

"I don't think that way anymore!"

"But you did," she said, her voice quavering in the force of her words. "You did, John. You looked at me and you thought, there's a pile of money just waiting to be—"

John swore under his breath. Yes, it had been about the money. At the beginning. But that had been so long ago—so long ago that he could barely recall feeling that way.

Not loving Florence? It was a different man, a different John. Not the one that stood before her, panicking that he had lost everything. How could he prove it to her?

"You have to believe me," he said forcefully.

Florence did not blink. "I do not."

"Everything we have shared together, since I wrote that stupid note, it has meant so much to me!"

"How can I possibly believe—"

"Choose to believe!" begged John.

Florence's eyes burned into him. "Choose to be lied to, choose t-to—"

"That is not what I said, and you know it," John said hotly, trying to keep his temper at bay. "Fine, I need money!"

The words echoed in the hall.

It was too late to save his dignity, but John didn't care about that. He barreled forward. "I ran out of money, gambled it away—didn't you notice that no matter where we went, I didn't play any game for money? And Cothrom, he cut me off, said he'd send me to the countryside in disgrace, and I thought—"

"You thought you could just marry a fortune."

John hesitated. Truth. That was what he had to tell, no matter the pain. "Yes—no... not exactly. And when I saw you, at the Knights'—"

"I see." Florence swallowed, hard, then said, "I should have known I was not the prize, but only my dowry. I just... I never thought you, of all—"

"I love you, Florence!"

"Will you let me finish?"

Such desperation was flowing through him, it was becoming difficult to prevent the words from spilling out. A voice at the back of his mind cried out that Florence hated being interrupted, but he did not seem to have the power to call back his sentences.

"It changed, don't you see, our marriage of convenience, it changed," he said, speaking over Florence once again. "And I had completely forgotten I'd written that stupid thing, it meant nothing, nothing compared to you, and I—"

"John Chance, you are being an idiot!"

John halted his words, his mouth open.

Florence had her fists clenched at each side, and her eyes sparkled with tears, but there was a determined look on her face he had never seen before.

"You once told me I should tell you if you were being an idiot," she said levelly, cool anger in every syllable. "And I am. You are being an idiot, and a rogue, and—and heartless!"

John swallowed. This was a nightmare. This could not be happening. "I... I never meant to... I didn't think—"

"That much is obvious," said Florence with a small sob breaking through her voice. "Do you have any idea how what this—what you've... You wanted to marry me for my money?"

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, as he heard the pain in her voice.

What had he done? Proven himself to be the worst kind of man, one who used a woman merely for what she had, rather than seeing her for who she was. And he had been foolish enough to write it down!

John glanced at the crumpled paper in his hand.

I promise that I am only marrying Florence Bailey for her money. For her stupendous dowry, and nothing else.

John Chance, Aylesbury

"Your brother wanted to send you this because he thought you would want to burn it," said Florence in a broken voice.

John's hopes leapt. "I will! It doesn't matter anymore, Florence, please, you've got to—"

"I d-don't have to do anything," she said in a muted tone. "I... to be used like th-this, treated like a f-fool because I cared for you. Because I knew m-myself to be in love with you, and th-that b-blinded me, completely, to who you are. To w-what you are."

Every word was sharp nails dragging across his chest. John was almost surprised not to see blood seeping through his shirt, dripping past his waistcoat and onto the floor. Actual daggers could not hurt more than this.

"Everyone thought I w-would end up alone," said Florence, a sad smile spreading across her face. "And in the end, you've p-proven them right."

"No," John said, panic rising in his lungs. "No, Florence, you can't leave—"

"I can," she said firmly. "I... I m-may stammer. I m-may be shy, and I am m-most definitely a wallflower. But I can s-still m-make up my own m-mind."

And Florence affixed him with a look, one that John would never forget. One that would remain burned into him, into his very skin, for the rest of his life. It was the look of a woman who had been hurt, yes... but who would rise above it. A woman who would shake the dust from her heels and walk away. Out of his life, into the world, never to speak to him again.

And he had to stop it, he had to, but he didn't know how. It didn't seem possible. What variety of words could he say to show Florence just how much he cared for her?

John dropped to his knees. "Florence, I love you. Let me show you, let me—"

"I am a w-wallflower, but that does not m-mean I deserve to be walked over," Florence said simply.

She allowed the other piece of paper to fall to the floor as she turned on her heel.

John lunged for her—just to touch her, to know the touch of Florence on his skin one more time.

He missed. She was too quick for him, her gown swishing before him and out of the door into the brilliant sunshine of the street.

The door closed. Silence fell in the hall. He was alone.

No, there was a sound. A strange dripping—gentle, and quite close.

John blinked. He was weeping.

Tears splattered down onto his waistcoat and shirt, onto the marble floor. And when he reached out to pick up the paper that Florence had dropped, just to touch something that she had so recently touched, his tears dripped down onto the letter Cothrom had written him, not knowing it would reveal him to be the world's greatest fool.

Aylesbury,

Well, you've done it! Just a few days to go until the wedding, and I'll be honest, I didn't think you had it in you to go through with a marriage of convenience. I hope that you'll find a partnership in your marriage without the bonds of affection.

I thought it was worth me sending this back to you. I don't need it, and Alice says it's foolish to have such a thing lying about our home where anyone could find it.

I recommend you burn it. Wouldn't want the wife to see it! So strange, I really thought for a moment you were falling in love with her.

Meet you at the altar. Who is your best man, by the way?

Cothrom