Florence hadn't moved. The hood of her cloak hid the expression on her face, but Victor could see the rigid tension in her shoulders. She gripped the handle of her battered leather satchel so tightly her knuckles shone white in the dim lantern light of the Boar and Whistle. He walked toward her.
The freezing mud sucked at his expensive boots. The wind whipped his thin linen shirt against his chest, stealing the heat from his skin in seconds, but he didn't feel the cold. Miss Penrose, Victor said. His voice was not the booming command of a duke.
It was quiet, ragged at the edges, stripped of all its polished armor. Florence finally tilted her head up. Her face was pale, her dark eyes wide and guarded. What are you doing here?
Get in the coach, miss. The driver shouted again, cracking his whip against the footboard for emphasis. I'm not waiting on a lover's quarrel. You have a ticket or you don't.
Victor didn't break eye contact with Florence. He reached into the pocket of his breeches, pulled out a heavy gold sovereign, and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. The coin landed with a heavy clink on the roof of the coach. The lady is not traveling to York.
Victor said, loud enough for the driver to hear. Leave her trunk with the innkeeper. Drive on. The driver looked at the gold coin, looked at the massive black horse, and then looked at the cut of Victor's trousers.
He was a working man, but he recognized power when it stood in the street and threw gold at his feet. He tipped his hat, yelled at the hostlers to drop the trunk, and snapped the reins. The heavy coach lurched forward, its iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the stones, rolling out of the village and taking Florence's sentence of exile with it. Florence watched the coach disappear into the dark.
Then she turned to gaze back to Victor. There was no relief in her eyes. There was only a deep, simmering fury. Who gave you the right?
She demanded, her voice shaking slightly, betraying the exhaustion beneath her anger. Who gave you the right to decide where I go? To throw your money at my life as if it were a game you could rig? It wasn't a game.
Victor took a step closer. The wind bit into him again, and he couldn't suppress a violent shiver. It was a mistake. My mistake.
I walked into your aunt's house without thinking of the consequences it would have for you. I underestimated her cruelty. You underestimated my reality. Florence shot back, refusing to back down.
She stood her ground, an island in the mud. I told you what would happen. I told you I could not afford the consequences of your curiosity, and you pushed your way in anyway, just to prove you could. And now my aunt has thrown me out, and you have sent away my only means of shelter.
York was not shelter. It was a prison. It was a roof! Florence yelled.
The sudden volume of her voice echoed off the stone walls of the inn. A few patrons peered out the leaded windows, but she didn't care. It was a roof, and it was food, and it was all I had left. You do not get to ride down here on your high horse and play the savior when you are the one who set the fire.
Then let me put it out. Victor closed the remaining distance between them. He stopped less than a foot away from her. Up close, Florence could see the physical toll the ride had taken on him.
His chest heaved. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and damp. He was wearing nothing but evening breeches, tall boots, and a thin white shirt that offered zero protection against the brutal Gloucestershire winter. His lips were tinged blue.
He was freezing to death in the middle of the street. Florence stared at him. The cynical arithmetic in her head ground to a halt. Men like the Duke of Westmoreland did not ride without coats.
They did not ruin their clothes. They did not shiver. You are not wearing a coat. She said, the anger suddenly draining out of her, replaced by a jarring sense of unreality.
I was in a hurry. Victor replied through chattering teeth. You are an idiot. She whispered.
Undoubtedly. He looked down at her, his pale gray eyes intense and unwavering. But I am an idiot who is asking you to come inside out of the cold. Please, Florence.
Give me ten minutes to explain myself. If you still want to leave after that, I will hire a private carriage and send you to York myself. I swear it. Florence looked at his blue lips.
She looked at his hands, which were curled into fists to stop the trembling. He was offering her a choice, a real, tangible choice, stripped of the heavy-handed authority he was born with. She let out a long, ragged breath. The white plume of it caught in the lantern light. ten minutes.
She said, and order a pot of tea. If you die of exposure in the street, my aunt will somehow find a way to blame me for it. The private parlor of the Boar and Whistle smelled faintly of old tobacco and spilled ale, but the fire roaring in the massive stone hearth was glorious.
The innkeeper had taken one look at Victor, recognized the terrifying aura of a freezing nobleman, and immediately cleared the back room. He had brought a heavy wool blanket, a steaming pot of black tea, and a bottle of his best brandy before fleeing and shutting the door tight. Victor stood aggressively close to the fire, the wool blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders over his wet shirt. The violent shivering was beginning to subside, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion.
Florence sat in a high-backed wooden chair on the opposite side of the hearth. She had pushed her hood back, but she hadn't taken off her cloak. She sat with her spine perfectly straight, her hands wrapped around a thick ceramic mug of tea, letting the heat seep into her calloused palms. Silence stretched between them, heavy and crackling with the heat of the fire.
I am listening. Florence finally said, taking a sip of the scalding tea. Victor turned away from the flames to face her. He didn't bother with a polished introduction.
He had learned his lesson about hiding behind manners with this woman. I hate my life. Victor said flatly. Florence paused, the mug halfway to her lips.
She raised an eyebrow. Forgive me if my heart does not bleed for the Duke of Westmoreland. I imagine the burden of immense wealth and total societal freedom is crushing. It is suffocating.