Victor corrected, ignoring her sarcasm. Every interaction I have is a transaction. Every word spoken to me is calculated for maximum return. The women I am expected to court are bred to be agreeable, quiet, and completely devoid of independent thought.
They do not want me. They want the title, the estates, and the access to the king. I have spent the last ten years surrounded by a sea of smiling liars. Florence set her mug down on the small table beside her.
And what does this have to do with me? I am not in your sea. I am drowning in a completely different ocean. Because you did not lie to me.
Victor dropped the blanket from his shoulders. He didn't care about the cold anymore. He walked over and sat in the chair opposite hers, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Yesterday, in the mud, you looked at me and told me exactly what you thought of me.
Today, in your drawing room, you looked me in the eye and stripped away every polite fiction your aunt tried to build. You are the most terrifyingly honest creature I have ever met. Honesty is not a virtue, your grace. It is a byproduct of having nothing left to lose.
I don't care what it is a byproduct of, I care that it is real. Victor held her gaze. The flickering firelight threw sharp shadows across his cheekbones. I saw the way you survive.
I saw the intelligence in it and the sheer brutal grit. You do not belong in York, emptying chamber pots for a ghost. You belong at the head of a table, terrifying politicians and managing an estate that actually requires a spine. Florence's heart gave a strange, uncomfortable thud against her ribs.
She gripped the wooden armrests of her chair. She was a cynical woman. She knew how the world worked. But the raw intensity in his eyes was disorienting.
What are you saying? She asked, her voice dangerously quiet. I am asking you to marry me. The words dropped into the small, warm room like an anvil.
Florence stared at him. She waited for the punchline. She waited for the cruel smirk, the reveal of the joke. But Victor's face remained completely serious, completely open.
You are mad. Florence breathed,"The cold has frozen your wits." I am entirely lucid. I am 26. She said, her voice rising, panic and anger warring in her chest.
I have no dowry. My family is ruined. I am considered completely unmarriageable by every gentleman in the county. Good thing I am not a gentleman.
Victor replied smoothly. I am a duke. I answer to no one. Stop it.
Florence stood up, pacing away from the fire into the shadows of the room. She felt like an animal caught in a trap that suddenly sprang open, unsure if the open door was just a different kind of snare. You do not want a wife. You want a rebellion.
You want to shock your polite society by dragging a mud-stained penniless spinster into their drawing rooms and watching them gasp. I will not be your prop. You think I care enough about society to put on a show for them. Victor stood up and crossed the room, stopping her pacing by stepping directly into her path.
Florence, look at me. She looked up. His face was inches from hers. I do not want a prop.
I want a partner. Victor said, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. I want a woman who will tell me when I am being an arrogant fool. I want a woman who knows what it costs to survive, who will not break the first time the wind blows cold.
I want you. Florence searched his eyes. She looked for the pity. She looked for the charity.
She found neither. She found only a desperate aching need for something genuine. For a connection that wasn't built on a ledger. I am not pliable.
She warned him, her voice trembling slightly. I will not smile when I am angry. I will not agree with you just because you hold the purse strings. If you ever start agreeing with me just because of my money, I will divorce you.
Victor said, a faint, genuine smile finally breaking across his face. Florence let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like a sob. The sheer absurdity of it all crashed over her. She was standing in a shabby inn parlor at midnight being proposed to by a duke in a wet shirt.
The arithmetic of her life had always been simple. Zero assets, zero prospects. But looking at Victor Cavendish, she realized the math had just changed entirely. I want my own allowance.
Florence said, lifting her chin, her dark eyes flashing with the old fire. I will not beg you for pin money. Victor's smile widened into something dangerously handsome. Done.
And I want absolute control over the estate gardens, all of them. They are yours. Florence hesitated, her throat suddenly tight. "And I want to never, ever be cold again."
Victor reached out. He didn't ask permission. He simply took her cold, calloused hands in his large, warm ones. His grip was firm, grounding, and incredibly safe.
"You have my word, Florence," he said softly. "You will never be cold again." The morning light in Gloucestershire was always pale and unforgiving.
But as the heavy black carriage with the Westmoreland crest rolled up the long rutted drive of Okehaven, the sun finally broke through the gray clouds. Victor sat across from Florence. He was properly dressed now, having sent a rider to Harrington's estate at dawn to fetch fresh clothes and his fixed carriage. He wore a sharply tailored charcoal coat, looking every inch the terrifying peer of the realm.
But his eyes, when they looked at Florence, were warm. Florence sat opposite him, her battered leather trunk already strapped to the back of the carriage. She was still wearing her faded blue day dress and the shapeless cloak, but her posture had shifted. The defensive, brittle tension that had defined her existence for eight years was gone.