The Staircase
"She must be going quite mad in that room."
Frederick looked up from his breakfast. Penelope was watching him with the earnest concern she brought to all household matters, her teacup cradled in both hands.
"Lady Florinda," she clarified. "Two weeks in that chamber with nothing but novels and needlework. I visit her every afternoon, but it cannot be enough. She needs fresh air. A change of scene. The morning room, perhaps, or the garden when the weather permits."
"The surgeon has forbidden her to walk," Frederick said.
"Well, yes, but she needn't walk." Penelope set down her teacup. "She could be carried. The footmen are quite capable."
Frederick opened his mouth to agree that yes, the footmen were indeed capable, and found himself saying instead: "I could carry her."
Penelope blinked. "You, Frederick?"
"I carried her two miles when I found her. A single staircase seems rather less demanding." He reached for his coffee. "And I should not wish to pull the footmen from their duties."
This was a lie. He had an army of servants whose entire purpose was to be assigned duties. But Penelope merely smiled.
"How thoughtful of you. I shall go tell her at once—she will be so pleased to escape that room." She rose from the table. "I've been reading The Italian to her, and she's begun to identify rather too strongly with the imprisoned heroine."
She departed with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had found a project, leaving Frederick to contemplate the spectacular foolishness of what he had just volunteered to do.
* * *
When he reached the blue guest chamber, Penelope was already there, helping Florinda arrange herself against the pillows.
"There you are!" Penelope beamed at him. "I've told Lady Florinda about your generous offer. She was quite overcome."
"I was not overcome," Florinda said. Her golden hair was pinned up properly today, though several strands had already escaped to curl against her neck. "I merely expressed appropriate gratitude whilst privately questioning His Grace's sanity."
"His sanity is quite intact," Frederick said. "I have carried heavier things."
"What a charming compliment. I shall treasure it always."
Penelope laughed. "You see? She is in desperate need of entertainment. Two weeks of confinement have made her quite sharp."
"I was sharp before the confinement," Florinda said. "The confinement has merely removed my incentive to pretend otherwise."
Frederick found himself fighting a smile. This was inappropriate. This was precisely the sort of reaction he should not be having in front of his fiancée.
"Shall we proceed?" He moved toward the bed. "The morning room awaits."
"I shall go down and ensure everything is ready," Penelope said. "Lady Florinda, I'll have Cook prepare that ginger tea you liked. Frederick, do be careful on the stairs."
She swept out, leaving them alone.
The silence that followed was approximately three seconds long. Frederick counted them.
"Your fiancée," Florinda said, "is a genuinely kind person."
"She is."
"She has visited me every afternoon for two weeks. She reads Gothic novels aloud with excellent dramatic flair. She brings me biscuits when Cook isn't looking." Florinda's voice was carefully neutral. "I like her very much."
"I am glad," Frederick said, and meant it, and hated himself for what he was about to do.
He approached the bed. "Put your arm around my neck. Yes, like that—"
He lifted her.
She made a small noise—her leg, despite the splint, did not appreciate being jostled—but did not complain. Her arm tightened around his neck, and then she was there, pressed against his chest, her breath warm against his collar, her escaped hair brushing his jaw.
He was going to die. He was going to die carrying this woman down fourteen stairs whilst his fiancée—his kind, trusting, generous fiancée—waited below with ginger tea, and when they found his body, everyone would know exactly why.
"Fourteen stairs," he said, because speaking was better than thinking. "We shall manage."
"You counted the stairs?"
Damn.
"The house has been in my family for four generations." He moved toward the door. "One becomes familiar with the architecture."
"How many steps from the front door to the stables?"
"Two hundred and forty-seven." The words emerged before he could stop them. He closed his eyes briefly. "That proves nothing."
"It proves you count things." Her voice carried no judgment—only curiosity. "You count everything, don't you."
They had reached the top of the stairs. He paused, adjusting his hold on her.
"Only the things I cannot control," he said.
One step. Two.
"That must be exhausting."
Three. Four.
"It is the only thing that isn't."
She was quiet for a moment. Five steps. Six. He could feel her breathing against his chest—measured, deliberate, as though she were counting too.
"I understand," she said, so soft he almost missed it.
Seven. Eight. He did not ask what she meant.
* * *
The morning room was full of fresh air and warm sunshine. Penelope had arranged a comfortable chair by the window with cushions and a footstool for the injured leg. She hovered as Frederick settled Florinda into place.
"There. Is that comfortable? Not too drafty?"
"I am quite well, Lady Penelope. Truly." Florinda's voice was gentle. "You have been unbearably kind."
"Nonsense. Anyone would do the same." Penelope straightened. "Now, I must go speak with Cook about luncheon—she has opinions about the menu that require negotiation. Frederick, do keep Lady Florinda company until I return."
She departed before either of them could object.
Frederick stood in the middle of the morning room, arms empty, feeling vaguely bereft. Penelope trusted him. Of course she did. Why would she not? He was her fiancé, and Florinda was an invalid, and there was nothing remotely improper about keeping a houseguest company.
Except that his arms still remembered the feel of her. Except that he could still feel the brush of her hair against his jaw. Except that he had counted fourteen stairs and twelve breaths and was already anticipating the return journey.
The door opened, admitting Lord Ashworth.
"Ah!" Penelope's father surveyed the scene with barely concealed interest. "How touching. His Grace playing nursemaid."
"Lord Ashworth." Frederick kept his voice level. "I was not aware you were seeking company."
"I was seeking my daughter, but I see she has abandoned her post." Lord Ashworth settled into a chair. "Left you two alone, has she? How trusting. I shall be sure to mention it in my letters. The county will be so interested to hear how dedicated you are to Lady Florinda's recovery."
"How fortunate that you have found a subject for your correspondence," Florinda said, her voice sweet as arsenic. "I was beginning to worry your talents might be going to waste."
Lord Ashworth's smile curdled. Frederick felt an inappropriate surge of admiration.
"Your daughter suggested this arrangement," Frederick said. "She felt Lady Florinda required a change of scenery. I merely obliged."
"Yes. Penelope's idea." Lord Ashworth's eyes glittered. "My daughter has always been prone to... charitable impulses. I do hope she is not inconveniencing you, Your Grace."
"Not at all. Lady Penelope's kindness does her credit."
"Kindness." Lord Ashworth repeated the word as though testing it for weaknesses. "Yes. She has always had a great deal of that. Sometimes to her detriment."
"I find kindness rarely detrimental," Florinda said. "Though I suppose one's perspective depends on whether one is giving or receiving it. Some people find generosity threatening."
The silence that followed was spectacular.
Lord Ashworth rose, his face mottled. "I believe I hear my daughter calling. If you will excuse me."
No one was calling. He left anyway.
"You," Frederick said, "are terrifying."
"I have been trapped in a blue room for two weeks with nothing but Gothic novels and my own thoughts." Florinda's smile was sharp. "Lord Ashworth should count himself fortunate I did not quote Mrs. Radcliffe at him."
* * *
The arrangement continued.
Every morning, Penelope would suggest that Lady Florinda might benefit from fresh air.
Every morning, Frederick would carry her down the fourteen stairs while Penelope rushed ahead to prepare cushions and tea.
Every morning, Penelope would find a reason to absent herself—a matter requiring her attention in the kitchen, a letter that needed writing, a conversation with the housekeeper that could not wait.
She was, Frederick reflected, an exceptionally busy hostess. He was grateful for her kindness to Florinda, grateful that she did not hover or fuss, grateful that she trusted him enough to leave them in peace.
He tried not to think about why that gratitude felt so much like guilt.
By the third day, he had memorized things he had no business memorizing. The way Florinda caught her breath when he lifted her. The particular curve of her shoulder against his arm. The rhythm of her breathing: twelve breaths per flight of stairs.
He was counting her breaths because it was the only thing keeping him from doing monumentally stupid things.
* * *
The fourth day brought sunshine and a view of the stables from the garden bench. Penelope had been called away to mediate between Cook and Mrs. Pritchard, leaving Frederick with cheerful instructions to enjoy the weather.
He had intended to retreat to his study. He had intended to maintain appropriate distance.
But then Ajax had been led out of the stable for his morning exercise, and Florinda had looked up from her novel, and—
"Arabian sire," she said. "But the dam was Andalusian. You can see it in the slope of the shoulder—see there?—and the way he carries his head. Lovely cross. Who bred him?"
Frederick stared at her.
She was looking at Ajax with the keen assessment of someone who actually knew horses—not in the decorative way that society ladies were expected to appreciate a fine mount, but in the practical, bone-deep way of a person who understood breeding lines and conformation.