Page 103 of Duke of Moonstone
“Some men are slower than others to understand their own hearts. Some men build such walls around themselves that they cannot see what is inside until the walls come down.” She wiped a tear from Frances’s cheek with her thumb. “And some men say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time because they are terrified of saying the right thing to the person who matters most.”
“You are being generous.”
“I am being honest.” Lavinia held her face between both hands. “I married a man who took six months to tell me he loved me. Six months, Frances. During which time he managed to say it to his horse, his butler, and a potted fern but not to me.”
Frances laughed. It was small and wet and broken, but it was a laugh.
“I am not saying he deserves your forgiveness,” Lavinia continued. “I am saying that what you heard may not be the whole truth. Men are remarkably stupid about the things that matter most.”
Frances wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her chest still ached. The hurt was still there,. but beside it now was what felt like hope.
“What do I do?” she whispered.
Lavinia took her hand. Squeezed it. “You wait. And you see.”
A knock sounded at the drawing room door then. The butler appeared. “The Duke of Whitestone has arrived. He is requesting an audience with Her Grace.”
Frances went cold.
Lavinia looked at her. Frances looked back. Neither of them moved.
“Shall I show him in?” the butler asked.
“Yes,” Lavinia sai, before Frances could speak. She squeezed Frances’ hand once and then released it.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Frances pressed her palms against her skirt, straightening her spine. She refused to wipe her face because that would mean admitting she had been crying, and she would not give him that. She would not give him anything she had not decided to give.
Alexander appeared in the doorway.
He looked terrible. The word arrived without charity and without exaggeration. His coat was creased. His cravat was tied with none of his usual precision. The shadows beneath his eyes were purple-dark, and his jaw carried a day-old tension that had worn grooves into the skin beside his mouth. He looked like a man who had not slep, or eaten properly or done anything at all except think.
His eyes found hers immediately. Held. Something moved in them—relief, perhaps. Or pain. She could not tell which, and she did not try.
“Frances,” he said.
Lavinia rose. “Alexander. You look dreadful.”
“Thank you.” His gaze did not leave Frances. “I apologize for arriving unannounced. I need to speak with my wife.”
“Of course.” Lavinia moved toward the door. She paused beside Alexander, close enough that whatever she murmured was meant for him alone. Frances could not hear the words, but she saw his jaw tighten. Saw him nod once. Then Lavinia was gone, and the door closed, and they were alone.
The drawing room was very quiet.
Alexander stood near the door. Frances sat on the settee. The distance between them was like a lifetime, an ocean she was not certain she could cross again.
“You have been crying,” he said.
“Yes.”
He took a step forward then stopped. His hands hung at his sides. “I have come to say something to you,” he said. “And I ask that you let me say it before… before you decide anything.”
Frances lifted her chin. “Then say it.”
He drew a breath. His shoulders rose and fell with it.
“For most of my life,” he began, “I believed that love was a weakness. I believed it made men reckless and foolish. Iwatched my father love my mother—genuinely and deeply—and to provide for her and keep her happy, he gambled.”
“Of course, my mother was content, but he loved to show her off to the world, and he would wager estate after estate to buy her diamonds. I watched that love destroy everything he was supposed to protect. I decided, very young, that I would not make his mistake.”
