Page 106 of Duke of Moonstone
He caught her hand. Pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Our guests will arrive within the hour.”
“Then stop distracting me.”
“I am standing in a doorway.”
“Distractingly.”
He smiled. The house had changed. He noticed it every day: the way light moved differently through rooms that held fresh flowers and open curtains and the particular warmth of a home that was lived in rather than maintained. Whitestone House had been immaculate for a decade. Now, it was better. It was full.
“Alexander.” His mother’s voice carried from the landing above. “I am ready.”
He let go of Frances’s hand and headed towards the staircase. Margaret was waiting at the top, appearing healthier than she had in months with color returning to her cheeks and a steadiness in her posture. The doctors attributed her improvement to the mild winter.
Alexander attributed it to Frances, who had spent hours in his mother’s sitting room reading aloud, encouraging her to go into the garden on nice days, and filling the house with a warmth that healing medicine could not achieve.
He offered his arm. She took it. Her grip was firm.
“Slowly,” he said.
“I am not an invalid.” But she let him set the pace, one step at a time.
Frances waited at the bottom. Margaret released Alexander’s arm and reached for her daughter-in-law with both hands.
“My dear girl.” She pulled Frances into an embrace. “The house looks beautiful.”
“The flowers are hiding the wallpaper,” Alexander said.
“Good,” Margaret said. “I have always hated that wallpaper.”
Frances shot him a look of pure triumph. He raised one eyebrow. She grinned.
Graves appeared. The door swung open, and Eleanor swept in with Malcolm beside her—her cheeks flushed from the evening air, her hand firmly tucked through her husband’s arm, her smile wide enough to light up the entrance hall.
“We are not late,” she announced. “I made Malcolm drive faster.”
“You made the coachman drive faster,” Malcolm corrected. “I had no part in it.”
“You did not object.”
“I was reading.”
Eleanor released his arm and crossed to Alexander. She reached up, her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. Then she hugged him. The way a sister hugged a brother she loved and was not afraid of.
Six months ago, she would not have dared.
He pressed his hand to her back. “You look well, Ellie.”
“Married life agrees with me.”
“Clearly.” He looked over her head at Malcolm, who stood with his hat in his hands and that particular expression of quiet contentment that Alexander had come to recognize as the permanent state of a man who had married Eleanor Moonwell and survived. “Frazer.”
“Alexander.” Malcolm inclined his head. The use of his Christian name had been a negotiation—three months of careful progress from “Your Grace” to “Whitestone” to, finally, the name itself. Malcolm had earned it.
More arrivals. The door opened again, and Tristan entered with Lavinia on his arm. Behind them, Sophia slipped through the door with the careful grace of a girl who had spent a year learning to navigate rooms exactly like this one.
“Frances!” Sophia’s composure lasted approximately three seconds before Emily appeared at the foot of the stairs. The two girls found each other like magnets—hands clasping, heads bending together, voices rising in the particular excited murmur of children who had not seen each other in a fortnight and had a fortnight’s worth of news to share.
“She has been counting the days,” Alexander told Tristan.
