Page 108 of Duke of Moonstone
Sophia leaned closer. “Faster than Papa’s horses?”
“Much faster.”
Alexander caught Frances’ eye across the table. She was watching the girls with that expression that made his chest tight in the best possible way. Her hand rested on the tablecloth. Her fingers moved, and he knew she was thinking what he was thinking.
Soon.
After the main course, Alexander stood.
The table quieted, heads turned, and conversation faded into expectant silence.
He observed them all: his mother with her bright, steady gray eyes, Eleanor and Malcolm, shoulder to shoulder, Lavinia and Tristan, Sophia and Emily, quietly whispering behind their napkins, and Frances at the far end of the table, her blue eyes meeting his with a warmth that extended across the white linen, crystal, and candlelight.
“I wished to thank you all for being here this evening,” he said. “This house has not always been what it should have been. For many years, it was a place of duty. Of silence.” He stopped. “It was a house. Now, it is a home.”
His gaze moved to Frances.
“That is entirely because of you,” he said. “All of you. But most especially…”
Frances rose and moved to his side of the table. Her fingers threaded through his.
She looked at the table. At the faces turned toward them.
“We are expecting a child,” she said.
For one breath, the room was perfectly still.
Then Emily shrieked.
“A baby!” She was on her feet, her napkin sailing off her lap. “Frances! A real baby?”
“A real baby,” Frances confirmed, laughing.
“When? When is it coming? Will it be a girl? Can I hold it?”
Sophia was beside her, gripping her arm, both girls bouncing on their feet with identical expressions of uncontained joy. “A baby! Emily, a baby!”
Eleanor’s chair scraped back. Tears were streaming down her face as she rounded the table and threw her arms around Frances. “Oh, I knew it. I knew it. When you said you were glowing?—”
“That was Lavinia who said that.”
“Lavinia is always right.” Eleanor pulled back, her hands on Frances’ shoulders, her face wet and beaming. “Oh, Frances. Oh, I am so happy.”
Lavinia was there then. She did not cry. She took Frances’s face in her hands and looked at her with the expression of an older sister who had spent a lifetime worrying and had finally been given reason to stop.
“Well done,” she said. And then she pulled Frances close and held her.
Margaret had risen from her chair. Slowly and carefully. She reached Frances and took both her hands.
“I have prayed for this day.” Her voice was low. Just for Frances. Just for Alexander, standing close enough to hear. “Every single night.”
Frances’ eyes were bright. She squeezed Margaret’s hands. “Thank you, Mama.”
Mama.
Alexander’s chest tightened. Frances had started calling his mother that three months ago—tentatively at first then with growing ease—and every time, it struck him somewhere deep and unprotected.
A hand clapped his shoulder. Tristan.
