Page 14 of Duke of Moonstone
“You also said society had a short memory.”
Lavinia was quiet for a moment. “I may have been somewhat optimistic on that particular point.”
Frances laughed despite herself which was one of the things Lavinia had always been able to do—make her laugh at moments when laughing seemed completely impossible so that the impossible thing became slightly less so. She leaned her head briefly against her sister’s shoulder, thought about what the day would require of her, and felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
The door of the morning room opened.
Frances did not look up immediately, assuming it was a maid or Farrell with more tea, and so she was wholly unprepared for the sound that followed, the particular sound of Lady Montfort’s entrance, which was not loud exactly but had the quality of a weather event announcing itself.
“Good morning.” Her aunt swept in with the air of a woman who had dressed with great care and was pleased with the result. She was carrying her own copy of the Lady’s Register, which she had apparently not thought to turn face down, and her expression was the one that Frances had identified last night in the carriageand had been hoping not to see again so soon: the settled, satisfied expression of someone whose predictions were proving correct.
“Aunt,” Lavinia said, rising. “We were not expecting you.”
“Of course, you were not, I came early.” Lady Montfort sat in the chair across from them. She looked at Frances, then at the upturned paper on the side table, then back at Frances. “You have read it, I see.”
“Three times,” Frances said.
“Well. Do not read it again; it is not worth your nerves.” She folded her own copy and set it in her lap with the air of a general setting aside a map she no longer needed. “Worry not, my dear. All shall be well. This scandal is quite certain to make the Duke of Whitestone do right by you.”
Frances stared at her. “You say that as though it is a desirable outcome.”
“It is a highly desirable outcome. It is, in point of fact, the best outcome available to you, and I would encourage you to appreciate it accordingly.”
“He is cold and autocratic and?—”
“He is a duke,” Lady Montfort said. “One of the wealthiest in England. His name alone would?—”
“I do not want his name.” Frances heard her own voice, very clear and quite final. “I will not marry a cold, unfeeling man simply because a gossip sheet has decided to be dramatic. There are other solutions. I shall simply... I shall explain to everyone that nothing occurred, that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, that he and I were barely even?—”
“Frances,” Lavinia said gently.
“It is the truth.”
“It is,” Lavinia agreed. “Unfortunately, truth has rarely been society’s primary interest.”
Frances opened her mouth to say something else entirely and was prevented by the appearance of Farrell in the doorway.
“Your Grace,” he said, addressing Lavinia, “His Grace, the Duke of Whitestone, has called and asks whether the household is receiving.”
The room went very still.
And then Lady Montfort made a sound that Frances would not, in the interests of charity, call a shriek though it was definitely somewhere in that range.
“I knew it!” She was on her feet before the sentence was fully out of her mouth, her copy of the Lady’s Register sliding unnoticed to the floor. “I told you! Did I not tell you? I said he would come,and here he is, not twelve hours later!” She turned to Farrell with the energy of a woman twenty years younger. “Send him in quickly! Do not keep him waiting in the hall, for heaven’s sake, send him.”
“Aunt.” Lavinia had risen. Her voice was perfectly composed, and her expression was the one she used when she was choosing her words with great care. “This is my home. If Frances does not want to see him...”
Lady Montfort’s smile faltered, and she sat back down. “Of course,” she said. “Naturally. I beg your pardon, Lavinia. If you would be so kind as to...” She gestured toward the door with barely restrained urgency.
Lavinia held her aunt’s gaze for one long moment then she turned to Farrell. “Please show the Duke of Whitestone to the drawing room. We shall be with him shortly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The moment Farrell left, Lady Montfort was back on her feet. “The drawing room! Very sensible and much better than in here, more formal.” She was already heading toward the door, smoothing her skirts with the briskness of a woman preparing for an important engagement. “Come, Frances, do not sit there looking as though you are attending a funeral. Stand up; let me look at you.”
“Aunt.” Frances did not move. “He has come to scold me.”
“Nonsense.”
