Page 43 of Duke of Moonstone
“The day before, then.”
“That was not stiffness. That was dignity.”
The corner of his mouth moved again. “My mistake.”
They reached the landing. The hallway here was quieter, the light softer. Frances could hear the muffled sound of a clock ticking somewhere behind a closed door.
“One more thing…” the Duke said.
“Good heavens, is there more?”
“She may ask how we met.”
“We met at your masquerade. That part, at least, is true.”
“She may ask for details.”
“Then I shall tell her we spoke in the conservatory, and you were thoroughly enchanted by my opinions on German poetry.”
Something passed between them that was warmer than banter and steadier than argument, and Frances felt the heat rise in her neck before she could stop it.
“Shall we?” she said and turned toward the door before her face could betray her further.
The Duke reached past her and knocked. A voice from within called them to enter, and he opened the door and stood aside.
Frances stepped through.
The warmth hit her first.
Not just the temperature—though the room was warmer than the rest of the house, a fire burning steadily in the grate—but the feeling of it. This room was lived in. There were books stacked on the side table, a shawl draped over the arm of a chair, and a vase of sweet peas on the windowsill. A watercolor hung on the wall beside the window, and the curtains were drawn wide to let in every scrap of afternoon light.
It was the opposite of everything else in Whitestone House. It was warm and soft and imperfect and alive.
Margaret Moonwell sat by the window in a chair that had been positioned to catch the best of the light. She was smaller thanFrances had expected—slight, with silver-threaded hair drawn back from a face that must once have been beautiful and was now something better. Dignified. Gentle. Her skin was pale, and shadows beneath her eyes spoke of years of illness borne with patience, but her gaze was bright, and when she saw Frances, her whole face lit up.
“At last,” she said, and her voice carried a warmth that Frances felt in her bones, “I meet the young woman who has captured my son’s heart.”
The blush came immediately. Frances dropped into a deep curtsy and felt every inch of the deception settle across her shoulders.
“It is the greatest honor to meet you, Your Grace,” she said.
Margaret extended her hand, and Frances took it. The older woman’s fingers were thin and cool, but her grip was surprisingly firm.
“Oh, please do call me Margaret. Come. Sit beside me.” Margaret drew her toward the chair that had been placed near her own. “Let me look at you properly.”
Frances sat quietly. She was aware, with sharp and unhelpful precision, of the Duke standing behind her. She could feel him there—not touching her, not close enough to touch, but present in his usual way, occupying more space than physics would allow.
Margaret studied her face with the gentle thoroughness of a woman who had learned to read people from a chair by a window. “You are lovelier than I imagined.”
“You are very kind, Your... Margaret.”
“I am honest. There is a difference.” Margaret smiled. “My son tells me you have been making changes to the house.”
Frances blinked. “He told you that?”
“Well, to be honest, Mrs. Wells told me.” Margaret’s eyes moved briefly to the Duke and back with the particular amusement of a mother who knows her son better than he knows himself. “The flowers. The cushions. The curtains drawn wider. I have been hearing reports.”
“I hope I have not overstepped.”
