Page 48 of Duke of Moonstone
She opened the door, stepped through, pulled it closed behind her, and stood in the hallway, her hand still on the handle, her heart beating unevenly, a single, persistent thought turning itself over in her mind.
There is more to him. There is more to all of this.
CHAPTER 19
“Your Grace, the carriage you have been expecting has just arrived.”
Frances was on her feet before Graves had finished his bow.
She had been sitting in the drawing room for most of an hour, pretending to read a volume of poetry that she had not absorbed a single line of, turning pages at intervals she hoped mimicked real reading speed. The book was now on the side table, abandoned without ceremony, and she was already crossing toward the entrance hall with steps that were quicker than a duchess’ should be but slower than she wanted.
The front door stood open. Afternoon light spilled across the marble floor in a wide, pale rectangle, and through it, Frances could see the carriage—a sturdy traveling coach, dusty from the road—drawn up on the gravel drive. A footman was lowering the step.
A young woman emerged first. She was perhaps two-and-twenty, neatly dressed in a dove-gray traveling costume, her dark hair pinned beneath a modest bonnet. She turned back toward the carriage and reached up, and a small figure appeared in the doorway—a girl, slight and careful, who placed her hand in the governess’ and climbed down with the deliberate movements of someone trying very hard not to trip.
Emily.
She watched them approach. The governess walked with brisk, purposeful strides, one hand resting lightly on the child’s shoulder. Emily moved beside her with the stiff posture of a soldier on inspection, her small gloved hands twisted together at her waist, her chin tucked, her eyes moving.
They reached the entrance hall, and the governess stopped and dropped into a neat curtsy. “Your Grace. I am Miss Sarah Bennet, Miss Penford’s governess. I trust we are expected.”
“You are indeed.” Frances came forward. “Welcome to Whitestone House, Miss Bennet. I hope the journey was not too tiring.”
“Not at all, Your Grace. The roads were kind to us today.”
Frances nodded, but her attention had already moved—pulled, as if by gravity—to the child.
Emily stood just behind Miss Bennet’s elbow. She was small for her eight years with dark hair pulled back from a face that radiated watchfulness. Her eyes—brown, serious, and a bit large for her delicate features—quickly scanned the entrance hall with an anxious assessment, as if cataloging possible exits. The soaring ceiling. The marble columns. The portraits in gilded frames gazing down from heights that, to a small child like her, might have seemed almost celestial.
Her gaze darted from the chandelier to the staircase to the footman by the door and back again, and her gloved fingers twisted tighter.
Frances knew that look. She had worn it herself, standing in this very hall not three weeks ago, feeling the house press down on her from every direction with the weight of its grandeur and its expectations. She had been one-and-twenty, and still the place had made her feel small.
Emily was eight.
Oh, sweetheart.
Frances smiled. Not the cautious, practiced smile she had adopted for formal introductions. A genuine one. Then she did something that would have made Lady Montfort faint outright.
She knelt.
Her silk gown—a pale rose morning dress that Miss Ripley had laid out with particular care that morning—pooled around her on the cold marble floor. She settled herself at the child’s level and looked up into those solemn brown eyes.
“Good day, Emily.” She kept her voice gentle. Unhurried. “I’m Frances. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Emily said nothing. Her lips pressed together, and her hands continued their anxious twisting, and she looked at Frances with the guarded caution of a creature that had learned, through hard experience, that new people and new places did not always mean safety.
The silence held for a beat.
Frances tried again.
“Do you like books?”
The tiniest movement—a barely noticeable nod, more a dip of the chin than a real gesture, but it was there.
Frances felt something warm bloom behind her ribs. “In that case, I think we shall get along very well. We have a wonderful library here that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”
Emily’s eyes changed. Not dramatically. The wariness did not leave them, but something behind the wariness shifted—a sparkof interest, faint and cautious, like a candle flame guttering behind cupped hands.
