Page 67 of Duke of Moonstone
“Goodnight, Frances.”
Her name in his voice was low and quiet, spoken to the room rather than to her, but she heard it in every part of herself as she walked to the door and did not look back.
Frances.
He had never called her that before.
She carried the sound of it up the stairs and into her room where it stayed with her long after the candle was out, turning itself over in the dark like a coin pressed between restless fingers.
Emily had found a friend before the first course was served.
Alexander watched from across the drawing room as his ward and Lady Sophia Lilacourt—the Duke of Evermere’s fourteen-year-old daughter and Lavinia’s stepdaughter—fell into conversation with the instant, inexplicable ease that only the young seemed capable of.
Within five minutes, they were sharing a window seat, heads bent together, speaking in voices too low for adults to hear and too animated to be anything but conspiratorial.
“They will be inseparable by dessert,” Tristan said, appearing at his elbow with a glass of wine. “Sophia has been talking of nothing else since she learned another girl was coming.”
“Emily as well.” Alexander took the glass. “She asked three times in the carriage whether Lady Sophia liked books.”
“And does she?”
“Voraciously, I am told.”
Tristan smiled. “Then we are doomed. They will form an alliance, and we shall never have peace again.”
The party moved to dinner. The table at Evermere was smaller than Whitestone’s—more intimate, warmer in its proportions, the candlelight softer. Lady Montfort sat at Tristan’s right, holding court with the particular authority of a woman who considered every dinner party a strategic engagement.
Henry Kingswell, Duke of Sappherton, an acquaintance of Alexander’s and a good friend of Frances’ was seated across from her.
It took approximately four minutes for Alexander to wish he was seated elsewhere.
“I refuse to believe it,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man who had never once worried about taking up too much space. “You cannot have read all three volumes in a single week.”
“I can, and I did.” Frances lifted her chin. “The third was admittedly weaker, but I felt obligated to finish.”
“Obligated! You see, that is your trouble. You are too dutiful a reader. A sensible person would have abandoned it after the first chapter.”
“A sensible person would not have recommended it in the first place.”
Henry laughed. “I recommended the first volume. The other two are entirely your own fault.”
Frances’s mouth curved. “I shall remember that the next time you offer literary advice.”
“You wound me. My taste is impeccable.”
“Your taste is eccentric. There is a difference.”
“The best taste always is.”
Frances laughed, her head tilting back just a little as if she needed room for the sound.
Alexander reached for his wine.
She does not laugh like that at Whitestone.
The thought came suddenly and lodged itself beneath his ribs like a splinter. He turned it over, examined it, and found that it cut from every angle.
Henry made a witty remark about a mutual acquaintance’s taste in horseflesh, and Frances replied with a sharp observation that even made Lady Montfort’s mouth twitch. The table laughed,and Henry looked at Frances as one might observe a person whose company was a gift, freely given and truly enjoyed.
