Page 96 of Duke of Moonstone
“We would be delighted,” Frances said.
Mrs. Campbell led them upstairs twenty minutes later. The room was at the end of a narrow corridor—low-ceilinged, whitewashed, with a window overlooking the lane and a bed pushed against the far wall. One bed. Not large. Not small either. Exactly the size that two people could share if they were willing to acknowledge each other’s existence.
“I’ll bring fresh linens,” Mrs. Campbell said and disappeared.
Frances stood in the doorway. Alexander stood behind her. She could feel the warmth of him at her back, close but not touching.
Frances stepped into the room and set her reticule on the washstand. “At least this bed appears to be longer than the settee at Stony Stratford.”
“Most things are longer than that settee.”
“Including your patience with it which lasted approximately forty-five seconds.”
“It lasted considerably longer than that.”
“You swore at the armrest, Alexander.”
“I did not swear.”
“You said a word I am quite certain is not in any hymnal.”
He moved past her to set his coat across the chair. The room was small enough that his shoulder brushed hers as he passed. The contact lasted half a second. She felt it for considerably longer.
That evening, the cottage was quiet.
Eleanor and Malcolm had retired early—married less than twelve hours and already glowing with the special radiance of two people who had nowhere else they wanted to be. Mrs. Campbell had banked the fire and gone to her own quarters. The house settled around Frances and Alexander like a held breath.
Frances sat at the edge of the bed in her nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders, unpinning the last of it with careful fingers. Alexander stood at the window. He had removed his coat and cravat. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow—she had noticed this, could not stop noticing it—and his forearms were brown from the Scottish sun they had walked through that afternoon.
“Frances.”
She looked up. He was still facing the window, but his head had turned slightly toward her.
“Would you...” He stopped then started again. “I have been considering something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is not ominous.” He turned fully. Leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed. “Eleanor and Malcolm plan to depart for Edinburgh on Monday. To visit his colleagues there.”
“Yes. She mentioned it.”
“That leaves the cottage empty. And Scotland...” He paused. His jaw worked once. “Scotland is very large.”
Frances set down her hairpin. “Are you suggesting we remain?”
“I am suggesting we might travel. Northward. The Highlands. The lochs.” His gaze held hers with that particular directness that always made her pulse do something inconvenient. “A few more days. A week, perhaps.”
A week.
“Just the two of us,” she said.
“And the coachman. And Miss Ripley of course.”
“Of course.”
“It would be...” He uncrossed his arms. Crossed them again. “A chance to see the countryside before we return to London.”
Before we return to London.Before the arrangement resumes its original shape. Before the end of whatever this is… this fragile, unnamed thing built from shared beds and loosened stays and a kiss in a storm-lit library that neither of them had mentioned since.
