Page 31 of Duke of Moonstone
What business requires attention at this hour? What could possibly demand his presence tonight, on their second day of marriage?
She put down her spoon. He never mentioned he was leaving nor sent any word. He just left, and Graves was sent to deliver the news as if she were a tenant being notified of a schedule change.
Frances pushed back her chair and stood, telling herself that she did not care what business kept him. This marriage was one of necessity and nothing more. And the sooner she fully accepted that, the better.
CHAPTER 13
“Yes?”
The knock had been light. Two quick raps, almost apologetic, and Alexander answered without looking up from the letter he was drafting to his steward in Derbyshire.
Two days. He had managed two full days of successful avoidance, moving through his own house with the strategic precision of a general navigating contested ground. He took his breakfast early. He dined at his club. He spent his evenings in the study with the door closed and a glass of brandy he did not particularly want but which served as adequate company.
It had been working beautifully.
But then, the door opened, and the Duchess walked in.
Alexander’s quill halted. He set it aside and quickly rose, his chair scraping against the floor. She stood just inside thedoorway in a blue morning dress, her hands clasped before her and her chin tilted at a particular angle—one he was beginning to associate with delivering news he was unlikely to enjoy.
My study. She has come to my study.
This room was his. The one place in Whitestone House that belonged entirely to him, where the ledgers were in order, and the brandy was where he had left it, and no one entered without invitation. It was, in every meaningful sense, the last fortification he possessed.
And she had walked straight through it.
“Your Grace,” she said, “I wish to visit the charity school today.”
He looked at her. She looked back. Her expression was composed, polite, and entirely without apology, as though requesting the use of his afternoon were no different from requesting the salt at dinner.
“The charity school,” he repeated.
“St. Thomas’. We discussed it. You agreed I might continue my work there.”
“I agreed under certain conditions.”
“Yes. That you would accompany me.” She paused. “I am informing you of the visit so that you might do so.”
Alexander studied her face for something—a challenge, perhaps, or a provocation—and found only patience, which was somehow worse. She was not asking permission; she was extending a courtesy, and the distinction was not lost on him.
“When do you wish to leave?” he asked.
“Within the hour if that suits you.”
“It does not particularly suit me. I have correspondence to finish.”
“Then I shall wait.” She turned toward the door. “Or I shall go alone, whichever you prefer.”
“You will not go alone.”
She stopped, and turned back. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are my wife now, and Iwillaccompany you.”
Something passed between them—brief, sharp, not quite hostile—and Alexander felt it settle behind his ribs, in the spot where things he did not want to examine had started piling up with alarming regularity.
“I will be ready in half an hour,” he said.
“How efficient of you.”
