Page 37 of Duke of Moonstone
“Of course,” Frances said. She folded her hands before her and inclined her head, and if there was a note of victory in the gesture, she trusted it was subtle enough to pass without comment.
A pause settled between them. Whitestone clasped his hands behind his back.
“There is another matter. We are expected this evening at Lord and Lady Halford’s for dinner.”
Frances’s stomach tightened. “This evening?”
“At eight o’clock. It is a formal engagement. Several families of consequence will be in attendance.” He looked at her steadily. “I trust you will conduct yourself with the utmost propriety.”
“I always conduct myself with propriety.”
“I am simply making certain.”
“Are you concerned I might stand on the table and recite poetry?”
The corner of his mouth moved. Just barely. Just enough.
“I would prefer you did not,” he said.
“Then I shall restrain myself.” She met his gaze and held it. “Though I make no promises about the pudding course.”
He looked at her for a moment that lasted one beat too long, and something crackled in the air between them—not hostility, not warmth, but something alive and unnamed that made the room feel smaller than it was.
He cleared his throat. “There is one more thing.”
“And what is that?” Frances asked.
“My mother.” His hands shifted behind his back. “She has been feeling stronger these past few days. She wishes to meet you tomorrow.”
The words had a different tone compared to everything else he had said. They were not cooler or more formal—in fact, the opposite. There was a gentle quality in how he mentioned his mother—a loosening, a softness that subtly appeared around his usually careful composure—that Frances had never before observed in his speech.
“She has asked for you several times,” he added.
Frances’s pulse quickened. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Neither of you was ready for an introduction.”
“Is that so?” She resisted the urge to cross her arms and challenge him.
“I waited until Mother’s health was much improved.”
She could not argue with that, and so she conceded, “I would be honored to meet her.”
“She is not as she once was. Her health limits her considerably. But her mind is sharp, and she...” He stopped. Gathered himself. “She is looking forward to it.”
“As am I.”
He gave a brief nod, turned toward the door. Frances stood among her flowers and new cushions, watching him go, and she felt the nervousness bloom through her chest like ink dropping in water.
The Dowager Duchess.She thought of what Mrs. Wells had said.She asks after you. What you have been doing. Whether you are settling in.
A woman who cared enough to ask. She had raised the man now walking away from her down the hallway—the man who spoke of duty as if it were his only language but visibly softened at the mention of his mother’s name.
Will she approve of me?
Frances crossed to the window and looked out at the garden below. The question turned over in her mind, pressing at her from angles she had not expected.
Would she see what her son saw—a situation to be managed? Or would she perceive something completely different? Would she be cold or kind? Did it matter?
