Page 36 of Duke of Moonstone
Mrs. Wells stated it plainly and without ceremony then efficiently picked up the tray of discarded stems and carried it toward the door, embodying a woman who knew her meaning and saw no need to elaborate.
Frances stood alone in the drawing room, gazing at her flowers in the light: the yellow roses by the window, the spring bouquet on the center table, and the gold cushions in the afternoon sun.
A week. It has only been a week, and the house already looks different.
She wished she could say the same for everything else.
Frances sat at the writing desk in her sitting room and pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her.
Dearest sister, I am well and happy at Whitestone House.
She wrote the words in her neatest hand and paused with the quill hovering above the page. Well was perhaps generous. Happy was a stretch that even Lavinia, who loved her dearly and wished to believe the best, might find difficult to accept without question.
But what was the alternative?
Dearest sister, I have scarcely seen my husband in a week. He dines at his club and takes breakfast before I awake. The house is magnificent yet entirely devoid of warmth, and I have taken to rearranging furniture as it is the only activity currently permitted to me.
No. That would not do.
She wrote instead about the gardens, which were genuinely beautiful. She wrote about Madame Beaumont’s cooking, which required no embellishment whatsoever. She described the rooms, the library, and the view from the morning room windows. She mentioned Mrs. Wells and the staff by name because Lavinia would want to know that Frances was being well looked after, and in that respect at least, she was.
She did not mention the Duke. She did not mention the silence at meals, the closed study door, or the careful choreography by which two people could occupy the same house and see each other almost never.
She signed the letter, sanded it, and sealed it with wax.
There. A perfectly pleasant letter from a perfectly contented duchess. Lavinia would read it and feel reassured, and Frances would not have lied, exactly. She would simply have omitted things.
She rose from the desk and carried the letter to the hall table for the post then turned back toward the drawing room. She wanted to check the arrangement one more time—the daffodils had been slightly uneven, and it would bother her if she did not fix it.
She was reaching for the vase when she heard the footsteps.
Measured and deliberate, his stride resembled that of a man inspecting his own house, a perception Frances had come to realize was largely correct, the Duke appeared in the doorway.
His gaze moved across the room—the flowers on the center table, the yellow roses by the window, the gold and cream cushions where the dark ones had been, and the chair she had moved closer to the fire. Frances watched his brow furrow into a line she was growing intimately familiar with, the line that often came before either a comment or a correction and was seldom followed by anything that could be called agreeable.
“I do not recall authorizing these alterations to the house.”
Frances straightened her shoulders. She had been expecting this. In truth, she was surprised it had taken a full week.
“As duchess, I believe some matters fall under my authority.”
His jaw tightened. He opened his mouth—and then closed it. His gaze swept the room again, this time more slowly. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the yellow roses and casting soft, warm shadows across the carpet and walls. The hyacinths added a splash of color that the room had never seen before in Frances’ experience. The overall effect, she thought, was quite lovely.
Something in Whitestone’s expression shifted. Not dramatically. Not in any way that an observer might have called a transformation. But the hard line between his brows eased, just slightly, and his shoulders dropped by a fraction of an inch, and he stood there looking at the flowers in the light with an expression that was no longer disapproval.
“It is...” He paused. “… not unpleasant.”
Frances pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Not unpleasant. High praise indeed from the Duke of Whitestone.
She watched his face in that unguarded moment—the way the tension left his jaw, the way the light caught the sharp line of his cheekbone, the way his eyes moved over the room with something that was almost, if she squinted, appreciation. His features were striking when not arranged in their usual severity. More than striking. He looked...
Oh.
Heat climbed her cheeks. She looked away, quickly, toward the roses by the window, toward anything that was not his face.
Temporary. This is temporary. Do not forget that.
“You may keep the changes,” the Duke said, and his tone carried the weight of a man granting a significant concession and expecting it to be recognized as such. “However, I expect to be consulted before any further alterations.”
