Page 38 of Duke of Moonstone
Why should she care what the Dowager thought of her? Frances sighed. In less than two months, none of this would mean anything.
But why did she feel a strange sort of anxiety grip her when she ought to look forward to her freedom?
CHAPTER 16
Idislike waiting.
Alexander’s fingers drummed against the marble mantelpiece in a rhythm that had begun measured and was now approaching something closer to mutiny.
The clock on the wall showed a quarter past seven, but the Duchess was absent downstairs. Meanwhile, the carriage had been ready for ten minutes. Alexander stood in the entrance hall, appearing as if he had nowhere better to be though in reality he had a very specific destination. The reason he was not there was that someone upstairs was occupied with whatever women typically did that took this much time.
He glanced at the clock again. Sixteen minutes past seven.
Right.
He pushed away from the mantelpiece and turned toward the stairs, fully prepared to ascend them and knock on her door and inform her, with all the civil restraint he could muster, that Lord and Lady Halford’s dinner would not postpone itself on her account.
He turned, and she was standing in the doorway.
Everything came to a halt. Not the clock, the house, the footman by the door, the candles in the sconces, or the carriage in the street—they all kept going. What halted was something inside him, in his chest, that clenched and lingered, refusing to let go. This was because Frances stood just six feet away in a deep blue velvet dress, and the color seemed to do something to her eyes that should have been impossible.
The blue of the dress caught the blue of her gaze and held it there, amplifying it, turning it into something vivid and arresting, and Alexander felt the ground beneath his feet shift to the side, as though the hall itself had tilted and he was the only one who had noticed.
He recovered quickly. Years of discipline were good for something.
“You are late,” he said.
The Duchess smiled genuinely, not the reserved, delicate smile she usually kept during breakfast or in the drawing room when they were being polite. This expression was warmer and carrieda hint of mischief he had not seen before which made his stomach tighten in a way he decided to ignore entirely.
“I had to look like a duchess,” she said.
Alexander looked at her again. He could not help himself. The velvet caught the candlelight and transformed it into something rich and deep, and the cut of the dress was—Madame Leclerc. He silently and sincerely thanked the heavens for Madame Leclerc’s talent. The woman was worth every franc of her exorbitant fees. The dress sat on Frances as if it had been sewn onto her, which it probably had, and the neckline was modest and proper but somehow still drew the eye to her collarbone in a way that was entirely unfair.
Stop looking at her collarbone.
He cleared his throat and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She crossed the hall, her skirts whispering against the marble floor, and placed her hand on his sleeve. Light. Proper. Exactly the amount of contact the gesture required and not a fraction more.
And yet...
Her fingers pressed against his forearm through the layers of coat and shirt, and Alexander sensed their pressure with an unexpected clarity, despite the fabric in between. He guided hertoward the door, and as they moved, an involuntary memory surfaced.
The masquerade. How she had moved amongst the guests with grace and danced as if the floor and the music was made for her.
This woman.
How in God’s name did she manage to trick me?
Alexander handed her into the carriage and climbed in after her. They sat opposite each other, the door closed, and the carriage lurched forward.
The interior was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow from the carriage lanterns outside, and the space between them was quite narrow. Alexander could have easily reached across and touched her knee without fully stretching his arm. However, he chose not to. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and looked out the window.
The streets passed. He counted three lampposts before his eyes moved, entirely of their own accord, back to her.
She was looking at her gloves. Adjusting the left one, smoothing the kid leather over her wrist. She did not look up.
He looked away briefly then back again. Four more lampposts passed by before he turned to see her looking at him. Their eyes met and held, and the carriage jolted over a rough patchof road. Neither looking away, the tension between them grew, thick with warmth and a pulse of its own. Her lips were slightly parted, and the candlelight outside flickered across her face, creating shifting patterns. Alexander’s chest stirred inexplicably, a feeling he refused to analyze at that moment, especially not in a carriage en route to a dinner party where he needed all his focus.
