Page 4 of Duke of Moonstone
Frances sat and waited, not fidgeting because her sister had taught her never to fidget, especially when she was nervous, and some lessons stuck regardless of how one was feeling. She looked at the painting above the mantelpiece, then at the arrangement of the chairs, then at her own hands in her lap.
The door opened, and she looked up then her stomach knotted.
Frances had expected a butler, or perhaps a footman, to come to tell her that Eleanor would be down shortly. She had not expected the Duke of Whitestone himself.
He was taller than she had imagined, which was saying something because Eleanor’s descriptions had not exactly suggested a small man. He carried himself with a kind of authority that was not performed but simply there.
He had dark hair, a face that was perfectly controlled, revealing nothing, and piercing blue eyes that surveyed the room and her with an intensity she found instantly irritating.
So, this is the beast,she thought and then corrected herself because she was going to be perfectly civil.
He nodded which was the minimal gesture that could genuinely be called a greeting.
She curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said. “I hope I do not intrude. I came to inquire after Lady Eleanor. She was expected at the school this morning.”
“My sister will not be attending the school anymore,” he said without preamble, without softening, as though it were simply a fact he was imparting of no more significance than the weather. “She will remain at home under my supervision going forward. If you wish to call upon her, you are welcome to do so here at Whitestone House, but she will not be returning to the school.”
Frances looked at him.
She had prepared herself for coldness. Eleanor had warned her often enough. But there was something about hearing it directly, the complete absence of any acknowledgment that Eleanor might have feelings worth consulting on the matter, that made her chest tighten.
“I see,” she said, and she meant to leave it there, she truly did. “And Eleanor is in agreement with this arrangement?”
Something moved across his face, but then it was gone. “It is not a matter that requires her agreement.”
Oh.Frances felt the words land somewhere below her ribs and discovered that being civil was rather more difficult than she had anticipated.
“So, she will be kept from the school against her will? She is a grown woman. She is capable of?—”
“She is yet to be one-and-twenty,” he said. “She is still under my care.”
“Surely one might still show some mercy to his charges.”
His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her the way a man looks at something that has surprised him by being more troublesome than expected.
“Miss—”
“It is Lady Frances Pembroke, Your Grace.”
He went very still for a moment. Then he took one step toward her, deliberate and unhurried, and the effect was rather like watching something large and quiet decide to move—the room seemed to contract slightly around it.
Frances did not step back. She made a conscious decision not to step back which required slightly more effort than she was willing to admit.
“LadyFrances,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it, and just a fraction too, that made it sound less like an acknowledgment and more like a warning. “I would advise you to have a care for your tongue. Were I to determine that your influence was not conducive to my sister’s wellbeing, I would have little difficulty prohibiting the association altogether.”
Frances held his gaze. He would do it. She could see that clearly. The knowledge was infuriating, and he was, frustratingly, persuasive enough to have her keep her mouth shut when she would have preferred to speak.
He regarded her for one more moment, as though filing something away, and then the door opened, and Eleanor appeared in the doorway, a little breathless and looking rather as though she had been listening from the hallway and decided to intervene before matters deteriorated.
“Frances!” she said it with so much warmth. “I did not know you had called. How lovely!”
Then the Duke turned and walked out of the room without another word, and the door closed behind him with a quiet, definitive click.
Frances let out a long breath.
“He is utterly impossible,” Eleanor said the moment she was certain he was out of earshot.
They had settled together on the settee, close enough to speak in low voices which Frances suspected was a habit Eleanor had developed out of necessity. She had taken both of Frances’ hands in hers and was holding them with the particular grip of a person who needed something solid to hold.
