Page 71 of Duke of Moonstone
“That amounts to the same thing.”
“It does not. Not offering because you cannot and not offering because you choose not to—those are very different.”
“The result is the same for the person waiting.”
Lavinia was quiet for a long moment. She turned and leaned her back against the balustrade, facing the house, her arms folded across her waist. The light from the drawing room windows fell across her face.
“Do you remember what I told you before the wedding?”
Frances’s chest tightened. “You told me a great many things before the wedding. Most of them involved the proper way to address a dowager.”
“Not that part.” Lavinia looked at her. “I told you to seek love. Even when it seems impossible. Especially when it seems impossible.”
The words settled between them. Frances felt them land—felt them press against the walls she had been building, stone by careful stone, since the morning she had stood at the altar and promised herself she would not be foolish.
Seek love even when it seems impossible.
She did not answer.
But she did not dismiss it either.
They stood together on the terrace for another minute, the cool air moving between them, the music drifting through the glass. Then Lavinia reached over and squeezed her hand—once, firmly,the way she had done since Frances was small—and turned back toward the doors.
Frances followed. She paused at the threshold and glanced back at the garden, the silver roses, the murmuring fountain.
I need to guard my heart.
Sleep would not come.
Frances lay on her back in the guest room at Evermere, staring at the canopy above her which was a deep blue she could not see in the dark but knew was there because she had noticed it when Miss Ripley helped her undress. The house was quiet. The party had ended hours earlier. Lavinia and Tristan had gone to their rooms. Lady Montfort had been escorted to her chambers by a footman who looked as if he had drawn the short straw. Henry had left in his carriage with a cheerful wave and a promise to visit them all in London.
And Frances was awake.
Her thoughts would not settle. They kept circling back—not to the terrace, not to Lavinia’s words, but to the dance. The warmth of his hand at her waist. The way he had stepped forward and said, ‘I believe the duchess already has a partner,’ with such quiet certainty, as though the outcome had never been in question.
You called me Frances.
That is your name.
She pressed her palms against her eyes.
Stop. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him. You told Lavinia the truth. He has never offered his heart, and you cannot afford to lose yours, and that is the end of it.
Her hands fell to her sides. The sheets were too cool. The pillow was too soft. The room smelled of lavender and beeswax and something else—roses, perhaps, from the garden below the window.
She turned onto her side. Closed her eyes. Counted to twenty. Opened them.
This is ridiculous.
She was debating whether to get up and search for a book when a scream shattered the house. It was high-pitched, thin, and carried a child’s voice, trembling with fear.
Frances was out of bed before the sound had finished. She seized the shawl draped across the foot of the bed—a light muslin thing, barely more than a wrap—and pulled it around her shoulders as she crossed the room. Her feet were bare on the cold floor. She did not stop for slippers.
The corridor was dark. A single candle burned in a sconce at the far end. Frances moved toward Emily’s room—three doors down, on the left—and pushed the door open.
Emily was sitting up in bed. Her face was white. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps that shook her whole body.
“Emily.” Frances crossed the room in four steps and sat on the edge of the bed. She gathered the child into her arms without thinking, pulling her close, tucking that small head beneath her chin. “I am here. You are safe.”
