Page 91 of Duke of Moonstone
What changed? The man at the inn? Something else?
Frances observed his profile: the sharp line of his nose, the way his brow furrowed when his thoughts drifted into darkness. The particular set of his shoulders indicated he was holding something back, trying to keep it in, refusing to let it come out.
I do not know what he is thinking. I never know what he is thinking. He gives me these moments—the dance, the kiss, the way he said my name, the way he looked at me this morning—and then he retreats.
She looked away.
Last night...
The memory arrived unbidden. The warmth of him beside her in bed. The sound of his breathing, low and steady, like an anchor dropped in deep water. Her body had released its tension within minutes of him settling beside her, as if it recognized his proximity as safety and did not need to be told twice.
She had slept deeply and completely, without the restless tossing that had troubled her for months—since the masquerade, theengagement, the morning she stood at an altar and promised herself to a man she neither knew nor loved.
I wish this were real.
Alexander turned from the window. His eyes found hers. His brows drew together, and Frances arranged her face into something she hoped was neutral.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Perfectly.”
He watched her for a moment longer then he turned back to the glass.
Her thoughts spiraled once more.
Frances gripped the edge of the seat. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and the countryside blurred beyond the glass as the carriage carried her toward a future she suddenly did not want.
CHAPTER 31
“This is it,” Alexander said.
The cottage sat at the end of a lane lined with hawthorn, its stone walls the color of weathered bone. Modest and tidy. A front garden that someone had cared for with more enthusiasm than skill.
Frances leaned forward in the carriage to see past him. “It is charming.”
“It is small.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive qualities.”
He stepped down and offered his hand. She took it, and they stood together on the path while the coachman began unloading trunks.
The front door opened before they reached it. A stout woman in a plain gray dress and white cap appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“You must be the Duke and Duchess,” she said. Not a question. “Miss Moonwell’s been watching the lane since breakfast. Come in, come in.”
They stepped into a small front hall—flagstone floor, whitewashed walls, a coat stand bearing a single pelisse and a bonnet with blue ribbons. The ceiling was low enough that Alexander could have touched it without fully extending his arm.
Then they heard footsteps—fast, the sound of someone taking stairs two at a time—and Eleanor burst around the corner with her hair half-pinned, her face alight and her arms already reaching.
She went to Frances first.
“You came!” Eleanor threw her arms around Frances with the force of a woman who had been holding herself very still for weeks and had finally found someone safe enough to collapse against. “Oh, Frances, you came, you came?—”
“Of course I came.” Frances held her tight. “Did you think I would not?”
“I hoped. I was not certain.”
Then Eleanor turned. She looked at Alexander. Her eyes were bright and wet. Her chin trembled once before she pressed her lips together and lifted it, and at that moment, she looked so much like their mother that something stirred in his chest he was not prepared for.
