Page 95 of Duke of Moonstone
He looked down at her. The vulnerability was still there; she could see traces of it, like footprints not yet covered by snow, but the mask was returning. Settling back into place, layer by careful layer.
“I feel,” he said, “that Mr. Frazer had better deserve her.”
“He does.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am very certain.” Frances held his gaze. “A man who takes separate lodgings in a village where nobody knows him because it is the right thing to do is a man who deserves a great deal.”
Frances and Alexander moved into the aisle. His hand found the small of her back—guiding her through the crowd. The contact was light, brief, entirely proper, but she felt it everywhere.
“Alexander!” Eleanor appeared before them, breathless, her white dress already slightly crumpled from too many embraces. “Thank you. Thank you for being here.”
He looked at his sister. The new Mrs. Frazer. Twenty-years-old, flushed with happiness, her eyes wet and shining.
“Where else would I be?” he said.
Eleanor made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and wrapped her arms around him. He held her. Briefly. His hand pressed against her back, and his eyes closed for a moment—just a moment—and then he let go and stepped away.
“Go,” he said. “Your husband is waiting.”
Eleanor laughed, turned, and went to Malcolm, who caught her hand and raised it to his lips, and the villagers cheered.
Frances stood next to Alexander in the small church and watched his sister walk away arm in arm with her husband. He remained still. Composed. The mask was once again securely in place.
But Frances had seen what lay beneath it. For those few minutes during the vows, when he thought no one was watching, she had seen the whole of him. The love. The loss. The capacity for feeling that he kept locked behind discipline and duty, and the terrible fear that if he opened the door, everything he had built would come undone.
He can feel this deeply. He does feel this deeply. About Eleanor. About Emily. About?—
She did not finish the thought. She could not. Because finishing it meant asking a question she was not sure she could bear the answer to.
Alexander turned to her. His face was calm. His eyes gave nothing away.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frances said.
They walked together toward the doors. His hand did not go back to her back. The space between them was appropriate.
And Frances thought,He has accepted Eleanor’s marriage. He has made his peace with love for his sister.
But what about us?
CHAPTER 32
“You must stay,” Eleanor insisted. “Both of you. At least a few days.”
They were standing in the cottage garden while inside, the last of the village guests finished the wedding cake and spoke in loud, cheerful voices about the weather and the quality of Mrs. Campbell’s shortbread. Eleanor had Frances by one hand and was gesturing broadly with the other, as though the force of her enthusiasm might physically prevent them from leaving.
“Eleanor—” Alexander began.
“No. You traveled four days to be here. I will not have you turn around and leave the morning after.” She looked at Malcolm, who stood beside her with his spectacles slightly crooked and the expression of a man who had learned that his wife’s determination was not a force to be reasoned with. “Tell them.”
“You are very welcome to stay,” Malcolm said. “The cottage is small, but Mrs. Campbell has prepared the spare room.”
“There.” Eleanor beamed. “It is settled.”
Alexander looked at Frances. She looked back. Neither of them asked how many beds the spare room contained. It seemed, at this point, an unnecessary question.
