Chapter 27 #2
Frances tried again. The gown resisted with all the moral determination of an elderly aunt. She twisted slightly, winced and tried once more. The hook remained fastened. Her shoulder objected. Her dignity suffered.
Andrew said nothing. That was somehow worse.
At last, Frances lowered her hands. “Could you… perhaps, help me?”
He did not move at once, but his question proved he knew of her plight. “Are you certain?”
“No,” she replied honestly. “But unless you wish me to sleep standing in this gown, it may be necessary.”
The floorboard shifted beneath his step.
Frances turned her back to him, her heart suddenly too loud.
She fixed her eyes upon the dressing table mirror, then immediately wished she had not.
The reflection showed him approaching, tall and quiet in his shirtsleeves.
His waistcoat was still buttoned but his cravat was loosened.
Without his coat, he looked less like a duke prepared for society and more like a man. That was inconvenient, too.
He stopped behind her, leaving a careful space. “Where?”
“The upper hooks.”
His hands lifted. For a moment, nothing happened. She felt only the nearness of him, the warmth that seemed to gather at her back before he even touched her. Then his fingers brushed the fabric between her shoulder blades.
Frances went utterly still. The first hook loosened. His knuckles grazed the back of her neck where the gown shifted. The touch was accidental, surely. It lasted less than a second. Still, every nerve in her body attended to it as though he had spoken her name against her skin.
She drew a quiet breath. Andrew’s hands paused.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
He continued. Each hook came free with maddening patience. Frances stood rigidly, aware of the fire’s warmth, the faint scent of starch and lavender from her gown, and the deeper scent of sandalwood that belonged to him.
His fingers never lingered. He was impeccably careful. That made it worse.
There was nothing improper in the assistance. Nothing at all. Husbands helped wives. Maids helped mistresses. Fabric required hands. Hooks required undoing. And yet the air changed with every small release.
The gown loosened by degrees. Cool air touched the line of her spine through the shift beneath. Andrew’s breathing was quiet behind her. Once, his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair aside so he might reach the next fastening, and Frances had to press her lips together.
The last hook came free.
“There,” he whispered.
He should have stepped back. She should have moved away. Neither did.
Andrew stood behind her, close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she would touch him. His gaze was not on the undone gown. It was on her face in the mirror.
For one impossible moment, they simply looked at one another there, a man and a woman in a quiet room, with the whole house asleep around them and the pretense stripped away as surely as the hooks at her back.
Frances’ breath caught. Andrew’s hand shifted, as though he meant to touch her again, then stopped.
Frances stepped forward first. The movement was small, but it severed the moment cleanly. She gathered the loosened gown against herself and turned halfway.
“Thank you.”
His face had returned to calm, though not entirely. There was a tension along his jaw that had not been there before.
“You are welcome.”
She crossed to the screen near the corner of the room, carrying her night things with her. “I shall only be a moment.”
“Take all the time you need.”
Behind the screen, Frances changed with fingers that were not quite steady. She told herself it was the travel, the scrutiny, the absurdity of their sleeping arrangements… anything but his touch.
When she emerged, wrapped in a modest dressing gown, Andrew had turned down the lamp near the sofa and placed an extra blanket over one arm. He had changed as well, or nearly so, into shirtsleeves and dark trousers. He did not look at the bed. Frances did not either.
“I will face the wall,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the sofa. “You need not be uncomfortable.”
“I am not uncomfortable.”
The lie was so transparent that even she disliked it.
Andrew’s mouth softened, but he did not challenge her. “Good.”
Frances drew back the bedcovers. The bed was too large, too white, too obviously meant for two people. She climbed into it with as much dignity as possible and settled near the far edge, as though the empty side needed defending from suggestion.
Andrew extinguished one lamp. The room dimmed. He arranged himself on the sofa with considerable effort and no complaint, though his knees did not quite fit and one shoulder looked destined for misery by morning. Frances lay still, facing the room rather than the wall.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” he said.
The title, in the darkness, felt more like restraint.
“Goodnight, Your Grace.”
Silence followed. Frances closed her eyes, then opened them. Across the room, Andrew was still. She could see the outline of him in the firelight, one arm bent beneath his head and his face turned toward the ceiling.
He looked calm. He was not. She knew that now. And she, beneath the cool sheets of a bed she would not share with him, looked calm as well.
She was not either.