Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Frances had never considered dressing for dinner an occupation worthy of a rational mind.
A gown was only a gown. A ribbon was only a ribbon.
Pearls, however prettily arranged, could not improve conversation, soften foolishness, or make an evening less tedious than it was determined to be.
She had said as much often enough to irritate her mother and alarm Sophia, who believed that a lady might dislike assemblies in general while still maintaining a proper affection for silk.
Yet that evening, Frances found herself standing before the glass with an attention to her appearance that felt almost insulting.
The pale green gown was new, or near enough to new that it had not yet acquired the indifference of familiarity. In the candlelight, the silk held a subdued glow, soft as leaves after rain.
Frances frowned at her reflection, which had all her features and none of her sense. It looked back with heightened color and bright, unsettled eyes.
The maid fastened the last hook, smoothed the fall of the skirt, and stepped back with satisfaction. “Very becoming, Your Grace.”
Frances inclined her head, because it was easier than admitting the compliment had made her absurdly self-conscious.
She had been self-conscious all day. That was the most vexing part.
She, who had spent years observing others with cool amusement, had become most inconveniently aware of herself, of whether Andrew was in the room, and if he was not, how long he had been absent.
Andrew.
Even thinking his name was troublesome.
Frances took up her gloves and turned from the mirror before she could begin to look like a woman waiting to be admired.
She would go downstairs, behave with perfect composure, and prove to herself that no gentleman, not even a husband with blue eyes, a calm voice, and the most provoking habit of noticing everything, could unsettle her.
The lamps were already lit in the corridor. Frances descended the stairs slowly. She told herself it was because haste was undignified.
Then she saw him.
Andrew was standing at the foot of the staircase, half-turned toward the hall, speaking to an older gentleman Frances vaguely recognized and did not care to name.
He was dressed in dark evening clothes, severe in line and perfectly fitted.
Candlelight rested on his fair hair and touched the sharp edge of his cheek.
He looked, as always, composed enough to make composure appear effortless.
Then he turned. His words stopped. It was only a moment.
Any other person might have missed it. His gaze met hers, then moved over her with a stillness that was not impolite and yet felt more intimate than any compliment.
For that breath, Andrew Hill looked as though he had forgotten what he meant to say.
Then, the calm returned. His mouth softened into the courteous line he wore so well. He bowed.
“Your Grace.”
The words ought to have sounded formal. They did not.
“Your Grace,” she replied.
The gentleman beside him offered some civil greeting and withdrew, displaying at least one excellent instinct.
Andrew stepped toward her and offered his arm.
Frances placed her hand upon it. She had taken his arm dozens of times.
Yet this evening she felt the warmth of him through the fine fabric of his coat and her glove as if she had never touched him before.
They began toward the ballroom. Neither spoke. The silence was not empty. It seemed filled to the edges with all the things they had both been too proud, too cautious, or too afraid to say. She glanced once at his profile.
“You are very silent this evening,” she pointed out.
His mouth moved slightly. “I was about to accuse you of the same.”
“How fortunate that we prevented one another from committing repetition.”
“Silence, I find, rarely objects to repetition.”
“In a ballroom, silence is nearly rebellion.”
“Then I wonder you do not practice it more often.”
She looked at him sharply. He looked back, and the faint amusement in his eyes nearly undid her.
Frances turned her attention forward. “I prefer rebellion to have witnesses.”
“I had noticed.”
They entered the ballroom before she could reply.
Lady Ashford’s house had been arranged to make the most of candlelight, and candlelight had returned the favor.
Mirrors multiplied the glow until the room seemed afloat in gold.
Roses and greenery had been draped along the mantelpieces, and their fragrance mingled with perfume, wax, and the polished sweetness of the floor.
Ladies moved in pale silks and bright jewels, while gentlemen bowed, smiled, judged, and pretended not to judge.
Frances felt the usual stir as she and Andrew entered together. Society never stared when it could glance, whisper, and wound with greater elegance. Fans lifted. Heads turned by degrees. A lady near the musicians paused mid-sentence. Two young men looked away too quickly.
Andrew’s arm remained steady beneath her hand. Frances disliked needing steadiness from any person, but she was grateful for his all the same.
They were soon separated by the claims of civility. Lady Ashford came to greet them. Lord Pembroke bowed and asked Andrew some question about the roads. A severe old aunt of somebody’s complimented Frances’ gown in a manner that suggested surprise had been overcome by good breeding.
Frances answered as she ought. She smiled. She listened. She made one remark which caused Lady Ashford to laugh and another which made the old aunt uncertain whether she had been admired or insulted.
All the while, she knew where Andrew stood.
It was absurd. She did not look for him. She simply knew. He was a few paces away, speaking with Mr. Haversham now, with his attention apparently fixed upon some matter of estate improvements. He looked composed, remote, and entirely occupied.
That was when the young gentleman approached her.
Frances remembered his face before she recalled his name.
It was a certain Mr. Langley, who was a nephew of someone important enough to make him confident and not important enough to make him careful.
He bowed rather lower than the acquaintance warranted.
“Your Grace,” he greeted her. “I had hoped for the honor of finding you unattended.”
Frances’s smile cooled at once. “Had you?”
“A rare opportunity, I am sure.”
“Rare opportunities are not always wise ones, Mr. Langley.”
He laughed, as though she had invited him to continue. “I had heard Your Grace possessed a dangerous wit.”
“Then you are well warned.”
His gaze travelled over her gown with a freedom that made her fingers tighten around her fan.
“Danger has its attractions,” he mused. “Particularly when it is so handsomely presented.”
Frances lifted her brows. “You are generous with your compliments.”
“And you are severe in receiving them.”
“I try to meet every remark according to its merit.”
That should have been enough. With a gentleman of sense, it would have been more than enough. Mr. Langley, however, appeared to suffer from that particular masculine affliction which mistook a woman’s restraint for encouragement.
He stepped nearer.
“One cannot blame a man for wishing to test whether the Duchess of Sinclair is as formidable as rumor claims.”
“One can blame a man for a great many things, if he is obliging enough to provide cause.”
His smile sharpened. “And does His Grace permit all gentlemen to be so thoroughly chastened by you?”
The words were spoken lightly, but too lightly. Frances felt their impropriety at once. They suggested what they did not dare say. They presumed upon her situation, her marriage, the rumors which had attended it, and the curiosity that still clung to her name like burrs to a hem.
She opened her mouth. She had a reply ready… a very good one at that, but it never left her.
Warmth settled at her waist. Andrew had stepped beside her so smoothly that Frances had not heard him approach.
His hand rested against the silk at her side, and with the smallest pressure he drew her nearer, as though the space at his side had always belonged to her and he had only just remembered to claim it.
Frances’s breath caught. Andrew did not look at Mr. Langley first. He looked at her.
“Will you dance with me?” His voice was low and perfectly calm.
Frances ought to have been annoyed. She had been ready to defend herself, and she did not enjoy being rescued from a battle she had not yet lost. But his hand was still at her waist, and there was something in his expression that softened the sharpest edge of her pride.
“Yes,” she said without thinking.
Only then did Andrew turn to the young gentleman. “Excuse us.”
It was politeness stripped to a blade.
Mr. Langley bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Andrew led Frances away.
“You interrupted me,” she murmured as they joined the forming set.
“I did.”
“I had an answer prepared.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
She glanced at him. “Then why interfere?”
The music began before he could reply. They moved into the dance, and Frances was obliged to wait.
That, she decided, was the chief inconvenience of dancing: it imposed delays precisely when one wished to argue.
They parted, turned, crossed, and came together again with all the graceful tyranny of the figures.
Every time Andrew’s hand touched hers, she felt it.
Every time the dance separated them, she found herself counting the measures until he returned.
At last, the movement brought them close enough for speech.
“Should I speak to him?” Andrew asked.
Frances looked up. “To Mr. Langley?”
His gaze remained fixed upon her. “Unless there is another gentleman here in need of correction.”
She nearly smiled. “Correction?”
“I might teach him some manners regarding how one speaks to ladies.”
The calmness of his tone made the threat worse.
“You will do no such thing.”
“Will I not?”
“No.” Her cheeks warmed despite herself. “I can take care of myself.”
His hand came to her waist as the figure required. Then tightened slightly. No one watching would have noticed. Frances noticed. She felt the pressure through silk and stays and every foolish inch of herself.
“You should not have to,” he said.
The words were simple. That was what made them dangerous.
Frances looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the blush she felt rising. “You cannot say things like that in the middle of a dance.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am required to continue moving and cannot think of a sensible reply.”
“A rare advantage.”
She looked back at him. “You are very pleased with yourself.”
“Not particularly.”
“No?”
His expression softened, and for one moment the ballroom seemed quieter around them. “I was displeased with him.”
“So I gathered.”
“And concerned for you.”
The admission was spoken without flourish, almost reluctantly, as if honesty had escaped before he could make it more manageable. Frances’s heart gave a foolish little ache.
“He angered me,” she admitted. “He did not wound me.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Andrew’s eyes held hers. “I did not step in because I believed you helpless, Frances.”
The sound of her name in his voice unsettled her more than any liberty Mr. Langley could have taken.
“Then why?” she asked softly.
The dance turned them once more. His hand guided her with perfect steadiness. When he answered, his voice was lower than before.
“Because I was near enough to do so.”
It was not a grand declaration. It was not poetry. It was not even, strictly speaking, an explanation. Yet Frances felt it enter her with more force than any studied speech could have done.
Because I was near enough.
It was because he had seen, because he had cared, because his protection, however clumsy at times, had not been born merely of pride or possession.
She swallowed. “That is not a sufficient answer.”
“It is the truest one I have.”
Her fingers rested against his shoulder. Beneath her glove, she could feel the strength of him, controlled and warm. The room spun gently around them: candlelight, music, roses, silk. But Frances saw only Andrew’s face, the guarded tenderness in it, and the effort it cost him not to hide it.
“You are very troublesome,” she said playfully.
His mouth curved. “So you have told me.”
“I expect I shall be obliged to tell you again.”
“I shall endeavor to listen with humility.”
“You have no talent for humility.”
“Then I shall listen without it.”
She laughed before she could prevent it. Andrew’s expression changed at the sound. It was slight, but Frances saw the softening about his eyes, and the quiet pleasure he did not quite conceal. That look did more to disturb her composure than all of Mr. Langley’s impertinence.
The dance drew toward its close. Frances knew it by the music, by the gathering turn of the figures, by the way her hand would soon have to leave Andrew’s. She was sorry for it.
When the final notes sounded, they bowed and curtsied with all due propriety. Applause rose about them. Couples separated, laughing and flushed. Conversation resumed its careless claim upon the room. Andrew offered his arm again. Frances took it.
Across the ballroom, Mr. Langley looked quickly away.
“Do not,” Frances scolded him without any real gravity.
Andrew glanced down at her. “I have done nothing.”
“You were considering it.”
“I was considering many things.”
“All of them unnecessary.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite.” She allowed herself one small smile. “Let him endure his embarrassment. It may improve him.”
Andrew’s gaze warmed. “You are merciless.”
“Only when provoked.”
“And was he sufficiently punished?”
Frances looked once more toward Mr. Langley, who now appeared deeply interested in a bowl of hothouse flowers.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe he has learned something.”
“What lesson?”
“That pursuit is not always rewarded.”
Andrew gave a quiet laugh, and the sound moved through her with a warmth she had no wish to examine in public.
They walked together toward the edge of the room. This time, the silence between them did not feel strained. It felt full, but gently so, like candlelight held behind glass.
Frances kept her hand on his arm. Andrew did not ask her to remove it.