“There is a lodge nearby.” He gestured. “It is closer than the house.”
“Lead on, then.”
Andrew did not wait. They rode together through the rain, with the path narrowing beneath dripping branches. Mud splashed up around the horses’ legs. Frances kept pace. The rain came harder for a time, drumming against leaves and leather, and soaking through Andrew’s collar and running cold beneath his cravat.
The hunting lodge stood in a small clearing, half-hidden beneath ivy. It was old but sound, with a sloped roof, narrow windows, and a small overhang beside the door. Andrew swung down first, secured his horse, then stepped to Frances’ mare. She had already gathered her skirts to dismount.
“I can manage,” she told him.
“I know.”
He lifted his hands anyway. For the briefest second, she hesitated. Then she let him help her down. His hands closed around her waist. Even through layers of wet fabric, he felt the shape and warmth of her. She slid from the saddle, landing close enough that her hands came to his shoulders for balance. Rain streamed from the brim of her hat, and one loose strand of dark hair clung to her cheek.
Andrew turned away too quickly and led the horses beneath the trees before opening the lodge door. It gave with a stiff groan. The interior was dim and dry, smelling of old wood, dust, cold ashes, and damp wool the moment they crossed the threshold.
Frances removed her hat with a small grimace. The rain had loosened her hair from its pins, and dark strands fell against her neck and temples. Her riding habit clung to her sleeves and bodice, the green cloth deepened almost to black. She shivered once, visibly, before managing to conceal the next one. Andrew was out of his coat before thought could intervene.
“Here.”
She turned. “You will be cold.”
“Please,” he urged, and that was enough.
He set the coat around her shoulders. It swallowed her somewhat, the dark fabric heavy and broad, and the sight of her in it struck him with an intimacy so sharp he had to look away.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He nodded.
For a while, they stood listening to the rain. It battered the roof in a steady roar and slid down the narrow windows in silver streams. The rest of the party was distant now, reduced to faint calls and hoofbeats lost beneath the weather. The lodge held them in a strange pocket of quiet, with only the storm outside and the sound of their breathing within. Frances pulled his coat more tightly about herself.
“This is not how I expected the day to go.”
Andrew looked at her then. “No?”
“I expected more forced cheer, perhaps one or two pointed remarks, and at least three ladies pretending not to ask about our marriage.”
He grinned. “That sounds like a full morning.”
“Very nearly ambitious.”
“Then the rain has been merciful.”
Her mouth curved, but the smile faded too quickly. “I am not certain mercy is the word I would choose.”
Andrew watched her. The dim light softened the sharpness she so often used as armor. Wet hair clung near her throat. A raindrop slid from one dark strand to the edge of her jaw, and Andrew watched it longer than he should have. She looked younger in that moment, tired of carrying certainty before an audience.
“Nothing between us has been simple so far,” he said with a sigh.
Her gaze lifted to his.
“No,” she agreed. “It has not.”
The rain filled the silence again.
Frances looked toward the window, where the world beyond had blurred into gray and green. “They are still watching us, even when they pretend not to. If I move away from you, I am unhappy. If I stand too near, I am hiding something. If I smile, I am triumphant. If I do not, I am trapped.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened. “And you?”
