“Thank you,” she said.
Their eyes met only for a moment. That was enough. He took the coat, though it was warm from her and felt somehow altered in his hands.
The ride back was conducted among the others. Once, when the path narrowed, her mare drew close enough that the hem of her habit brushed his boot. Neither of them spoke.
By the time they reached the house, the rain had slowed to mist, and the guests were already turning the mishap into a story.
Andrew dismounted and looked across the courtyard at Frances. She was wet, composed, flushed, and refusing to look at him for too long.
The kiss had been almost nothing, a moment interrupted before it could become a choice. Yet Andrew knew, with a certainty that unsettled him more than the storm, that something between them had changed.
And unlike the rain, it would not simply pass.
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 thisevening 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.”
