He turned to her father. “Lord Keswick, I hope I do not intrude too unforgivably.”
“Not at all,” her father replied, though his tone carried more caution than warmth.
Andrew smiled, and the effect was as devastating as ever. It was no wonder society found him so easy to admire and so satisfying to destroy.
“I fear I have come with little ceremony,” he said. “You must forgive the abruptness of my call.”
“Oh no, no,” her mother jumped in hastily. “You are always welcome.”
Frances might have laughed, had she not been so startled by the entire scene. Andrew’s gaze moved to her then. It did not linger long enough to be improper, yet she felt it distinctly all the same. There was none of the easy amusement she had seen in him at dinners and none of the teasing lightness he sometimes wore in company. He had only purpose now.
“Miss Norton,” he greeted her with a slight inclination of his head.
“Your Grace.”
He looked back to her parents. “I wonder whether I might beg a few moments of your daughter’s time.”
Her mother blinked.
Andrew continued, all courtesy. “Nothing improper, I assure you. Perhaps a short turn in the garden, if Miss Norton isagreeable to it. We need not go beyond view of the drawing room windows.”
There was a very small pause.
Frances could almost hear her mother’s heart begin beating faster at the opportunity. A duke requesting a private walk, however carefully contained, was precisely the kind of thing her mother would once have called promising, had the circumstances been different. Her father, however, considered the matter more heavily, his gaze moving from Andrew to Frances and back again.
“Within sight of the house,” he demanded.
“Entirely,” Andrew replied.
“And not long.”
“Of course.”
Her mother managed a gracious smile. “I see no objection.”
Frances did, or thought she ought to. Yet, curiosity rose too strongly to ignore, mingled with something far less comfortable. She wanted to know why he had come, but she feared that she knew.
Andrew crossed to her and offered his arm. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before placing her hand upon it. His sleeve was warm beneath her fingers. Together they left the drawing room, passed through the terrace doors, and stepped out into the pale chill of the morning garden.
The air struck cool against Frances’s skin after the heat of the room. The lawns still carried the dampness of early spring, and the gravel path curved neatly beneath bare branches just beginning to show the first signs of green. Behind them, the drawing room windows gleamed, and she had no doubt her mother was already positioning herself discreetly nearby.
Andrew led her only a little way before stopping. The moment they were alone enough to speak without being overheard, he turned to her.
“Why on earth did you do it?”
There was no preamble and no softening politeness now.
Frances lifted her chin. “If you mean the article, I did it because the scandal was unfair.”
His expression did not change. “Unfair.”
“Yes.”
He gave a short breath that might almost have been a laugh, had it held any humor. “That is a generous word for it.”
“It was cruel,” she pointed out. “And calculated. Someone ought to have answered it.”
“And that someone had to be you?”
