“He asked me to marry him.”
For one fleeting instant, silence followed. Then her mother inhaled sharply.
“A proposal?”
Frances almost laughed at the absurdity of that word. Proposal suggested warmth, choice, sentiment, and some tender degree of hope. There had been none of those things in the garden.
“No,” she clarified. “Not exactly. He said it was the only solution to the situation.”
“The situation,” her mother repeated, but her eyes were already brightening with a kind of relieved excitement. “Well, whatever name one gives it, the meaning is plain enough.”
Her father nodded once. “Indeed.”
Frances stared at them. “Is it?”
“Of course it is,” her mother said at once. “This scandal has gone far enough, and now the Duke has offered the most respectable means of ending it. It must be settled quickly.”
“The most respectable means?” Frances reiterated.
“My dear girl,” her mother sighed, coming nearer, “you speak as though this were some misfortune. It is quite the reverse. A marriage to a duke, under any circumstances, is a magnificent outcome.”
Frances felt herself stiffen. “Outcome.”
“Yes, outcome,” her mother agreed firmly. “The matter might have gone infinitely worse. Instead, it may conclude with your future not merely preserved, but elevated.”
Her father’s voice entered with calm authority. “Your mother is correct. There is no real choice here.”
Frances turned to him at once. “No real choice?”
“No.” He met her gaze steadily. “The matter must be handled properly.”
She looked from one parent to the other, scarcely able to believe how swiftly the thing had hardened from suggestion into expectation. Only moments ago, she had still imagined herself in possession of refusal. Now, it seemed refusal had become a kindof childish fiction, tolerated only until older, firmer voices swept it aside.
“This is absurd,” she managed to muster. “The gossip is not true. There is no affair. For goodness’ sake, I barely know the man.”
Her mother gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Truth has ceased to be the point.”
“That is exactly what everyone keeps saying, and it does not make it any less monstrous.”
“No,” she heard her father speak, “but it does make it practical.”
Frances felt heat rise to her face. “Practical? You would have me marry a man I do not care for, to correct a lie I did not create?”
“A lieyouworsened,” he reminded her almost softly, which in turn made the comment sharper. “However noble your intention may have been.”
She drew herself up. “I defended him because it was unjust.”
“And very commendable,” her mother added, in the tone of one praising a child for a generous impulse while regretting the mess it had produced. “But what matters now is repair. Your name is already involved. The Duke’s name is involved. Society will not be persuaded backward merely because you insist upon innocence.”
“But Iaminnocent.”
Her father’s expression altered only slightly. “That may be so, but innocence is rarely sufficient once a story has taken hold.”
The quiet certainty of it struck her more painfully than if he had shouted. She turned away for a moment, only to find there was nowhere in the room to rest her gaze without feeling enclosed by expectation. The embroidery stand, the untouched tea tray, the neat arrangement of chairs… everything looked orderly, fixed and composed.
Everything she was not.
Her mother moved closer. “Frances, you must see what this means. Your future would be secured at once. There would be no more uncertainty and no more whispered questions about whether you shall marry at all. Why, just imagine it, my dear… you would be a duchess.”
