Frances almost said that she would rather be free.
Instead, she continued fighting. “I should not have to marry because society has invented nonsense.”
“No,” her mother agreed with maddening composure, “but since society has done so, you must be wise enough to benefit from it.”
Frances stared at her mother. That was the true injury of it. It was not only that her parents believed she ought to accept, andnot only that they believed the Duke’s offer sensible. It was that they had so completely moved beyond the question of whether she wanted it that the matter scarcely seemed to occur to them at all.
Her father came to stand nearer the mantle, with one hand resting upon it. “Refusing him will not end this. It will make everything worse.”
“How?”
He looked at her as though the answer should have been obvious. “Because then there is no remedy. The gossip will continue. People will say the offer was made and rejected. They will speculate as to why. They will invent new reasons. And every fresh invention will touch not only you, but this entire family.”
Her chest tightened.
“Sophia.” Her mother spoke her sister’s name softly, and that alone was enough.
Frances closed her eyes for one brief instant. She had thought of Sophia already, of course she had. Andrew had seen exactly where to wound her argument, and now her parents pressed upon the bruise without mercy.
Her father continued more gently now, as though gentleness might make the logic kinder. “You may choose to disregard yourown position. You have often done so. But you cannot disregard your sister’s.”
Frances opened her eyes again.
“There must be another way,” she urged, though without conviction.
“Name it,” said her father.
She could not.
Silence fell. In that silence, she became aware with dreadful clarity that no one in the room had asked whether the prospect of marrying the Duke of Sinclair pleasedher. No one had wondered whether she mightfearhim,dislikehim,mistrusthim, or simply notwishto tie herself for life to a man who had walked into a scandal carrying mysteries he would not explain. No one had asked whether the thought of becoming his wife filled her with dread.
The question of what she wanted hovered inside her, unheard and unspoken, until it seemed almost childish to keep hold of it.
Her mother sat down at last, as though the principal struggle had already been won. “You could do much worse.”
Frances gave a faint, strained laugh. “How comforting.”
Her mother ignored the tone. “He is handsome, wealthy, powerful, and willing, I would even saymorethan willing, to repair the matter. Another gentleman might have done far less.”
Another gentleman, Frances thought,might not have proposed marriage as though dictating terms of a treaty.
Yet even that bitter thought lacked strength. She was tired suddenly… tired in body, tired in mind, tired in spirit. She was tired of argument, tired of being dragged by the current of other people’s fears and ambitions, and tired of fighting a tide that rose higher each time she spoke.
Her father’s voice, when it came again, was final. “You will accept him.”
Frances looked at him. Then she looked at her mother, whose satisfaction was only half concealed. Finally, her gaze fell down to her own hands, clasped too tightly before her.
She thought of the garden, of Andrew’s grave face and of the unmistakable urgency in his voice.
This will worsen.
She thought of the child he had admitted existed, though not as his own, of all he had refused to say and of how little peace there was in any part of the matter.
And still, beneath all that, she thought of Sophia. That, in the end, decided what pride could not defend.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet enough that both parents leaned close to hear it. “Very well.”
Her mother’s breath escaped in visible relief. Frances lifted her head, though she felt none of the steadiness she hoped to show.
