“I will marry him.”
The words settled into the room with the force of something both chosen and surrendered. Her mother began speaking at once of arrangements, of discretion, of what must be done next, but Frances scarcely heard her. She stood quite still, as if any movement might shatter the fragile control by which she remained upright at all.
She had agreed.
And though peace ought to have followed such a decision, none came. There was only the strange, hollow certainty that her life had altered in the space of a morning and that she had stepped toward it not because she wished to, but because every road behind her had quietly, relentlessly closed.
Chapter Six
Andrew was at his writing table when the letter arrived.
It was brought in upon a silver tray by a footman who knew better than to speak unnecessarily when his master was at work. Yet something in the servant’s expression, perhaps a faint curiosity too well-bred to become impertinence, made Andrew look up before the tray had even been properly set down.
“A messenger from Keswick Manor, Your Grace.”
Andrew’s hand stilled over the estate papers spread before him. He dismissed the footman with a nod and reached for the folded letter at once. The seal belonged to Lord Keswick. For the briefest moment, he only looked at it, feeling an odd tightening in his chest, as though the wax itself contained more consequence than a dozen legal documents.
Then he broke it open. The hand was formal, exact, and entirely without flourish.
Your Grace,
After due consideration, my daughter has agreed to the proposal you laid before her this morning.
In the present circumstances, I believe it in the best interest of all parties that the marriage take place without delay and with as little public notice as propriety will allow. Lady Keswick joins me in the hope that the matter may thus be settled with dignity and dispatch.
You may call upon us at your convenience, should you wish to arrange particulars.
Lord Keswick
Andrew read it twice, then a third time, though not because the words were unclear. They were perfectly clear. It was the reality of them that resisted comprehension.
My daughter has agreed.
Only this morning, he had been a man managing a lie and the growing danger around it. By this afternoon, he was apparently to become a bridegroom.
He set the letter down very carefully upon the writing table. For several moments, he did nothing at all. The study was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock upon the mantel and the distant murmur of servants somewhere beyond the door. Sunlight fellacross the polished wood, across the open account books, across the letter that had just altered the course of his life with no more ceremony than a change in dinner plans.
Frances Norton had agreed.
He found that astonishing. The truth was, he never doubted her courage. She possessed courage in excess, though often of the most inconvenient sort. What astonished him was that she had submitted at all. He had expected further resistance, sharper arguments, perhaps even outright war. She had looked at him in the garden as though she would sooner set herself on fire than accept his logic.
And yet she had.
His mouth tightened. He could not flatter himself that the decision had anything to do with personal inclination. Frances Norton was not a woman likely to marry where she was not compelled either by affection or by necessity, and there had been very little sign of affection between them.
Necessity, then.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long, measured breath. If he had been a lesser man, he might have taken refuge in resentment. He might have called the matter unfair, cursed the chain of gossip and misjudgment that had dragged them both into it, and told himself he was the injured party. But resentment had never yet solved anything worth the solving.
The truth was plain enough. Whatever the original falsehood printed about him, the rest had become a tangle in which Miss Norton was now caught because she had chosen, rashly, generously and perhaps foolishly, to defend him. Her name had been linked to his. Her family had been endangered by association with his scandal. And whether he liked the shape of the remedy or not, it was his place to offer one. It was his place to see it through.
He looked again at Lord Keswick’s letter.
Duty had seldom arrived in his life wearing any softer face than this one. It did not matter that the marriage would be hurried, unromantic, born not of courtship but of damage control. It did not matter that the bride had likely accepted him with reluctance, perhaps with dread. The thing was now in his hands. Therefore, he would carry it properly.
He rang the bell.
Carter appeared within moments, as steady and imperturbable as ever. “You rang, Your Grace?”
