The room seemed suddenly smaller, though it was not. The fire gave a low crackle in the grate. The baby slept on, innocent of the strange tightening in the air. Frances became aware of Andrew’s height, of the breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark coat, of the pale gold of his hair where the firelight found it. His eyes held hers for a moment too long, blue and guarded and almost unwillingly intent.
Her pulse gave one most inconvenient leap. Then he straightened.
“There are matters we must make clear,” he began.
The warmth of the moment vanished so swiftly that Frances almost smiled at the efficiency of it.
Of course. A tender scene had threatened to become human, so His Grace had found refuge in rules.
“I suspected there would be,” she replied.
“The child ismyresponsibility.”
His tone was colder now. Not cruel, precisely, but fixed and formal. It was the same tone a man might use when speaking of estate accounts or a difficult tenant.
Frances went still. “Yes, you mentioned that before our marriage, though without your usual abundance of detail.”
“She is not yours to be troubled with,” he added.
Frances looked from him to the cradle. The baby’s breath came in tiny, uneven sighs. One hand had slipped free of the blanket. The sight of it, impossibly small and soft, made Andrew’s words feel all the more severe.
“She is an infant,” Frances said. “Not an unpaid account.”
His mouth tightened. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“No. I know what yousaid. Those are often very different things.”
“This is not a debate.”
“That is fortunate, for you are doing rather poorly.”
His gaze sharpened. “Frances.”
It was the first time he had said her Christian name without ceremony. The sound struck her with absurd force. Frances had heard her name spoken all her life by her family, servants, acquaintances, even gentlemen who had attempted flirtation with various degrees of skill and failure. But from him it sounded different, more dangerous, less like a name than a hand at her wrist.
She hated that she noticed. She hated still more that she liked it.
“Andrew,” she returned, very calmly.
He stilled.
It is only fair, she thought.
If he meant to disarm her, she would return the courtesy. For an instant, his composure flickered. But it was not much. He was too practiced for that. Still, Frances saw the slight tightening at his jaw, the brief darkening of his eyes, and felt an unreasonable satisfaction.
“The child’s care,” he said, after a moment, “will remain under my direction. Nurse Ellis is competent. Mrs. Carter oversees what is necessary. You are not required to involve yourself.”
“Not required,” she repeated.
“No.”
“And if I choose to?”
He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at that. “I would advise against it.”
She folded her hands before her, because she had discovered that when one very much wished to throw something at a duke, stillness was often the most dignified alternative.
“Do you advise,” she asked, “or command?”
