Separated.
The warmth fled from her face.
“When the gossip fades,” Andrew continued, returning to that calm, awful practicality of his, “there will be no reason for us to remain constantly in the same house. You may live where you prefer. Sinclair House in town, if you wish. One of the smaller estates. Your own household may be established with every comfort.”
“My own household,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I have more than enough work to occupy me elsewhere.”
Of course he did. Men always had work: estates, clubs, Parliament, horses, affairs. That was the convenient machinery of a life designed to keep them from noticing the ruins left behind them.
Frances turned slightly toward the cradle, though she did not truly see it.
“How efficient,” she said. “We marry in haste, behave prettily for society, pacify the scandal, then divide ourselves like property after an auction.”
“That is not how I would have phrased it.”
“No, I imagine you would have made it sound almost respectable.”
“It is respectable.”
“It is lonely.”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Frances hated herself for it at once. She did not wish him to know that the prospect had touched her. She did not wish him to think she had imagined anything else. And yet the thought of being placed in some elegant house, protected, respected, and abandoned with every comfort, had opened a hollow space beneath her ribs.
She smoothed one glove over the other. “Still,” she said, gathering herself, “I understand. Once the gossip fades, we lead our own lives.”
His eyes held hers. It would have been easier if he were cruel; easier if he were vain, selfish, or careless; easier if his coldness were born of arrogance rather than fear.
Frances knew how to resist arrogance. She knew how to despise selfishness. But this was something else.
Andrew Hill, Duke of Sinclair, was trying very hard to be honorable while giving as little of himself as possible.
And Frances feared, with sudden certainty, that honor without tenderness could still wound.
Chapter Twelve
Frances had not expected happiness from dinner. Still, she had expected him to be there.
The dining room was already lit when she entered it. The room was grand in that grave, Sinclair manner, with its high-ceilings, pale walls and portraits observing from gilt frames as though every meal were a matter of ancestral judgment.
Frances paused just inside the doorway. Only one place had been set. The china shone. The wine caught ruby-red in the glass. A silver tureen sent up a delicate curl of steam, rich with the scent of roasted meat, herbs, butter, and something faintly sweet beneath it. Under other circumstances, Frances might have admired the household’s efficiency.
At present, she could only look at the solitary plate.
“His Grace is delayed?” she asked.
It was absurd, how calm she sounded.
Carter inclined his head. “His Grace has gone out on business, Your Grace.”
Frances turned toward him. “Gone out?”
