“I had.”
Frances became suddenly conscious of the looseness of her hair over one shoulder, of the soft lawn against her skin, of the fact that beneath the robe and nightgown she wore nothing of the armor daytime provided.
“I came,” he informed her, “to bid you good night.”
The corridor was dim behind him, lit by two sconces that made shadow and gold of his face. The candlelight from her chamber spilled across his boots and the lower edge of his coat. Between them lay the threshold, narrow and charged, as if some invisible line had been drawn there by law, propriety, fear, and the very faint scent of lavender from her room.
Frances became intensely aware that they were married, that he had the right to cross that threshold… also, that he wasnotcrossing it.
“I also wished to remind you that your duties as duchess will commence soon.”
“All duties?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation.
Andrew frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
She did not wish to say it, not while heat still lingered in her cheeks and his nearness had made her too aware of every inch of herself. Yet the question had risen at once, sharp with dread and shame and the memory of every warning she had ever heard spoken in whispers between married women.
Frances forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Am I expected to give you an heir as well?”
For one awful heartbeat, Frances thought she had made a grave mistake. That she had stepped too boldly into a subject decent women did not name, even when it shaped the whole course of their lives. Her cheeks burned hotter. She wanted to retreat and could not. Pride held her in place when courage nearly failed.
Then Andrew moved. He stepped closer. It should not have altered the world, but it did. He was suddenly much nearer, tall enough that she had to tip her face up to keep his gaze. The air between them changed at once. She felt his presence like warmth from a fire, though no fire burned in the corridor.
He did not touch her. He did not even lift his hand. Still, everything in her body reacted as though he had.
Then his expression hardened. “I willneverdemand an heir from you,” he told her.
The words were calm, each one placed carefully enough to cut.
She ought to have been relieved. Shewasrelieved. And yet something in his tone made relief feel indistinguishable from rejection.
Andrew’s eyes remained fixed on hers. “I told you this marriage was for appearances.”
“Yes,” she said, though the word scarcely reached beyond her lips.
“I do not want children.”
The statement was not merely practical. It had come from somewhere deeper and darker. She heard it at once, though she did not understand it. His face gave nothing away, but the words themselves seemed to carry a shadow.
“It would be for the best if you came to terms with that,” she heard him conclude.
His face remained impassive. “About this.”
She searched his expression, but whatever lived behind it had retreated behind stone. The man who had nearly smiled at her beneath the nursery firelight was gone. The man who had stepped nearer and made the very air feel warm was gone too. In his place, stood the Duke of Sinclair, all command, distance, and impenetrable reserve.
“I see,” she said.
He inclined his head. “Good night, Frances.”
There it was again. Her name, not as punctuation now, but dismissal.
He stepped back. The loss of his nearness was immediate and absurdly physical. The corridor seemed colder. Frances hated that she noticed.
“Good night, Your Grace,” she replied.
She watched him go until the shadows took him. Only then did she shut the door.
