Then Frances reached for her glass. He reached at the same moment to move the decanter aside. Their hands brushed. It was no more than the backs of their fingers touching near the base of her glass.
Still, everything stopped.
Frances’s hand stilled beside his. Her skin was warm and soft. The contact was brief, accidental, and entirely proper. There was no clasping, no impropriety, no reason at all for his breath to catch as though she had placed her palm against his heart.
She looked at their hands. So did he. Neither moved.
The fire cracked softly in the grate. Candlelight trembled. Somewhere beyond the closed doors, a servant’s footstep passed and faded.
Andrew could have drawn away. He did not.
Frances’s fingers shifted, not enough to withdraw, only enough that her knuckles brushed his again. Whether by accident or some momentary failure of will, he did not know. He only knew the contact sent a sharp, unwelcome current through him.
His gaze lifted to her face. She was looking at him now.
There was no anger in her eyes, not in that instant. Her lips parted slightly. The candlelight warmed the curve of her cheek. She looked tired, yes, and troubled, but also unbearably alive.
He wanted to turn his hand and take hers. The desire was so simple, so appalling, that it held him motionless.
Then, Frances pulled back first, but she did not do so quickly. That was what undid him. Had she snatched her hand away, he might have retreated into propriety. Had she laughed, he might have answered in kind. But she withdrew slowly, almost reluctantly, gathering her fingers back into her lap while her eyes remained on his.
Andrew’s hand rested on the table where hers had been.
Empty.
He did not speak. Neither did she. Whatever had been said before seemed suddenly less dangerous than what had not been said at all.
At that moment, Frances rose.
“I find I am more tired than hungry,” she informed him.
Andrew stood at once. “Frances–”
“Good night, Andrew.”
His name, softly spoken, struck harder than anger would have done. She inclined her head, not quite a bow, not quite affection, and turned toward the door. He did not follow. He had no right to. Or rather, he had every right society would recognize, and none that mattered.
She opened the door before any servant could come, stepped into the corridor, and left him alone with the uneaten dinner, the extinguished argument, and the lingering warmth of her hand.
Andrew remained standing long after the door closed.
At last, he looked down at his plate. She had hardly eaten. Neither had he.
The house settled around him with all its old, disciplined silence, but the silence no longer felt like order. It felt like failure.
Chapter Sixteen
The following morning, Andrew waited for Frances at breakfast.
He told himself he wasnotwaiting. A man did not sit in his own breakfast room with his coffee untouched and call it waiting merely because he had chosen, three times, not to open the letter beside his plate.
He was reading, considering, preparing for the day. Yet every sound in the corridor drew his attention, whether it was the clink of china or a footman’s step.
Andrew unfolded the newspaper, looked at the first column, and absorbed not one word. By the time the toast had cooled and the eggs beneath their silver cover had lost their steam, he set the paper aside.
“Has Her Grace been informed breakfast is served?” he asked.
Carter, stationed near the sideboard, bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
