“No,” she corrected. “You were afraid.”
He looked toward the cradle. The baby gave a faint, congested sigh and slept on. Andrew said nothing. Frances did not ask him to explain. Perhaps she understood that there were momentswhen questions, however deserved, would only break what little steadiness remained.
Instead, she whispered. “Come. Sit down for a moment before you fall down.”
It was such a practical remark, so entirely Frances, that something inside him almost gave way. He obeyed, and as he sank into the chair near the hearth, with the nursery dim around them and the child breathing softly nearby, Andrew realized Frances had not taken his secret from him that night. She had taken his shaking hands and made them useful again.
That frightened him almost as much.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Iowe you an apology,” she suddenly heard him say.
Frances looked up from the cradle. The nursery had settled into that hushed, fragile calm that followed fear, as if the walls themselves were afraid to make a sound too loud. She was tired enough that his words took a moment to arrange themselves into meaning.
“For…?” she asked.
His mouth tightened faintly. “For earlier.”
She remembered the drawing room, Lady Ashford’s visit, his refusal, the door closing behind him and her anger settling into resolve. It seemed impossibly distant now, as though it had happened to other people.
Andrew looked toward the cradle, where the baby slept at last, restless but no longer crying. “I… overreacted.”
Frances let out a quiet breath. “That is one word for it.”
He glanced at her, and something almost like amusement touched his face before vanishing. “A generous one?”
She resisted a smile. “An inadequate one.”
“Yes.” He accepted that with a small nod. “Likely so.”
Frances folded her hands in her lap. She had taken the chair nearest the cradle once the baby had been settled, telling herself she would rise in a moment, that she would go to her room, that she had no reason to remain now that the danger had passed. Yet, she had not moved.
Andrew’s gaze returned to her. “You handled tonight very well.”
She lowered her eyes. “I did very little.”
“That is not true.”
“I fetched you.”
“You steadied me,” he told her, and the words were too quiet for the weight they carried.
Frances looked down at her hands, remembering the feel of his between hers: cold despite the warmth of the nursery, unsteady despite all his strength. She remembered the shock of it morethan the fear. Andrew, who seemed so immovable in every other circumstance, had trembled while holding the child.
“You were frightened,” she said.
“Yes.”
There was no deflection in the word, no pride and no attempt to polish it into something more dignified. It was all she ever wanted of him: the truth.
Frances lifted her gaze. Andrew stood very still, and now, his face was turned partly toward the fire. In its low light, he looked less like the Duke of Sinclair than the man beneath him, tired and drawn and too alone with whatever memory the night had stirred.
“For a moment,” he murmured, and she wasn’t certain if he was talking to her or to himself, “I was not entirely here.”
Frances did not speak.
He seemed to gather himself before continuing. “When I was a boy, my mother had a baby.”
