In her other hand, Frances held a pencil. A small notebook rested against her knee. She wrote in it between glances at the baby, pausing now and then to tilt her head, think, and continue.
The sunlight moved over her hair, catching brown strands and turning them almost gold at the edges. A few had come loose near her temple. Her bonnet lay discarded beside her, which was improper enough to make him smile faintly and lovely enough to make the smile fade.
Andrew watched longer than he should have. The baby shifted, and Frances at once lowered her face toward her.
“No,” Andrew heard faintly through the open window, “you need not object to every sentence. Some of them are perfectly adequate.”
The child made no answer, which Frances appeared to take as criticism.
Andrew left his study without a second thought. He told himself he was merely checking that the child did not grow chilled in the garden. It was a reasonable concern. Infants were delicate. Weather could change. Women with notebooks might become distracted.
By the time he reached the lawn, he no longer believed himself.
Frances did not hear him approach at first. She was too intent upon the page, with the pencil moving in short, impatient strokes. The gravel beneath his boots gave him away only when he was a few steps from the bench.
She looked up. For one suspended instant, surprise left her face open.
Then she recovered. “Your Grace.”
“Your Grace,” he returned.
Her brows lifted. “Have we become formal again?”
“I was following your example.”
“I was caught unprepared. Formality is useful in emergencies.”
He smirked. “This is an emergency?”
She returned an equally playful smile. “That depends upon why you are approaching so solemnly.”
Andrew glanced at the baby, who slept with the serene indifference of someone wholly unconcerned with titles, scandals, or estate management. “I came to see how she was.”
Frances looked down at the child, and her expression changed before she could stop it. The sharpness eased. Her hand settled lightly over the blanket.
“She is quite well. As you can see, she has recovered enough to be imperious in her sleep.”
“She looks peaceful,” he nodded.
“That is how she deceives us.”
Andrew stepped closer. “And you?”
Frances glanced up quickly. “Am I imperious in my sleep?”
“I would not presume to know.”
Color moved faintly into her cheeks, just enough to reward him more than it should have done.
“I am well,” she replied, returning her attention to the notebook.
Andrew looked at it. “What are you doing?”
“Oh,” she shrugged. “Merely passing the time.”
She closed the notebook slightly, not fully. The gesture was small, but it caught his attention at once. Frances was not a woman who hid without reason. She challenged, deflected, provoked and argued. Concealment in her hands was almost an invitation.
“With writing?” he asked.
