“You do not.”
“No,” he admitted. “Not entirely.”
Her eyes narrowed, though the effect was softened by the blush still touching her cheeks. “You must think I do not seem the type.”
“I think,” Andrew chose his words carefully, “that you have declared war on matrimony often enough that romance seems an unexpected choice of weapon.”
“It is not a weapon. It is merely a genre of choice.”
“Is it?”
“Do not become insufferable,” she pretended to pout, and it almost made him smile. “You were nearly tolerable a moment ago.”
That did make him smile. Frances looked away, but not before he saw the reluctant curve of her own mouth.
“I do not necessarily believe in romance in real life,” she admitted.
“No?”
“No.” She looked toward the garden path, where sunlight had gathered in pale patches between the budding trees. “In real life, people marry for land, fortune, duty, pressure, convenience, desperation, or because society has pushed them into a corner and called the corner respectable.”
Andrew said nothing. She glanced back at him, and something unreadable passed between them.
“But on paper,” she continued, “things may be arranged more kindly. Misunderstandings may be solved. Difficult men may learn to speak. Women may choose without being punished for wanting something. And in the end, if one writes it properly, everyone may be happy.”
“In a romance.”
“Yes.” Her gaze returned to the page. “Where things can always end well.”
Andrew felt the words with a force he did not care to examine.
He looked down at the sleeping baby, then at Frances’ hand resting protectively near the child’s cradle. “Andyourstory?”
She drew the notebook closer but did not close it. “It is hardly formed.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Her lashes lifted. He had not meant the words to come out so quietly, nor had he meant to ask as though the answer mattered. But it did.
Frances studied him for a moment, perhaps deciding whether he was mocking her. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, for she looked down at the notebook and drew her thumb along the worn edge.
“It is about a woman,” she divulged, “who agrees to a marriage she never wanted.”
Andrew went very still.
“With a man who keeps his distance,” she continued, “and hides more than he says.”
The garden seemed to quiet around them. Frances did not look at him now. Her voice remained measured, but still fragile.
“They live under the same roof, bound by duty rather than choice. At first, they do not understand each other at all. She thinks him cold. He thinks her difficult.”
Andrew’s mouth moved faintly. “Is she?”
“Extremely.”
“Then perhaps he is not entirely wrong.”
She gave him a look, but it lacked its usual bite.
