“So do the footmen. That does not make them my intimate acquaintances.”
“Well, the footmen do not argue with me over breakfast,” he countered with more vigor than he dared admit.
“Perhaps they lack opportunity.”
“Or courage.”
“Or perhaps they are wise enough to know you would end the conversation the moment it became inconvenient.”
That struck closer than she could have known. Or perhaps, she knew precisely.
Andrew regarded her across the table. “Is this still about Lady Ashford?”
“This is about you,” Frances said pleasantly. “Lady Ashford was merely a symptom.”
“A symptom.”
“Of your tendency to become remote at precisely the moments when a normal husband might speak.”
He frowned this time. “I speak when there is something to say.”
“And at a crowded event, silence will only make people talk more.”
“People will talk regardless,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but I prefer not to hand them a full script.”
He almost laughed. “Do you plan to tell me what to say?”
“No.”
“Now,thatis a relief.”
“I plan only to remind you to act like a husband.”
The word hung between them.
Husband.
It was absurd how familiar and strange it sounded at once. He had heard it from servants, from callers, from formal letters addressed to him since the wedding. Yet on Frances’ lips, it became something else, something closer to challenge.
Andrew reached for his coffee. “That role was not part of our agreement.”
“Appearances were.”
He paused. Frances held his gaze calmly, though there was a spark of triumph in her eyes because she knew she had him. That was the trouble with Frances. She made winning an argument seem less like victory and more like invitation.
Andrew took a slow sip of coffee and set the cup down. “Very well.”
Her brows rose. “Very well?”
“I will try.”
“That sounded painful,” she pointed out with delight.
“It was.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice,” she offered.
