“Excellent, excellent.” Lord Pembroke beamed. “You will find your chamber in the east wing. Lady Pembroke chose it herself. Fine view over the park.”
Frances’ smile remained in place.
Chamber…singular.
She waited for the correction. None came.
Andrew did not so much as blink. “You are very kind.”
Lord Pembroke looked pleased. “Think nothing of it. Newly married couples ought to have the best rooms in the house.”
Frances felt her heartbeat strike once, hard. Of course they had prepared one room. Why should they not? No true married couple would require separate chambers at a house party, at least not so early in marriage.
When they finally went upstairs, accompanied by a maid who carried a lamp and chattered about the house’s drafty corners, Frances felt the silence between herself and Andrew growing heavier with each step.
The east wing chamber was beautiful. A large fire had been lit. Heavy curtains framed tall windows overlooking the dark parkland. The bed stood at the center of the room, vast and canopied, with crisp white linens turned down and pillows arranged as though the bed itself were eager to remind themof propriety’s assumptions. A sofa sat near the hearth, elegant, narrow, and wholly inadequate for a man of Andrew’s height.
The maid set the lamp down, curtsied, and left them.
Frances stood near the dressing table. Andrew remained by the door a moment longer, as though he too required time to accept the shape of the room. Then he stepped inside. The latch clicked softly behind him.
Frances moved first. She drew off her gloves, finger by finger, and placed them upon the dressing table with more care than such small items deserved.
“Well,” she murmured. “This is inconvenient.”
Andrew glanced toward the bed, then away. “Yes.”
She kept her distance. “I assume I need not remind you of our agreement.”
“No,” he replied. “I will take the sofa.”
Frances looked toward it.
“That sofa is not built for sleeping. It is built to suggest that sleep may be possible in theory.”
“I have survived worse.”
They fell silent. This silence was different from the ones downstairs. There, silence had been performance. Here, it had a fire, a bed and a closed door.
Frances turned away and began to unfasten the clasp at her throat. The cloak slipped from her shoulders, and she folded it over the chair. Behind her, Andrew moved as well. She heard him remove his coat, the faint slide of fabric, followed by the soft clink of a cufflink placed upon a table.
Every small sound seemed too intimate.
She focused on her own tasks. Earrings first, then the pins in her hair, though she removed only enough to loosen the weight of it. Her maid would ordinarily have helped with the gown, but sending for one now felt unbearable. It would require opening the door, admitting another person, acknowledging that the duchess of Sinclair stood alone in a chamber with her husband and could not manage her own laces.
She reached behind her. The first hook came free. The second did not.
Frances tried again. The gown resisted with all the moral determination of an elderly aunt. She twisted slightly, winced and tried once more. The hook remained fastened. Her shoulder objected. Her dignity suffered.
Andrew said nothing. That was somehow worse.
At last, Frances lowered her hands. “Could you… perhaps, help me?”
He did not move at once, but his question proved he knew of her plight. “Are you certain?”
“No,” she replied honestly. “But unless you wish me to sleep standing in this gown, it may be necessary.”
The floorboard shifted beneath his step. Frances turned her back to him, her heart suddenly too loud. She fixed her eyes upon the dressing table mirror, then immediately wished she had not. The reflection showed him approaching, tall and quiet in his shirtsleeves. His waistcoat was still buttoned but his cravat was loosened. Without his coat, he looked less like a duke prepared for society and more like a man. That was inconvenient, too.
