Chapter 19

By the time she returned home, Frances was weary in body and spirit. She'd ventured out to so many establishments, hoping to hear word of Juliet, that her slippers threatened to wear thin on the soles. It had been disheartening, especially her final visit. She could tell the butcher did not trust her, but she could hardly blame him.

"Good evening, Your Grace," Mr. Vickers said formally when she and Sara reached the house.

"Good evening, Vickers. Have there been any messages?" she asked, refusing to let herself hope.

"As a matter of fact, there have," he replied happily. "I was just going to have them sent up to you, for most of them appear to be invitations."

"Oh, that's right. We're to be invited everywhere now that our honeymoon is nearing its end," she answered almost drearily.

As if it was actually any sort of honeymoon, Frances thought sadly, mentally tabulating the days since their wedding. Had it already been nearly three weeks? It certainly didn't feel that way. Of course, these invitations would be for events later in the Season when the first month of their marriage had already come and gone. They would be expected to attend and be congratulated as a happy couple.

If only Frances could be certain they were happy…

"Of course," Mr. Vickers said. He stepped closer and looked as though he might say something secretive. He lowered his voice and said, "You know, there was a time when this house hosted such magnificent parties. The previous duchess was known to issue some of the most sought-after invitations of the Season. Perhaps in time you will decide to do something similar."

"Hmm, perhaps! And if His Grace permits it, of course," Frances said, a merry look in her eye in spite of her heavy spirits. She scooped up the pile of correspondence from the table in the entryway and smiled. "I'll take these upstairs and look them over. If I need any help responding to them, may I call on you, Vickers?"

"At all times, Your Grace," Mr. Vickers said warmly as he leaned into a deep bow.

Upstairs, Frances thought to place the correspondence on her writing table and leave it for a few minutes, intent on resting until her weariness was gone. Instead, she decided to tackle the new task straight away and be done with it. She sifted through the folded pages and expensive envelopes, sorting them into different positions on the desk so she might answer all of them.

One of them, however, was unlike the others. It was nothing more than a folded note, its writing visible even from the outside. Frances opened it, and she regretted it at once.

"Dear Anthony," Frances muttered aloud, "I wish to thank you so much for the new gifts. You spoil me so! I am undeserving of your love, but am so grateful for it all the same.

Ever yours, A."

Frances pressed her hand to her middle to squelch the sick feeling inside of her. The letter had been intended for Anthony, and she fervently wished she'd never lain eyes on it. It had been but a faint whisper of truth, but it didn't require all of the pieces for the picture to be revealed.

Anthony kept a mistress after all.

Frances' mouth went dry as she looked around the room, her eyes tricking her into thinking the walls were falling around her. Sara was at work with her back to her, and Frances was only slightly mollified to know that she wouldn't have to explain her stricken expression.

"Sara?" she said as blithely as she could manage. "I'm not feeling well all of a sudden. Would you mind bringing up some tea? I think I shall feel better once I have some tea and lie down for a while."

The lady's maid turned around and looked at her in alarm, but she hurried to do as Frances asked. Once the door had closed behind her, Frances thrust the hateful letter in her drawer and went to her bed. She slipped beneath the covers as if they could barricade her from such awful things as deceitful husbands and missent letters. With any luck, pulling them up over her eyes would shut out all knowledge of this terrible discovery.

Frances didn't realize she'd drifted off to sleep until she awoke to find the room darkened and a cup of cold tea beside her bed. She was disoriented, and in the haze of first awakening, she forgot what was troubling her. Too soon, though, she remembered Anthony's mysterious letter and that hurt it had brought her.

A knock at her door invaded her thoughts. She assumed it would be Sara, coming to fetch the teacup, or perhaps Mrs. Barrett to inform her of the dinner hour. She was tempted to ignore it, so melancholy was her disposition.

What do tea or dinner matter in the face of such humiliation?she thought as she stared at the ceiling.

The knock sounded again, slightly more persistently this time. Frances had no wish to be rude despite her poor spirits, so she forced herself out of bed and over to the door. She opened it and recoiled slightly at the sight of Anthony standing on the other side.

"You missed dinner," he said plainly.

"That was not my intention," she answered. Frances thought to tell him how she'd fallen asleep, but quickly decided he wasn't worthy of an explanation.

"It does seem to be quite a feat for you to follow the simplest of rules," Anthony said, crossing his arms and looking slightly confused.

"Oh? I'm sorry you see it that way," Frances said, her irritation growing into blooms of anger. "I rather thought there was no such thing."

"No such thing as rules? Nonsense."

"Well, after all, there is certainly a far more universal rule that a man takes a wife and then he remains faithful to that wife," she snapped, her eyes blazing.

"Yes. That is usually the custom," Anthony agreed, nodding.

"So, you're familiar with it? Then perhaps you can explain the reason for this."

Frances went to her writing table and retrieved the card. She held it out for Anthony to take, letting the offending note drop from her fingers as though she wished to be rid of it as soon as she could. He turned it around and flipped it open, though his expression remained completely unchanged as he read it.

But then he had the nerve to smile, only a faint lifting of the corners of his mouth before he turned serious once more, but it was like a stab of ice through Frances' heart.

"Where did you get this?" Anthony asked, turning it over and looking on the other side, as if hoping there was more.

"Why should that matter? The fact is I have it. Worst of all, I read it. And now I know what sort of man you are," she answered coldly.

"What sort of man is that, hmm?"

"The sort of man who will keep a mistress and let his wife be subjected to knowing of it."

"A mistress? You presume this note to be from my mistress?" he asked, glowering slightly at her insinuation.

"I can read it plainly. You've sent her gifts, lovely ones at that. And she wrote at the bottom ‘forever yours?' It's hardly how the stablemaster would sign a letter to you now, is it?" she asked, daring him to try to explain.

Anthony didn't answer, and Frances knew from the look on his face that she'd bested him. But that didn't answer her most burning question.

"I wish to know why," she finally stated, her jaw set firmly.

"Why I would have a mistress, you mean?"

"No. I matter so little to you that I care not why you have a mistress. I suppose I should be grateful that she takes all your time and attention instead of me, since I am clearly not good enough for you. Instead, I wish to know why you would go through the entire farce of insisting that I marry you—a man I barely knew—when you had someone in your life who loves you, someone who possibly even lives in your house!"

"You think… you actually believe you're not good enough for me?" Anthony asked, his expression frighteningly unreadable, more so than usual.

"I know I am not, else you would not need to keep this other woman. Besides, you are a duke. I am merely a penniless orphan whose uncle had been forced to take me in. I cannot fathom why you would have singled me out at the ball, but you did. I can only presume it is because you are amused by this disparity between us."

Frances was betrayed by a sob that rose up in her throat. It was bad enough to be indignant about her situation, but to weep from sheer misery and show Anthony how much he'd hurt her only made the sting even crueler. Now, her mask of cool indifference slipped and revealed how much she'd been wounded by this discovery.

"Frances," Anthony said in a voice so tender that even more tears sprung to her eyes, "I don't understand. Why do you think I have a mistress?"

"I should think the note makes it quite obvious," she answered, looking away and swiping at her eyes.

"It doesn't, for I do not have any such liaison."

"I truly wish to believe that, but my eyes do not deceive me. I've trusted my own eyes all my life, whereas I've known you for less than a month. They have no reason to lie, though you very well might."

"Frances, I promise you."

Anthony looked deep into her eyes, breaking her resolve with the intensity of his words. By then, the fight had gone out of Frances. She was simply so tired of being upset or afraid or at odds with the world as a whole, something that had been a constant for almost all her life. She found that she actually wanted to believe him, and that his simple statements were so heartfelt. How could she not?

"But the letter," she protested weakly.

"It is not what you think."

"Then what is it?"

"I cannot tell you. I truly wish that I could, but I cannot. Not yet. I can understand how it might be difficult, but I must ask that you trust me."

Frances watched his face for a few moments longer and saw only Anthony's usual countenance. There seemed to be no remorse or deception there, two things she would expect from any man under such accusations as this. She desperately wanted to believe him, but how could she?

"That is rather presumptuous coming from you," she answered.

"I don't know what to say, Frances. Have I truly given you any cause to not to trust me?"

"You've asked me to believe you, but I live in a house with nothing but secrets. Everywhere I turn, there's another locked door, another unusual parcel or suggestive letter, a husband who does not enjoy conversation, outings, or even a walk in the garden. I'm shut out from everything around me, yet you ask for my trust. How can I?"

Frances looked at him, astonished. He actually seemed to think he bore no fault in her worries.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said quietly, and Frances chided herself for wounding him. "I don't know any way to make you see."

"What about the truth? Can I not be trusted as well? Or does that trust only work for one of us?"

"What do you mean?"

Frances took a deep breath, trying to keep from crying out in frustration.

"Why is part of the house locked off, even to me, the Duchess of Preston?" she demanded as gently as she could.

"It is private," Anthony answered with a curt nod.

"I see. Why is there a nurse on your staff when there are no children about?"

"That's a personal matter."

"Of course it is. Quite personal, I should think," she replied, rolling her eyes and unable to keep the sarcasm from creeping into her reply. "Then tell me this. Why do you keep only three servants?"

"It is all I require."

"Why do you never go out?" she challenged.

"I do go out. It's how I met you."

"Why do you never travel to your estates? Not even for us to have a honeymoon and get to know one another?"

Frances was shocked to see Anthony flinch. She watched his face carefully, for the question had clearly struck a chord in him. Just as quickly as it had happened, his expression became serene and detached once more.

"I don't think the location matters very much. We've gotten to know one another quite well in the days since our marriage. You've come to understand that I'm a very private person. I've come to realize that you are endlessly curious about things that don't concern you. See?"

Frances sighed again, ignoring his slight attempt at humor.

"Why do you answer every question as though there was no deeper meaning to it? As if the surface of yourself as a man is all there is when I know there must be more to you than these simple words?"

Anthony was struck silent again. Frances could practically see the thoughts moving in his mind as he sought a response, one that would be as shallow as everything else he'd said. He shocked her by replying with the most heartfelt words she'd heard him utter.

"I'm not very skilled at showing what I'm feeling."

"What does that even mean?" she asked, sounding concerned instead of bothered.

"All my life, I've had to keep my thoughts and my feelings hidden from others. I had my mother to look after and a—well, I had to inherit my father's position at a very young age. I had responsibilities, obligations. There was no time for emotions. So, I've become quite adept at keeping my feelings to myself."

"Aren't you tired of it?" Frances asked, looking at him longingly.

Anthony shook his head. "It's the only way I know how to be."

"You never just wish to scream or shout or throw back your head in laughter at something funny?"

"What purpose would that serve?"

Frances started to answer, but she struggled for the words. What sort of person didn't know the joy of laughter or the longing of tears? He seemed to have decided those things, those feelings, were unnecessary somehow, almost as if they were beneath him.

"Their purpose? They show that we are people, Anthony. We are capable of feeling things, just as animals do, but we can express those feelings in ways that only creatures such as ourselves can. They prove that… that we're alive."

Anthony watched her, taking in her expression and looking at her so unexpectedly that Frances began to grow self-conscious. He didn't speak, but stared at her in such a way that she thought he was considering her words deeply.

"I'm happy," he said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I'm happy."

"Yes, I heard you," she clarified, "but what does that even mean? Why are you happy? What is it that makes you feel that way?"

"I'm happy because…" Anthony stopped to search his thoughts. Frances felt her heartbeat quicken with hope, though she braced herself for disappointment. "Because you're here."

"You have to say that," she said, her shoulders dropping with resignation.

"No, I don't."

"It's expected, I mean. What is it about my being here that makes you happy? It's not as though you enjoy hours spent in conversation, and it's certainly not because I've attended meals with you," she said sheepishly.

"I'm happy because… you chose me," he finally said, "even if it was only because I was the slightly better option."

"Anthony," Frances whispered, blinking back tears once more. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way."

"Why? Isn't it true?" he asked plainly.

"Well, perhaps there's some measure of truth to it. But it still wasn't very thoughtful of me to inform you of it. People deserve to be chosen… wanted."

"I wanted you, you know. You were the most beautiful young lady I'd ever seen, but more than that, you seemed so confident and self-assured. You seemed to care not if anyone chose you for you knew your own worth. You did not require anyone to validate you."

"That is the highest compliment anyone has ever given me. Thank you," she replied in earnest.

"But I've made you unhappy."

"No, these circumstances have diminished my happiness somewhat. But you haven't thrust me into unhappiness. Far from it."

Anthony smiled at her, a genuine look of true joy, and Frances feared her heart might actually stop from the sight of him. His already handsome features shone like polished brass when he let himself feel elated. She was drawn to him, more grateful than ever for having accepted his peculiar offer of marriage. All else could wait for another time to consume her thoughts, for at the moment, she simply wanted to be happy with him.

The air seemed to grow thin around her, robbing her of breath, when Anthony stepped closer to her. He'd kept to the other side of the doorway while they'd talked, as though her chambers were a private sanctuary of her own. As he placed a tentative step inside, Frances slid back, allowing him to enter. The feeling of his hand grasping hers and holding it tightly sent sparks through her limbs, reminding her that she longed to be close to him. Her breath caught in her throat when he leaned closer, watching her warily, then placed a feather-soft kiss on her lips.

Before she even realized it, it was over. Anthony straightened once more, his attention stolen by the sight of Frances' cold cup of tea. A sad sort of smile crossed his face before he spoke.

"I promise you that I have no other woman in my life. Come, you must be starving. Let's have that dinner now, hmm?"