If only you knew, Mother.
The morning walk in the park was a well-attended affair, with the crisp air filled with the chatter of the local gentry. Frances walked beside her mother, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces, her mind half-expecting the Duke to appear. Every rustle of leaves, every sudden greeting made her start.
As they strolled, her mother’s voice buzzed in her ear, pointing out various gentlemen and recounting bits of gossip. Frances responded with noncommittal murmurs, her attention split. When Mr. Witherton’s nephew approached, a tall gentleman with a polite smile, Frances greeted him with practiced grace, though her thoughts were elsewhere.
“Lady Frances, allow me to introduce myself, I am John Witherton,” he said, striking up a conversation with her, “I’ve heard that you are quite fond of books.”
“That I am,” Frances replied, her anxiety lessening a bit.
Could it be possible that her mother had finally introduced her to someone who had the same interests as her? It could not come at a worse time, of course. But her curiosity was momentarily piqued.
“Tell me,” he prodded, “what do you get out of reading so much that you do not find in the real world?”
“Oh…” Frances’ face fell. Perhaps she had spoken too soon. “Well, it helps me discover the world, for one.”
The gentleman smirked at her. “I suppose it is a good hobby for a lady, given how she does not get to see the world for herself. Reading the accounts of other men would have to do.”
Something about his comment rubbed her the wrong way, though she did not call him out on it.
As their conversation went on, he continued to tell her about all his travels, rarely giving her a chance to speak. He was full of himself, that much was clear. But she was grateful, too, that she did not have to contribute much to the conversation, given her already distracted thoughts.
She kept thinking of Christopher. The irrational part of her whispered doubts about his promise to visit, to speak to her father.
What if he decided to change his mind?
When their walk finally ended, Frances was eager to get away from him.
“You are an excellent listener,” Lord Witherton commented before they said their goodbye.
And you only speak about yourself.
“Perhaps my mother will be in touch with you soon.” He smiled at her, and her stomach churned at the words.
It would be better to be single than to be married to someone as self-obsessed as Lord Witherton.
By the time they returned home, her nerves were frayed, and the constant hum of the man’s monologue had left her exhausted.
“How was it, then?” her mother demanded once they were in the privacy of their home. “He seemed like such a nice boy. I’m sure he will take great care of you, too.”
Frances wanted to tell her mother that he was not the right match for her, but she kept quiet instead. She did not look forward to an argument.
“Mother, would you excuse me? I believe I need to go lie down for a bit. I’ve had a headache all morning.”
Albina did not seem pleased but nodded anyway. “It’s the book you read late into the night. All those words inside your head, they cannot be any good.”
Frances pursed her lips and slipped away upstairs.
In the quiet of her room, she paced, wrestling with her thoughts. She reflected on the Duke’s character, his kindness, and his clear affection for his nephews.
Could such a man disregard his promise so easily? Doubt lingered, but a small flicker of hope remained. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would indeed come, just as he said he would.
Christopher Grant, Duke of Huntington, had been a surprising and unexpected presence in her life. He was nothing like the suitors her mother had paraded before her.
He seemed to hold his own in conversation, and he had a charm that seemed unique to him. She did not know too much about him yet, but this she did.
But would he keep his promise?
That was the question that kept repeating in her mind, over and over again.
