Page 51 of Three Rules to Wed a Duke

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.”

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