Page 63 of Three Rules to Wed a Duke

My house?Frances thought, a quizzical expression knitting her brow.

“I am terribly sorry that I screamed upon seeing you. I was expecting my nurse and you appeared instead. Please forgive me for my poor manners, for I have little cause to exercise them.”

What on earth?Frances thought, turning the page over to see if there was more writing on the back. Finding none, she turned the page sideways and saw that the letter simply ended. There was no signature, no explanation as to the sender’s identity, nothing.

“All right then,” Frances muttered with an incredulous scoff. It was certainly an unusual reply, but she was grateful to have an answer at all. She returned to her rooms to write a response.

“Dear madam, you have nothing to apologize for. I am the one who took it upon myself to go where I was not invited. I’m certain I would respond the same way if I suddenly found a stranger in my room! Thank you for being so quick to forgive, as it says a great deal about your good character.”

Frances was pleased with her letter, though she was desperate to get answers for the questions that still burned in her mind. Who are you? Why are you here? How long have you been the prisoner of the Duke of Preston? She held back, knowing that those questions would have to wait until she could prove she was trustworthy.

A new idea came to her, one that was both completely devious but also entirely sincere.

“I would imagine that you get lonely from time to time. I’m finding that I’m lonely myself as of late. I would be overjoyed to visit you, but only if you wish it.”

Satisfied with her choice of words, Frances folded the page and brought it to Mrs. Barrett to deliver. Instead of cajoling the housekeeper in hopes of pinching some information from her, Frances merely thanked her for seeing to its delivery and returned to the library.

Another reply from upstairs came only an hour later.

“Your Grace (Mrs. Barrett has informed me of your identity!),

I would be honored to receive you in my quarters, but I fear I am in no condition to have visitors. I do hope to meet you in person soon.

Faithfully, A.”

Ah-ha! The mysterious A, Frances thought, remembering the offending note that had come for Anthony. But what could possibly keep her from being ready to receive anyone if she had remained upstairs for who knows how long?

The correspondence did Frances a world of good. Her heart was healing from the great offense she committed against this youngwoman now that she knew there was no harboring of ill will. But there was still one stain marring her happiness.

Anthony.

He had yet to see her or speak to her, and Frances began to despair of yet another dinner alone in the dining room. She thought of writing him a similar letter in hopes of apologizing, but it felt so cold somehow. This was her husband, after all, and sending letters to a man in the same household as though it was the penny post was ridiculous.

With little else to occupy her time besides sewing and worrying, Frances returned to her task of itemizing all the repairs the house would need. She assembled the names of worthy craftsmen thanks to Mr. Vickers’ inquiries, and began to plan an orderly schedule of work according to the greatest need. Too soon, though, her thoughts began to wander. There was little point in repairing a house that her heart had yet to build into a home.

“Your Grace, you must come quickly,” Mr. Vickers said as he approached Frances where she worked. He appeared out of breath, and Frances was instantly alarmed.

“What is it?” she cried, putting down the book she’d been writing in and jumping to her feet.

“Your cousin. Miss Walford. She is here!”

Mr. Vickers raced from the room with Frances straight on his heels. Torrents of fearful thoughts nearly blinded her as she made her way to the front of the house. There, Juliet was seated on a sofa with a young man beside her. Frances vaguely remembered his features as the one who’d fled when she’d interrupted the couple in the garden that fateful night.

“Juliet!” Frances cried, opening her arms wide as the girl threw herself into them. She held her cousin closely, saying a silent prayer of thanks for the girl’s return.

“Oh, Frances! I’m so glad to be back in London,” Juliet said, her words muffled as she buried her face in Frances’ shoulder. Soon enough, the younger girl stepped back and smiled nervously.

“Cousin, my I present myhusband, Mr. Thomas Bailey?” Juliet said, her voice trembling slightly even though her pride was evident.

Thomas leapt to his feet and darted forward to bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” he stammered. Frances feared he might faint from nerves, and she couldn’t help but smile at them both.

“So. Your husband. I see,” she said, pretending to look disapproving. She gave them a wry grin before asking lightly, “Tell me, how was Scotland?”

Juliet only beamed as she slipped her hand through the crook of Thomas’ elbow and held fast to him.

“It was… magical!” Juliet finally gushed. “I cannot think of any more romantic journey than to travel the length of the country and be married in such a place of beauty and splendor!”

“And traveling for six days each way in a crowded coach?” Frances reminded her, arching a knowing eyebrow.

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