“Frances,” he repeated.
Moving off the billiard table hurriedly, Charles stood up straight, brushed the dust from his shoulders, and tried to smile through the pain in his head. “Frances. I was – I was not expecting you.”
He glanced at the butler, who shook his head briefly. No, Miss Lloyd had not been expected. So what was she doing here?
“Thank you, Hodges, that will be all,” Miss Lloyd murmured quietly.
The butler bowed, and as Miss Lloyd stepped into the room, he closed the door behind her.
Charles stared. None of this made sense.
She smiled wanly. “Come, sit with me.”
He blinked blearily. The room was hardly set up for a woman’s comfort; the billiard room had always been the domain of gentlemen, and that meant a different kind of comfort.
Miss Lloyd looked perfectly comfortable; however, walking over to the leather armchairs placed haphazardly around the fireplace with no fire in the grate.
Charles knew he had to move, but his legs did not obey. With an immense effort, he managed to stumble and fall into an armchair opposite her. It groaned as it took his weight, the old leather slightly cracked on one side.
Immediately a vision of Priscilla soared through his mind.
No, the last thing he should do now is compare the two ladies! He was with Miss Lloyd, and he was marrying her.
“Your Grace,” she began.
“Charles, please. I think, considering what we will be to each other in three days, Charles is appropriate.”
“Well, then, I suppose you should call me Frances,” she said quietly.
“Frances. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Frances had not leaned into the welcoming embrace of the leather armchair and instead looked incredibly uncomfortable. There was evidently something on her mind she found distasteful.
A wedge of hot ice slid into Charles’ stomach. Oh, God’s teeth, she had heard. She had come to confront him about his passion for Priscilla, and there he could not deny it. How could he?
“Look,” he said quickly, “I want you to know –”
“You do not look very happy, Charles,” she said. It was almost a whisper, but her eyes had lifted, and she stared unblinking.
Charles shifted in his chair. He was hardly going to tell her the truth.
“Nonsense, I have never been happier,” he prevaricated with a wide smile, throwing his hands out. “How could I not be, knowing that in just three days –”
Frances was smiling. “You never learned how to lie, did you?”
Charles’s words faded away. He swallowed. This was potentially the longest conversation he had ever had with Miss Lloyd – Frances – just the two of them, and he had not realized how perceptive she was. It was going to be a damned nuisance when they were married.
“I have not been sleeping well recently, ’tis true,” he began. “But that has no bearing on my happiness, I assure you. I am quite well.”
Even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. God’s teeth, he had to come up with something better than this if he was going to persuade her of anything.
Frances was watching him carefully. “This hasn’t got anything to do with Priscilla, has it?”
Red hot guilt swept over him. “Of course not,” he said automatically.
She considered him for a moment, and then, “Do not bother lying to me, Charles. In three days, I will become your wife. We will spend the rest of our lives together. Do you think, perhaps, that now is the time to start telling me the truth?”
Charles sighed, wishing to damnation he had thought to be upstairs in bed. How could he speak the truth to Frances, when all it would do is hurt her?
He truly looked at her for what was probably the first time. She was not unattractive, a delicate face, features that did not dazzle but were at least regular. She was well-dressed, but not extravagantly so. She was the perfect maiden, and was…
Well, boring. Charles hated the word, but there was no other way to describe her, other than perhaps average.
Priscilla was not average. She sparkled in social settings. Every part of her gleamed and shone. It was like comparing a candle to the stars in the heavens.
His heart twisted. He could not, would not enter a marriage in which he lied every day. The time to be truthful had finally come.
Charles sighed. “I cannot tell you how wretched this makes me—admitting to a woman with whom I am engaged to be married that…that I have been thinking about another woman. And I wish you to know, Miss Lloyd – Frances – that this is the last time it will ever occur. I am committed to you, and that means something to me. I vow –”
“Do you think I am blind?” Frances spoke without malice, but with a finality that cut Charles’s words short.
He was unsure whether he had heard her correctly. “Blind?”
She smiled. “I saw the way Miss Seton looked at you at the Donal wedding. It was impossible to ignore – and so was the way that you concertedly did not look at her.”
Charles’s mouth fell open. “I…I did not…what?”
How was it possible that Frances had seen what he had not even known at the time? It was impossible. The shock of the very idea reduced his ability to speak to a mere mumble as he attempted to collect his thoughts.
“I did – at that time, I…im-impossible!” He swallowed. “I did not even know myself!”
Frances laughed, shaking her head, and finally accepting the comfort of the chair. “You may not have known, but I believe your heart did. You love her, Charles. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”
She could not have been more wrong. The single candle in the room flickered, throwing shadows around the room, as Charles put his head in his hands.
“I really thought,” he said, voice muffled, “I would be able to keep this from you.”
“You know, I do not believe that either of us entered into this engagement with the idea that love would blossom immediately. I mean to say, some of my acquaintances
