Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Well, I do not think the gentlemen shall sit over port tonight,” Lord Scovell pronounced once pudding dishes were cleared away. “Coffee will be served in the garden drawing room for both ladies and gentlemen.”
Nods and agreeable murmurs from the assembly followed this announcement. The incident with Lord Baxworth had been smoothed over but still it was best to leave the scene of the disruption.
“We should depart soon, Lord Scovell,” Lady Orville put in. “I hope you will all excuse us. We look forward to seeing you at the wedding.”
“I shall go and ready Hubert,” Lord Orville stated grimly. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
“Of course, don’t think of it at all,” their host replied quickly. “I shall come and assist you, Lord Orville.”
While his wife and other guests observed Lord Scovell’s active and helpful behavior with approval, his eldest daughter only raised a cynical eyebrow. Her father might play the good host, the faithful husband and dutiful father as hard as he wished. Frances would never believe in him again.
“That was a very nice little speech you gave, Your Grace,” said Beatrice approvingly after Lord and Lady Orville had vanished with Lord Scovell and the rest of the diners were leaving the table together more slowly. “It put things back together after Hubert nearly spoiled everything.”
Frances nodded agreement with her younger sister. This was one of the first occasions that seventeen year old Beatrice had been permitted to stay up late for dinner with an adult party and she had comported herself well. Certainly far better than Lord Baxworth who was two years Beatrice’s senior.
“It was hardly a speech,” the Duke of Westall told the girl with an amiable shrug, “only a few words of thanks.”
It took Frances a moment to realize that after pulling out her chair, the duke had remained there, offering his arm to escort her from the room.
How strange it felt to know that this was expected now and that it was also expected that she should take that arm.
In another week she would be Duchess of Westall, after all.
Without looking at the Duke of Westall’s face, Frances laid her hand lightly on his forearm and noted again that this contact did not give her the twinge of repulsion she felt at touching all other men, especially Oswald Keeton.
In fact, she felt again an unusual sense of assurance and the indefinable stirring of her blood beneath it.
Great Aunt Caroline was right that Ambrose Clarke was a handsome man, but his features were strong and sturdy rather than possessing the smoothness of certain other men whom society considered handsome – Oswald Keeton, for example.
The faint lines at his forehead and few silver hairs at his temples gave the impression that life had buffeted the Duke of Westall and he had stood strong under its blows.
“Whatever it was you did, you provided an excellent distraction,” Frances told him. “Once you had offered one toast, all the other gentlemen felt bound to do the same and soon we were all laughing again. Thank you, on behalf of my family.”
“I only hope you still want to marry Frances after all that palaver tonight,” said Beatrice rather pertly. “I do want you for a brother, I have decided. It would be most inconvenient for me, if you decided we were all tarred with Hubert’s brush and ran away.”
With a laugh, the Duke of Westall offered his future sister-in-law the arm that he had not already given to Frances and walked the two young ladies from the room in the wake of other guests ahead of them.
“Once I have made up my mind about something, or someone, it takes far more than a spilled glass of wine to change it,” he assured Beatrice, although his smile was directed rather towards Frances. “I am most determined to marry Lady Frances.”
“Oh good,” replied Beatrice happily as Frances merely smiled. “The dresses are all made and the flowers ordered so it would be rather difficult if you were to have second thoughts.”
How odd it made Frances feel to be looked upon by a man expressing such sentiments, even if they were only part of his wit and good humor.
In itself, such jesting about the certainty of her wedding did not bother Frances, which she supposed was an advantage of a marriage of convenience.
She had known brides for whom a single word of doubt was a catastrophe.
Not everyone was as evenly disposed as Frances, however.
“Beatrice!” chided Lady Scovell, welcoming the three of them into a large drawing room of pleasant garden aspect and overhearing some of this conversation. “What a thing to say! I hope this young lady has not been bothering you, Your Grace. I allowed her to stay up late especially to meet you.”
“Not at all, Lady Scovell,” the Duke of Westall assured his future mother-in-law, relinquishing her younger daughter’s arm and allowing Beatrice to be embraced by her mother. “I am very glad to make my new sister’s acquaintance. Lady Beatrice will always be welcome to visit us at Westall Park.”
“Wonderful, I am glad that we are all getting along so well. You really do feel like one of the family already, Your Grace.”
“Where is Father?” Lady Beatrice asked, looking around.
“Edmund is still helping Lord and Lady Orville to get Hubert into their carriage,” explained her mother.
“He will be back presently. Frances, why not take His Grace out onto the balcony in the meantime? It is warm tonight and I do fear what Aunt Caroline might say next. You two must have plenty to talk about.”
Frances nodded, not unwilling to be alone with her betrothed, although she had not sought it.
It would give her the chance to ask some of the questions still alive in her mind.
Opening the long windows on one wall of the room, she led the Duke of Westall out onto a balcony overlooking the gardens of Scovell Hall.
The night air was not cold but fresh with an early summer breeze that carried the scent of sweet blossoms to their noses. Shivering, Frances belatedly remembered her bare arms and exposed throat and bosom in the pretty but rather insubstantial evening dress she wore.
The duke immediately took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, simultaneously spurring even further the twin sensations of security and excitement already warring in her blood.
Frances had not expected such a gesture, any more than she had expected him to wait and escort her from the dining room.
Even so, she felt no desire to reject it, supposing the jacket to be offered in kindness.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. “I should have fetched a wrap.”
“We will be married soon enough, and it will officially be my duty to fetch your wrap or give you my jacket,” the Duke of Westall responded with a shrug. “It is as well to begin practicing early.”
After securing the jacket, the duke did not step back and Frances was able to study his face at close quarters.
In a week, this man would be her lawful husband and she would be living under his roof.
So far, he had not taken a wrong step in their short and formal courtship, but it was far too early to imagine that she really knew him.
“Why did you tell Beatrice that you were so set on marrying me, Your Grace?” she asked abruptly.
“The more I think about you wishing to marry me, the more questions I have. You might have married anyone, or at least anyone who looks kindly on a stepdaughter. There are certainly ladies of the ton who are richer and more beautiful than I.”
Her question was genuine, and Frances hoped the duke would have the understanding and respect to know that she was not fishing for compliments about her looks or general eligibility.
“I met you, and I knew we could understand one another,” he answered very simply. “You were the only woman on Lady Kempleforth’s list whom I wanted.”
“But why?” Frances persisted, still not quite satisfied. “Why not the lady you were avoiding at the Morgan House ball, for example? She must be very keen to pursue you so assiduously.”
“Never her,” he stated vehemently, without naming his pursuer. “You would never want to put a child in that woman’s care. When I think of her with Winifred, I feel the opposite of what I feel thinking of you.”
The Duke of Westall gazed at Frances in the moonlight, still so very close to her.
“Very well, but there are other women too,” she pressed. “Don’t you want to fall in love, as the rest of the world seems to crave?”
At this question, the duke shook his head with very little consideration.
“I can’t say that I do, Lady Frances. My first marriage was arranged and worked well. If Charlotte had lived, I believe we should have been content together. Falling in love has always sounded rather tiresome and painful to me, although my parents were a love match and claimed otherwise.”
Frances laughed at this observation.
“Yes, I suppose so. I have no experience myself but from all that I read and hear, tiresome and painful does seem a fair description.”
“You have not wished to fall in love any more than I,” the duke stated and she nodded.
“No, I have not,” Frances confirmed, the matter being of as little concern to her as to him. “Love likely grows over the years when two people share a life, but that is a different kind of love.”
“You see, we do think alike,” he asserted. “Well, I hope that you will at least grow to love Winifred. She is very lovable and I don’t think you will find it hard.”
“If all you expect from me in our marriage is to take care of that sweet little girl, I promise that I will make you an excellent wife, Your Grace,” Frances responded. “As we have already discussed, there are other marital expectations I cannot meet.”
“You will be a loving stepmother and a dutiful duchess, I am sure,” the Duke of Westall answered carefully. “Beyond that, my expectations rest entirely on your own wishes. You may bolt your door against me if you wish.”
At this allusion to her previous categorical rejection of marital intimacy, Frances blushed and looked away into the gardens.
She did not want to seem naive and unworldly, but this was a difficult subject to navigate, especially with a man who would soon legally have the right to bring her to his bed.
“You must think me very strange and silly,” she commented, trying to keep her tone even and reflective. “I know others would think so, if they knew that I did not plan to share a bed with my husband.”
“Your Great Aunt Caroline seems as though she might try to talk you out of such a stance,” the Duke of Westall replied with good humor. “She was determined to talk of wedding nights and babies this evening, it seems.”
“I don’t know how we all kept our faces straight while Mother distracted her,” Frances agreed, shaking her head ruefully. “Please do not expect me take after Great Aunt Caroline.”
“Forget my expectations for a moment,” the duke then put to her. “Would you really never want a child of your own? Most women do want that very much.”
“Can I really believe that you will not expect me to give you an heir?” Frances countered lightly and then shivered again as a particularly cold gust of air blew onto the balcony. “Most men want that very much.”
“I have Winifred,” the duke said rather indifferently, occupying himself with wrapping his jacket more tightly about Frances.
“She is enough for me. My sister’s son, or Winifred’s son, can inherit the duchy of Westall, as long as I stay alive that long.
If I don’t, she will still be… well provided for, through my mother’s line. ”
“How fine that we can discuss love, life and death with such dispassion,” Frances remarked, wary of the growing air of intimacy between them, and also the peculiar restlessness his proximity seemed to excite in her body. “How cool-headed and rational we are about our marriage!”
“We are indeed,” the duke said with a smile. “Although I’m sure there are limits on both sides. For example, if Beatrice had been right and I had been scared away by Lord Baxworth’s foolishness, would you simply have accepted the next man offered from Lady Kempleforth’s stable?”
Somehow, the Duke of Westall’s hands had come to rest on her arms and Frances’ felt quite breathless.
He was not quite embracing her, and yet this was more than the act of keeping her warm strictly required.
The steady gaze of his deep blue eyes quelled the momentary panic that rose in her stomach, and let her consider his question.
Would she have been prepared to accept the promises of another man, to go to the altar with him, or even simply to stand out here on the balcony like this with anyone else? As soon as Frances asked herself the question, she knew it was impossible although she could not say why.
“I would not,” she admitted very quietly, her eyes still fixed on his face, and felt his hands hold her a little more securely.
“Good,” the duke said in a low voice.
He leaned forward so slowly that there was all the time in the world to avoid that well-shaped mouth from coming to rest on hers, and yet Frances made no attempt to escape him. When his lips touched hers, they burned there for a moment, making her heart leap in her chest.
Unhurriedly, the duke’s mouth moved down to brush Frances’ neck, trailing featherlight kisses across her throat and décolletage, the unexpected sensations of this drawing a sharp little sound from France’s own mouth. How strong, warm and alive his body felt against hers!
“Your Grace,” she moaned, knowing that she must stop this, whatever it was, and yet not wanting it to end.
“Ambrose,” he corrected her, his tongue fluttering at her ear. “My name is Ambrose.”
With an exertion of her remaining will, Frances pulled back and stepped away, panting. The duke made no attempt to hold her.
“You must not…” she said. “I cannot…You must not do that again…”
“What if you wish me to kiss you?” the duke asked her, his eyebrow raised. “Am I to deny my wife’s wishes?”
“I shall not wish it. I must not!” Frances blurted, her heart and mind both in utter confusion after what had just occurred between them.
“We shall see,” said the Duke of Westall, his mouth crooking in a small smile, as though instinctively pleased with events of the last few minutes. “This matter is in your hands, Lady Frances.”