Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Frances was now the Duchess of Westall and all this was hers, she reflected again with some incredulity as she looked over the rich furnishings, paintings and ornaments throughout her suite at Westall Park.
She had to keep reminding herself of this fact, or she might think herself in a peculiar dream.
“Did all these beautiful things belong to the last Duchess of Westall?” Frances asked Mrs. Betsworth, the black-dressed and bustling housekeeper who had been more than happy to show her around Westall Park that afternoon.
“No, this suite has been unoccupied and empty since the former Duke and Duchess of Westall died, God rest their souls,” said the housekeeper. “The present duke’s first wife died years before that, of course, so she was never Duchess of Westall, and never lived here, although she often visited.”
“Oh, of course,” acknowledged Frances, vaguely aware of Ambrose’s history in outline. “There is some fine furniture in here, whoever chose it.
“All the present furnishings came down from the attic storage rooms and I chose them myself,” Mrs. Betsworth replied, smiling at the implied praise in Frances’ words. “You are not bound to keep any of it, naturally. The duke wishes you to make yourself at home here, Your Grace.”
Frances blinked to hear herself addressed in such a style and then smiled again.
The thought of having rooms of her own pleased her but reorganizing or refurnishing was several steps further ahead than she had yet reached.
Nor did she yet know how she should go about these things in practical terms. Mrs. Betsworth seemed to detect such feelings.
“The present duke’s mother liked French furnishings, and his grandmother had the sitting room filled with military memorabilia and paintings of dogs,” the housekeeper told her. “You will also find a way to make this place your own, in time, I am sure.”
“In time, yes,” Frances agreed with a laugh. “I shall give myself a few weeks or months before I attempt it, I think. At present, I possess neither French furniture nor any paintings of dogs, although I do have a sketch that my younger sister Beatrice made of her pony.”
How out of place that homely little sketch would look hung here! The immensity and grandeur of Westall Park were almost overwhelming, but the warm welcome of Mrs. Betsworth and other staff thankfully offset some of this weight.
The Duke of Westall too had been kind, letting her wander freely without him as soon as they arrived early in the evening.
Frances had explored hand in hand with dear little Winifred until the child was taken away to bed by a governess and nursemaid.
After that, she had strolled about alone or with Mrs. Betsworth.
Now the housekeeper consulted the watch that hung on a belt at her waist.
“Half an hour until dinner, Your Grace,” she pronounced. “I shall go downstairs and send Nettie up to help you change to an evening gown.”
“Yes, thank you,” replied Frances, glad to be reminded of the name of her new lady’s maid and trying to fix it in her mind.
Susie, who had been her maid at Scovell Hall, had stayed there. She would now attend Beatrice who would soon be eighteen and ready to come out herself.
“Do ring for me if you need anything else, Your Grace.”
“That was a fine dinner,” Frances remarked as the pudding plates were removed and trusting that her comments would reach the deserving cooks. “My compliments to the kitchen.”
“We do have an excellent cook,” Ambrose acknowledged, equally pleasantly. “Mrs. Oliver has been here since my grandfather’s time. Eventually, I suppose she will retire but I try not to think of it.”
They smiled at one another, having managed to keep up a flow of similarly light and easy conversation throughout the meal.
“Well then, unless you would like a liqueur or anything else, I think I shall go and begin writing letters of thanks for all our wedding presents and messages of congratulation. You must do what you wish for the rest of the evening. Let the servants know if you want a bath drawn, or a hot drink before bed.”
As Frances confirmed that she required no further food or drink, the duke pulled out her chair and then bowed a polite farewell before stepping back. It was all very relaxed and civilized, and yet, for Frances, there was no escaping from the fact that was still their wedding night.
This knowledge preyed on her mind as she took her bath and then fitfully attempted to read an undemanding romantic novel that Beatrice had loaned her, about a queen in some former era of history. There was a restlessness in her belly that refused to be banished.
Frances had sent Nettie to bed immediately after the young maid had run her bath and laid out her nightgown an hour ago. Alone now, the new duchess paced her new bedroom, jumping nervously when the clock struck ten.
The duke had promised, hadn’t he, that he would not require her to share his bed. Or had he? No, he had promised not to do anything she did not want.
Once that would have been promise enough. After the last few weeks and her various encounters with the Duke of Westall, at the Morgan ball, at Scovell Hall, and now here at Westall Park, Frances no longer trusted in what she wanted.
She had heard footsteps that she already recognized as belonging to the duke, passing along the corridor about a quarter of an hour earlier.
Standing near the wooden door that connected their rooms, Frances could now detect faint sounds of movement within.
The duke was there, perhaps washing his face, cleaning his teeth, undressing…
The thought of her husband naked gave Frances another start and she looked down at the key in the door before her.
Was it locked? If she tried it, the duke would doubtless hear.
If she locked it against him, it might seem that she doubted his promise.
If she unlocked it, he might think she had changed her mind and take it as an invitation to enter.
Frances must have spent five whole minutes staring at the key in an agony of indecision.
Then, feeling herself slightly ridiculous, she determined to take matters into her own hands.
The civilized thing to do would be to knock, go in and bid goodnight, and then return to her own room, locking the door behind her.
There could be no room for misunderstanding if she did that, could there?
Wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her and pushing her feet into slippers, Frances took a deep breath and rapped three times on the wooden door, neither too softly nor too loudly, and slowly enough that she should not take Ambrose by surprise.
When she tried the handle, she found the door unlocked and it swung open.
“I wanted to say goodnight and thank you for…Oh!”
Frances had managed only three steps into the room before she pulled up short and her voice faded in her throat.
The Duke of Westall stood beside his washstand, bare to the waist, with a small towel slung around his still damp neck.
He looked across at her expectantly, presumably waiting for some explanation of her presence.
She tried again to speak but no words came.
Why had he not donned his dressing gown, or at least put on a shirt? It seemed positively indecent to be simply standing there bare-chested and smiling slightly at her. Frances had to remind herself that most people would not find it indecent at all. Ambrose Clarke was now her husband, after all.
Unwillingly fascinated by the sight of him, Frances could not quite turn away.
The duke’s torso was strong and well-muscled with a scattering of dark hairs and he seemed to have no shame in his nakedness before her.
He put her in mind of some ancient warrior or athlete she had seen in paintings or statues at London museums or in private galleries.
Frances’ breath caught in her throat as she looked into those deep blue eyes below his damp, tousled hair.
“Have you changed your mind, Duchess Frances?” he asked her mildly, a smile still playing on his lips.
“Oh, no, I have not. You must not think…Oh my!”
Utterly flustered, embarrassed and furious with herself Frances felt her face glowing bright red as her nervous fingers tightened her dressing gown belt.
“I only came to say goodnight,” she attempted to explain. “I did not think…”
“You did not think that I might be half undressed in my own bedroom and hoping for such a change of heart?” Ambrose suggested, dropping the towel onto the edge of the washstand and walking over to Frances.
“No! I did not!” she protested, horrified that he could even consider such a conclusion.
“Ah, that is a shame. I must therefore put all my efforts into controlling myself, since you have been brave enough to venture in here, despite the determination you profess in avoiding my bed.”
The duke’s voice was low and caressive and Frances could distinctly feel her body responding to him yet again, just as she had done in the ballroom and then on the balcony.
If he kissed her again, she knew she would not stop him, despite all her resolutions.
These feelings were beyond her comprehension.
“Frances,” he breathed, taking another step towards her.
Now able to feel the warmth of Ambrose’s body and smell the scent of freshly soaped skin, Frances closed her eyes. It provided no escape, however, and she heard herself moan faintly at the light stroking of his hands on her face and arms.
“Look at me,” he urged, and she opened her eyes slowly, tremulous but full of strange desire. “How lovely you are, Frances.”
Again, he caressed her face but did nothing more than that even though she was practically in his arms. In all Frances’ imaginings, she had run far and fast from any male advances.
Until she met the Duke of Westall, it had never occurred to her that she might not want to run, and she had prepared no other defenses.
“Do you want me to kiss you now?” he asked her and Frances’ heart raced. “I shall do nothing that you do not want, but you must tell me your desires clearly. I will not risk hurting you.”
Without conscious thought, Frances found that her hands had lifted and were resting on the duke’s bare chest, his heart beating powerfully beneath her fingertips. Was this gesture intended to bring him closer or push him away? Frances could not say, but she did not wish to release him.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
This was all the encouragement that Ambrose needed. Seconds later, Frances was in his arms and his warm lips were on hers, brushing, pressing, opening. All the while, his hands caressed her hair, her shoulders and her waist, and his tongue then joined his lips.
Swept away on waves of sensation, Frances only gasped and clung to her husband as she found herself lifted in his strong arms and carried towards the duke’s large oaken bed.
Lying together side by side, he renewed his kisses and Frances responded with an equal passion that astonished her and seemed to please him immensely.
It was only when the duke’s hand settled over one of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown that Frances started. No one had ever touched like this before.
“So beautiful,” Ambrose murmured, his breathing heavier and his voice thickening.
Coming back to her senses, Frances realized that she was lying on a bed with a half-naked man and her dressing gown had been unfastened.
“I cannot!” she gasped, stiffening and then rolling away from him, before retying her dressing gown tightly.
The Duke of Westall made no attempt to pull her back, only nodding with resignation and giving a long sigh as he tried to get his own breathing under control.
“I am sorry if I was too impetuous, Frances. I will not rush you, but I do desire you, very much indeed…”
The way he looked at her made Frances want to lie back down, open her dressing gown and invite him to carry on. What on earth was happening to her?!
“I cannot,” she said again, getting to her feet. “I am sorry.”
Ambrose nodded, not moving from the bed as she stepped away.
“I will do nothing you do not wish me to do,” he reiterated part of his double-edged promise, his voice exciting Frances’ senses almost as much as his hands and lips had done a few moments earlier.
I also promise to do everything that you do want…
The unspoken second part of his promise echoed in her head even louder than the words he spoke aloud.
Padding swiftly back to her own room, Frances closed and locked the door before sinking down onto the carpet and hugging her knees tightly.
Where did these feelings come from and why could she not control them?
If her own body would not listen to her mind and heart when she was around the Duke of Westall then Frances knew that she must stay away from him as much as she could.