Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Frances paused on the stairs before turning the final corner to descend into the hallway. She could hear voices below and did not wish to encounter the Duke of Westall unexpectedly. Not yet. Instead, she stood still and peered over the bannister.
“I am glad to finally tidy this nonsense away, Mr. Vennels. It has been hanging over me for too long. Thank you for your time.”
“As we discussed, everything is now in order, Your Grace,” confirmed the portly grey-haired man in old-fashioned but formal frock coat and breeches, carrying the kind of leather document bag that marked his profession.
“With this copy of the marriage certificate, I will immediately make arrangements with your bank for transfer of the trust.”
“Very good, Vennels,” said the Duke of Westall genially as he showed the man to the front door. “I can be sure that my family’s legal affairs are always in good hands with Vennels and Bristow.”
The conversation meant little to Frances and did not sound particularly important or urgent from the tones of the two men’s voices or their few words.
Mr. Vennels was clearly one of the duke’s lawyers, and he was going to sort out something with the bank.
What specific trust they might be discussing, or why a marriage certificate might be needed, were beyond her, but also of limited interest.
Frances herself was far more focused on avoiding unexpected encounters with the Duke of Westall, and keeping herself under control when they did meet.
Her pleasure at his hands in the library two days ago had been one of the most earth-shattering experiences of her life.
Trying to understand it had occupied almost every waking moment since it occurred, apart from the time she spent with Winnie.
Where did such an experience fit into her life? At the moment, it was still like a glimpse of a new country through a door rather than any great shift. Frances could not yet walk freely in that strange land, both nerve-wracking and seductive as it was.
After that peaking of ecstasy in his arms, they had done exactly as Ambrose had suggested, straightening their clothes, eating dinner and retiring to their own bedrooms as though nothing whatsoever had occurred between them.
Their conversation over dinner had been only of Westall Park and of Winnie. Yet all the time, Frances’ heart had been beating madly and strange spikes of longing had surged in her blood, as though left over from his earlier caresses.
In sleep, Frances had dreamt of their encounter all over again, although her imagination made the scene even wilder by removing all their clothes so that she buried her face in the warm skin of his bare chest and writhed her hips directly against the firm male organ that she knew he possessed.
When she awoke, her womanhood was throbbing and its folds in the same slippery condition that the real-life Duke of Westall had induced. Waking in such a state, it took all Frances’ self-control on two consecutive mornings not to go to his room and throw herself into his arms.
Frances had never wanted a man like this before, never even dreamed of wanting someone, and it was terrifying.
That was only a first taste. You must tell me when you are ready for more…
She felt as though she was in the high branches of a tree and Ambrose had said that he would catch her when she was ready to jump. He might well be strong and willing, but to jump from such a height was still no easy thing. Frances might never have the courage for it.
And so the hours, and then days, ticked by in avoided eye-contact, blushes and polite conversation. Frances hoped that Ambrose was really as patient as he seemed. If she received another summons from him, she could not ignore it – and did not want to.
Now, she watched the butler open the front door for Mr. Vennels and then listened as the duke’s footsteps retreated once more to the study where he had been closeted with his guest. Only when she heard the sound of the study door closing did Frances descend and go about her business.
“I hear you met with your lawyers this afternoon,” Frances said conversationally at dinner, glad to have something neutral to talk about rather than genuinely curious about Ambrose’s meeting with Mr. Vennels.
“Yes, nothing of great interest,” the duke responded very casually, so casually, in fact, that Frances felt prompted to question him further.
“Nothing that concerns me as your wife?” she asked.
Raising her eyes to Ambrose’s face, she saw him blink somewhat self-consciously.
“Not really, no,” he answered after a pause for thought. “It was to do with a family trust, only an administrative matter.”
Did he deliberately then put a piece of meat into his mouth so that he could not answer anything further for a while? Frances frowned slightly but could not put her finger on exactly what was bothering her about his reaction.
It might only be that the Duke of Westall had been so very frank and open with Frances in other areas of his life that this mild reluctance to talk struck her more noticeably. Some people did not like to speak of money, she supposed. Perhaps her husband was among them.
Lawyers for the Scovell estate had already assured Frances that her own future was taken care of in the marriage contract and she had seen this in writing, with signatures and seals.
Even if slightly mysterious, the duke’s meeting today could have not impact her own legally protected security and fortune, could it?
But then, why would the bank need to see their marriage certificate? If Frances confessed to eavesdropping, she could ask Ambrose this question directly. Not wishing to admit that she had been hiding from him on the staircase, she moved on instead.
“Wasn’t Winnie’s drawing of her pony rather good?”
Ambrose answered and then conversed throughout dinner affably enough but some part of him was withdrawn and thoughtful. They agreed that he should read Winnie’s bedtime story alone that evening. Neither of them attempted to linger once the meal was done.
Ambrose had been surprised when Frances asked him of his meeting with Mr. Vennels. He had not mentioned anything about this but supposed that she must have seen the lawyer’s carriage outside and asked one of the servants.
Well, it was hardly a secret that he should sometimes meet his family lawyer, was it? The Dukes of Westall had employed Vennels & Bristow for three generations now and anyone in the district would know that Ambrose was a client of theirs.
Before Frances spoke, he had been casting surreptitiously appreciative glances in her direction and thinking again of that first foray they had finally made into marital intimacy.
She was in white muslin tonight with a diamond pendant hanging low, just above the tops of her shapely breasts.
Ambrose remembered their weight and softness in his hands and the sounds Frances made when he kissed them.
She had been so very shy since that encounter. Remembering her confession of how much she feared her own desire, Ambrose had held himself back over the last few days, waiting and hoping for Frances to return to his arms of her own volition. As he waited, he wondered what he might show her next..?
The dry questioning about his meeting with Vennels had brushed all such pleasurable contemplation temporarily aside.
Ought he to have introduced his wife to Mr. Vennels?
Perhaps that was the source of the flash of mild displeasure he thought he saw on Frances’ face during their short discussion about the lawyer’s visit.
If Frances had been around, he would have done so, but she had vanished once Winnie returned to the schoolroom after luncheon.
The duke felt a pang of conscience which he tried and failed to shrug off. Why should he feel guilty? He had not lied. It really had only been what he had told Frances – an administrative meeting about the family trust.
Ambrose could have said more, of course.
He could have explained the terms of his father’s will and how it was only with proof of his marriage that his mother’s fortune could now be put in trust for Winnie.
The true source of his guilt hit home now – he had never told Frances about his father’s will at all.
It was not as though he had set out to deliberately hide it from her, but only now did he grasp that he had done so anyway. Did it matter? Ambrose felt uneasy in asking himself this question. He did not know the answer.
It was a relief to make small talk until the meal was over.
Lady Levene called again the following morning, riding up the drive on a white mare with a harassed-looking groom riding behind her.
The Duke of Westall came out to meet his grandmother on the steps, having heard the sound of hooves approaching and seeing her from the window.
“Brownlow, do go and take some tea while I speak to my grandson,” she instructed the groom as Ambrose came forward to lift her down from the horse.
“My stepdaughter-in-law Anne wouldn’t have me stir from the estate on horseback without someone following me about today.
Quite ridiculous but she is a good woman and I humor her. ”
“I agree with Anne,” remarked the duke, “although I don’t expect you to like it.”
Euphemia Wilson gave short snort but regarded him affectionately as she smoothed her dress and took his arm to enter the house.
“Silly boy. I am the only member of that family who has not taken a tumble from a horse in recent years. Anne herself broke a wrist last year, my stepson John bruised his back in the spring, and that boy of theirs can scarcely stay on his pony for more than five minutes at a time. Now, where is the Duchess of Westall?”
Ambrose laughed at the speed and energy of his grandmother’s delivery of these statements and the final pointed question. With a nod and smile to the butler, he confirmed that tea should be brought to the main drawing room.
“You are an example to us all, Grandmother,” he remarked.
“That is certainly my intention, but you have still not answered me. Where is your wife? Fond of you although I am, it is really your duchess, and my darling Winnie, of course, that I have come to see today. You are like me, Ambrose, the type that copes with everything life throws in our way. Others require more understanding and support.”
Now in the drawing room, Ambrose walked Lady Levene to her preferred seat.
“I cannot say that I know where Frances might be presently. I shall send out to find her and let her know that you are here.”
“Barely a few weeks married and you don’t know where your wife is? What are you at, young man?” the silver-haired lady tutted, shaking her head. “Frances is in a new place, leading a completely new life with all kinds of new responsibilities. You ought to be at her side.”
The duke smiled and shook his head, going to stand at the mantelpiece and regarding his grandmother thoughtfully.
“That is not what Frances wants from me, Grandmother. She is a woman who needs her own space and time to find her feet. When she comes to me, I will be here. She knows that, I think.”
“The two of you have still not come to an understanding in the bedroom, have you?” she asked frankly. “I thought as much.”
“Is there nothing that makes you blush, Grandmother?” Ambrose laughed, sidestepping this intrusion into his private life.
“After three marriages and six children, likely not,” Euphemia admitted. “Seeing you together with Frances, I did think the two of you would be more compatible than you were with Charlotte, excellent woman though your first wife was.”
The duke looked askance at the doughty elderly woman, knowing that his grandmother was right but unwilling to have this conversation. The best thing would be to change the subject.
“It is too soon to say. Can we leave it at that for now? There was actually something else I’d like to talk to you about now that you are here.”
“Very well,” she agreed, looking at him with her keen, bright eyes. “What is it?”
“My father’s will. Did you happen to have any conversation with Frances about it?”
His grandmother shook her head.
“No, although I have certainly told her how long and how hard your whole family had wished you to remarry. That is really the same thing. Your father only put his wishes into a very concrete form. Why?”
Ambrose shrugged. The only people familiar with the old duke’s will would be Ambrose, his grandmother, Vennels and Bristow, his closest friend Colin Pratt, and perhaps some of the Westall Park staff who had overheard conversations in the course of their duties.
If neither he nor Lady Levene had mentioned the terms of his father’s will to Frances then she would likely not know of it.
Having agreed to everything that Lord Scovell’s lawyers had requested for the marriage contract, they had asked him for very little in terms of documentation beyond specific assets and trusts relevant to his wife.
“I wondered whether I ought to have told Frances before we married.”
His grandmother showed little concern for his wondering, always a decisive person herself.
“If it plays on your mind, tell her now,” she proposed. “That is the obvious solution. It does not seem any great revelation to me. Aha, here is the tea. Do send out for Frances, my boy. I shall also stay for luncheon with Winifred, of course.”
As Ambrose passed on the necessary messages to the maid, he contemplated his grandmother’s words.
Yes, this was the sensible course of action.
He should wait for the right moment and bring the matter into a normal conversation.
It was not controversial at all. But then why did the thought of telling Frances now fill him with unease?