Chapter 29 #2
“Why not remove me yourself?” she suggested playfully, with a sensuous arching of her body, as if inviting him to take hold of her.
“Why hold back from what you really want? You are the Duke of Westall and have status and fortune enough to do as you please with a young woman like me, of good family and limited means. I don’t even care if you are married. ”
“Well, I damned well care!” he protested, again dodging an attempt to lay hands on him, and beginning to think Miss Sinclair had taken leave of her senses.
Had she really come alone to his house in order to proposition him? A young lady of the ton offering her body to a married man in return for some kind of financial support?! He had never imagined such a thing possible although Colin had tried to warn him.
“When I heard of your marriage, I thought I had misunderstood you and wasted my time,” Miss Sinclair told him.
“I thought I might have imagined the spark between us. Then I learned of the terms of your father’s will and I understood.
I understood even better when I learned that you had not even bothered to deflower your new wife, the ever-virginal Lady Frances… ”
“My marriage is none of your business,” Ambrose snapped, hating to hear Frances’ name on Annabelle Sinclair’s lips even more than his own.
The Duke of Westall found himself wishing that his unwanted visitor was a man and therefore someone he could haul out of the house and throw into the driveway with his own hands.
Putting an end to this unpleasant interview was complicated by his reluctance to mishandle any lady, combined with his revulsion over making any physical contact with Annabelle Sinclair.
She had him cornered now, almost with his back against his desk.
He would have to touch her, or at least push past her, in order to make his escape.
Where the hell was Barrington when you wanted him?
Probably searching for the missing guest from the drawing room.
Ambrose would have to pull the bell and deal with whichever maid or footman arrived first.
“I see everything, Ambrose,” Miss Sinclair continued.
“You married Lady Frances only to keep your mother’s fortune, and you avoid her bed because it is me that you really want.
You’re struggling to send me away so as not to besmirch my honor, but there is no need.
I would willingly give up my honor to be your mistress, Ambrose, since I cannot be your wife. Take me now!”
“Good God!” he exclaimed disgustedly, finding that even the bell-pull to summon the servants was just slightly out of his reach.
In that moment of distraction, Annabelle Sinclair flung herself upon the Duke of Westall, seized his head and pressed her lips to his, a gesture that sent ice into his veins, nausea into his stomach and horror into his heart.
“Ambrose!” exclaimed another female voice as he flung Miss Sinclair away from him bodily, causing her to stumble and almost fall.
There by the door stood Frances, returned early from London, her face ashen and her expression deeply, deeply wounded in a manner that pained his own heart.
“Frances, I can explain,” Ambrose began, while Annabelle Sinclair started to laugh.
“You traitor!” his wife shouted at him, tears and fury both filling her eyes as she screwed up some sheet of paper and threw it at him before turning on her heel and running from the room.
“Frances!” he called after her, and was briefly dragged back by Annabelle Sinclair clinging to his arm.
“Let her go, Ambrose. You are master of this house and if you will it, your milksop wife will have to accept me as your mistress.”
Ambrose swore violently, now very close to losing his temper entirely. Seizing Miss Sinclair’s wrist with both anger and distaste, he dragged her after him into the hallway, from where Frances had already vanished.
“Barrington!” he bellowed. “Barrington!”
“How strong you are, Ambrose,” panted the now slightly disheveled Annabelle Sinclair. “You know I could not resist you…”
At last, the puzzled-looking butler appeared from the library, his expression only growing more baffled as he took in Ambrose and his too-willing captive.
“Barrington, please summon what assistance you need and have this woman put back in her carriage and removed from the estate immediately. If she resists, you are to summon the constables from the village and report her for assault on my person.”
The butler obeyed and pulled a hallway bell vigorously, causing the appearance of one, two and then a larger group of curious servants in the hallway.
“Maisie, Annie, help me escort the young lady out,” instructed Barrington, nodding to two of the burlier maids.
“Johnson, go outside and convey a message to the coach driver from His Grace. Tell him that he is to take this lady away from Westall Park estate without delay. He will be arrested for trespass if he remains or returns.”
“Ambrose, you can’t do this to me…” Miss Sinclair began to protest incredulously, as she found herself surrounded by hostile Westall Park staff and understood finally that Ambrose meant what he said. “I am offering myself to you completely. Do you not understand?”
“I believe this woman may be out of her mind,” Ambrose added for good measure as he released her wrist and backed away. “I shall be writing to her family.”
Annie and Maisie blocked Miss Sinclair’s path as she attempted to rush after Ambrose.
“Don’t you dare touch me, you filthy creatures!” she hissed at the maids.
“Have a civil tongue in your head when you speak to my servants, Miss Sinclair. You are the only one who has brought filth into this house,” the duke defended his employees. “Now go!”
God knows what his staff would think of him after this day’s work, in any case. Still, Ambrose himself was presently concerned only with the opinion of one person, and there was no sign of Frances at all.
Muttering her impotent fury, the unwanted visitor found herself ushered from the hallway, out of the front door and then bundled into a coach that bore the crest of the Delingford family, presumably belonging to her great aunt.
Ambrose followed Miss Sinclair and her escort down the steps and oversaw her departure, although his attention was already largely elsewhere.
“Johnson, wait and watch until that coach is off the premises. Did you see which way the duchess went, Barrington? I must speak to her. She may have, ah, got the wrong idea about Miss Sinclair.”
The butler shook his head.
“I did not see the duchess at all, Your Grace. Shall I sent Nettie to her rooms?”
“Yes, please do,” Ambrose agreed although he doubted she had gone upstairs, having neither seen nor heard anyone on the staircase during the commotion in the hallway. “Ask the staff to look elsewhere too. My wife was very upset and I need to find her. She might even have left the house.”
“The coaches are all in the coachhouse,” one of the footmen volunteered. “I saw the small carriage being put away after Her Grace returned from London.”
“That is good to know,” Ambrose nodded, glad to think that Frances was at least here on the premises somewhere. “If the duchess is not in her rooms, find out whether she went for a walk and which direction she took."
He would find her and explain what had happened with Annabelle Sinclair and everything would be well again. As the duke tried to convince himself of this, he realized that he was still holding in his hand the crumpled paper that Frances had hurled at him in the study.
Opening it and smoothing it out, Ambrose found it was another of those vile scandal sheets, presumably brought back from London.
He winced to see his own name again on the top story and felt very bad for Frances even before he read the detail.
She had presumably picked this rag up unawares in London and then fled home in search of Ambrose’s comfort and reassurance.
Instead of which, Frances had found her husband alone with Annabelle Sinclair in a most compromising situation. The hurt on her face was worse than if she had slapped him or abused him and the injury to his own heart stung all the more once he actually read the story.
“No, that is a complete lie!” Ambrose could not help exclaiming, drawing worried looks from a maid and footman who were occupied in opening doors and looking into all rooms off the hallway.
He shook his head and gestured for them to continue while he got a hold of himself again. Colin’s letter had warned of another story, dreamed up by Miss Sinclair’s fevered mind and sold to the scandal writers before the conduit of Ellen Yates could be removed.
Had Annabelle Sinclair really thought that such a stunt might endear her to the Duke of Westall? Or that if everyone believed that he already had a mistress that he would feel he might as well take one? If so, her mind was truly warped.
But surely Frances had not believed the false story, had she? Not after the last three days and nights together, giving and receiving such intense pleasure, and seeming finally able to let down her guard enough to trust her caring husband…?
Maybe she had not believed it until she walked into his study and saw him entwined with Annabelle Sinclair, even if unwillingly. With another audible groan, it occurred to Ambrose that she might even have overheard what Miss Sinclair had said directly before she launched herself at him.
What if Frances not only believed him to be unfaithful and an untrustworthy liar, but also to have married her only for money? For a woman as traumatized by infidelity as Frances, it would be unforgivable.
Traitor…
Recalling his wife’s face and voice as she had thrown that single word at him along with the pamphlet, Ambrose knew that she believed all of it.
He was now condemned, as her father had been condemned, and all the love grown so slowly and patiently between them since the first night they met was smashed to pieces.
Love? Yes, he loved Frances, Ambrose realized with some surprise, and then accepted with no surprise at all. He had been falling in love with Frances from the first moment he saw her, and the last three days had been the physical expression of his love as well as his passion.
The realization was a bitter one, and grew bitterer with each negative report from his staff on Duchess Frances’ whereabouts. Frances believed the worst of him and had left him. Ambrose loved her and she would never believe it now. It was too late…
“Her Grace took a horse from the stables, Your Grace,” panted Johnson, rushing into the hallway. “One of the grooms saddled Lightning for her and she rode off down the east path.”
“Have my horse saddled directly,” ordered the duke instantly, striding towards the front door with a deep sigh as he recognized that Frances had taken one of the fastest horses. “I’ll go after her.”
“Already done, Your Grace,” the young footman responded, following Ambrose down the steps to finish delivering his words. “I knew you’d want to follow. Phantom will be ready by the time you reach the stables. There’s a saddlebag with water too.”
“Good man,” the duke commended, without turning.
“Good luck, Your Grace!” called the young man as Ambrose broke into a run towards the stables, only raising a hand in acknowledgement.
“I’ll need all the luck I can get,” the Duke of Westall told himself under his breath.