“Are you entirely sure that you never wish to share that experience with me, Lady Frances?” he asked in a low voice that seemed to make something deep inside her vibrate.
Abruptly, Frances recalled that moment when the Duke of Westall had touched his lips to her glove in farewell, ever so lightly and swiftly that her mother had not noticed. It had sent a shock through her body at the time, and the sensation was repeated again now, leaving her breathless.
His eyes were watching her intently but she could form no response to his question. Why was he looking at her like that? Out of nowhere, it suddenly occurred to Frances that this man might kiss her. Worse, she might kiss him back.
After a few moments, however, the Duke of Westall smiled again, seeming satisfied with something he saw in her despite her silence. This certainty infuriated Frances for a moment. Did he think she was not in earnest?
“I think we understand one another,” he said, stepping back from Frances and seeming to break the spell that had fallen on them. “Rest assured, Lady Frances, that I would never do anything that you did not want.”
Frances nodded, still trying to master her surging blood and tremulous mind. His words were reassuring, but could she trust them? How could she be sure?
“Do you promise?” she asked him and the Duke of Westall put his hand over his heart.
“I am a man of my word, Lady Frances. I promise never to do anything that you do not want. I also promise to do everything that you do want.”
A strange, involuntary shiver passed through Frances’ whole body at these vows The duke seemed to be saying that he would leave her alone, and free of intimate attentions, as long as she wished it. She had always wished it and always would, wouldn’t she?
“Shall we call your father back in and tell him to prepare the marriage contract?”
To her own surprise, Frances found the answer very simple, part of her already feeling betrothed to this man, despite her doubts and fears.
“Yes.”
Chapter Five
“Iam so glad you are getting married, Frances,” enthused her seventeen-year-old sister, Lady Beatrice Harcourt, almost dancing around the reception room at the back of Mrs. Merton’s dressmakers. “I’ve wanted to be a bridesmaid since you first came out and was beginning to think that I should never have the chance.”
Frances smiled noncommittally at the good-natured and slightly freckled face of her sister, glad that others were enjoying themselves on an outing that was only an obligation to her. Lady Scovell herself was in seventh heaven, and Beatrice not far behind her.
Lydia Carrington, Frances’ best friend, had also joined them at the dressmaker’s shop. While normally hard to drag away from the stables of her father, the Viscount of Trembath, Lydia was keen not to miss out on any of the fun of finally outfitting her friend for a wedding.
Even Lord Scovell was here with them today, rather incongruously browsing ribbons through the door of a small anteroom.
“I am glad that you are getting married quickly,” added black-haired Lydia, her almost black eyes shining. “A summer wedding is so much nicer than a Winter wedding when everyone must be wrapped up in woolens just to endure the church service.”
“Well, I am so glad you each feel that way,” returned Frances drily, pushing yet another set of silken swatches in her sister’s direction after receiving them from the hands of an assistant. “There is much to do and you two must pick the fabric for your dresses. My mind is too busy with all that must be decided for my own dress and the trousseau too.”
Matters were proceeding very quickly since Frances gave her assent to the Duke of Westall’s marriage proposal. Neither of them saw reason to wait and the marriage contract had been fixed within a week, the duke apparently agreeing to every stipulation from Lord Scovell and making generous provision for his wife’s future without any prompting.
Ambrose Clarke did seem to be a good man, Frances conceded, from what she had seen in recent weeks. Still, it likely also helped that he did not care enough about either his bride or the wedding itself to quibble over details. He was gaining a stepmother for his child and Frances was gaining independence. Both of them were also hopefully gaining peace from family pressures to marry.
“Cream silk is so becoming to you, Frances,” murmured Lady Scovell, holding up a swatch against her older daughter’s face. “Yet you wear it so often. For your wedding, should we not choose something special?”
“Gold and silver,” suggested Lydia, not entirely seriously, “hung with diamonds and pearls. Like a princess getting married in a fairy tale.”
Frances pulled a face and shook her head at this incongruous suggestion. Lydia herself was rarely out of a riding habit and barely more interested than Frances in finding a match, unless of the equine variety for one of the many horses her family already owned.
“I do not wish to be in a fairy tale,” Frances said, laughing but thinking with distaste of handsome princes who kissed sleeping princesses unawares, or stole away young maidens they had rescued from dragons when the poor girl probably only wished to go home again. “The men in fairy tales are not gentlemen.”
“I agree,” remarked her mother. “Men in real life are far more gentlemen than the rogues in fairy stories. Your duke, for instance, Frances, has a very good reputation in society. Your father too…”
“What about your dress, Mother?” Frances interrupted swiftly, never able to stomach hearing Lady Scovell innocently trumpeting Lord Scovell’s virtues. “Why don’t you wear cream silk this time and I shall choose something else? Our coloring is very alike, although our build is different.”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” her mother agreed but then called out to Lord Scovell across the room. “Edmund, shall I wear cream silk for Frances’ wedding? What do you think?”
“You always look beautiful to me, dear,” replied the earl, popping his head around the doorway and meeting his wife’s eyes with an affectionate look that almost made Frances roll her eyes. “You can wear anything and still be the only woman in the room I see.”
“Oh, Edmund!” sighed Lady Scovell affectionally. “You do say the nicest things. I only hope that Frances will be half as happy in her marriage as we have been.”
