“You have no curiosity about your husband at all?”
Curiosity? Was that the word for the frisson that was always there in a room where Ambrose Clark was present? Frances shrugged and looked away. Lydia’s interest was only natural and she would likely have to tell her friend something more if she wished to end the uncomfortable questioning.
“I told the duke that I never wished to share a bed and he promised to respect my wishes,” Frances confessed.
How prim her voice sounded! Lydia gave a little gurgle of both laughter and surprise.
“You are joking,” she said, her black eyes dancing. “Aren’t you?”
Frances shook her head.
“But don’t you want a child?” Lydia asked in consternation. “Doesn’t the Duke of Westall want an heir? It will not be possible if you do not, well, you know…”
“I will have a child,” said Frances firmly. “The duke already has a daughter – Winifred. He does not seem to be pining for more children. We have been quite honest with one another, I believe.”
“Oh, Frances!” sighed Lydia. “I cannot help thinking that marriage might be more complicated than you think.”
At this point, Lady Scovell appeared in the doorway, having received no answer to her earlier question and holding several swatches of cloth in her hands.
“Marriage is complicated,” Frances’ mother commented, beaming, having heard only this last statement without any idea of its context, and eager to contribute her matronly wisdom, “but it is worth every complication. Overcoming hardships together only adds to the shared joy and contentment of a good marriage.”
“Let us hope so,” Frances murmured, sharing a rueful glance with Lydia. “Now, Mother, you may take these swatches I have chosen for my dress back to Beatrice and see what matches best.”
When they came to leave the dressmaker, Frances found that her father had already departed for his club and would not be joining them in the carriage back to Scovell Hall.
“He said he would like to eat dinner with his old friend Roland, who is up from the country this week,” explained Lady Scovell as she and her daughters got into their carriage and waved goodbye to Lydia, pulling away on the other side of the road in Lord Trembath’s coach.
“I’m sure he would,” replied Frances, unable to keep the automatic notes of sarcasm and scorn from her voice.
She had not believed anything her father said about his whereabouts for a very long time. It made matters worse that her mother seemed to trust in him so absolutely and without question.
“He was very upset, Frances,” added Helen Harcourt, her tone as close to reproof as her kind nature ever came. “Your father loves you very much and wants to be part of your wedding. Is that really such a very bad thing?”
“I doubt Father was really that upset,” Frances returned, looking out of the window. “He is a very good actor.”
“Frances!” her mother remonstrated, while Beatrice looked on, wide-eyed. “That is a very unkind thing to say. I do wish you would try harder with your father. He has done nothing to deserve such wrath and it hurts me too to see him distressed, as he was today.”
Now, Frances turned back to her mother and took her hand.
“I am sorry,” she said with some real contrition, not wanting to add to her mother’s burdens. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”
“Well, we all have feelings, Frances, including your father. Can you please try to at least be civil until the wedding? It means so much to him, and to me.”
Reluctantly, Frances nodded her head, feeling that she had little choice.
Chapter Six
“Welcome back to Scovell Hall, Your Grace,” said the Earl of Scovell, shaking the Duke of Westall’s hand vigorously as they stood in the hallway. “I am glad that you were able to join our dinner tonight. It is a chance to introduce you to some of our relatives and friends before the wedding.”
“Most kind of you and Lady Scovell to invite me to your home,” responded Ambrose politely, following his host’s path from the hall.
“I am sure you were all too keen to see Lady Frances again too,” remarked Lord Scovell with jovial expression. “I cannot imagine that that a party of crusty old in-laws would hold much interest for a young man otherwise.”
“I am not a young man,” the duke replied with a smile. “Still, you are correct that I welcome the chance to speak with my betrothed, of course.”
“Young man or not, you are much younger than me, Your Grace,” sighed Lord Scovell. “When I think back now to your age, it certainly seems young. How strange to recall such distant times and events. I would almost rather forget, now that I am old and creaking and my children grown and eager to leave me.”
“Not eager, surely,” demurred the duke, as civility seemed to require, but Lord Scovell looked away and made no further comments as they proceeded to the drawing room.
