His soon-to-be father-in-law was right about what had really drawn Ambrose back to Scovell Hall tonight. He might easily have pleaded a busy schedule the week before his impending wedding. Lady Frances’ subtle beauty and wit had played on his mind each day, however. He looked forward to encountering it more regularly at Westall Park in the very near future.
Had Lady Frances really been serious about avoiding his bed..? Well, she believed it herself, for now. Yet her responsiveness to his physical presence and slightest touch made Ambrose suspect that such resistance would eventually melt with the warmth of desire. He welcomed the challenge of crossing the icy wastes that lay between him and his wife-to-be.
The hardest part of such a journey would be controlling himself long enough to build the fire he was sure lay within her. To rush would be to fail, and the Duke of Westall very much preferred to win. Their encounter in the study had been a warning to him.
It would have been so very easy to succumb to temptation that morning and press a kiss on the mouth that smiled at himwith such an appealing dimple. If he had done so, however, Lady Frances probably would have refused his offer there and then. Thankfully, he had held himself in check and stepped back before the temptation became too much.
Now, Lord Scovell showed him into the drawing room and smiled broadly at its existing occupants.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Ambrose Clarke, the Duke of Westall, and future husband of my eldest daughter Lady Frances.”
Ambrose smiled too, both in politeness and amusement. The Earl of Westall had something of the air of a man showing off a prize animal he had bought and thought to be impressive to his friends and relatives. This was an innocent kind of pride, the duke reflected. He hoped that he could one day feel equally satisfied in introducing Winifred’s husband-to-be to his own family.
Seated or standing at windows and mantelpieces, the small assembly looked back at the two men with friendly interest in Ambrose and indulgence for Edmund Harcourt.
Lady Scovell, meanwhile, gazed back at her husband with an expression that was both loving and revealing of where her daughter’s dimple had come from. A girl at that lady’s side, with the good-humored countenance of Lord Scovell, examined Ambrose with youthful, unashamed curiosity. This was presumably Lady Beatrice Harcourt, younger sister to Lady Frances.
At odds with this general air of comfortable welcome was the flash of hostility Ambrose saw on the face of Lady Frances herself as her father spoke. This was then quickly banished as she curtseyed to Ambrose with a composed expression and great elegance.
“You already know Lady Frances and my wife, Lady Scovell, of course. This is our youngest daughter, Lady Beatrice, and these are our neighbors, the Marquis and Marchioness of Orville, and their son Hubert, Viscount Baxworth. Over here we have Sir Roland Herrington-Davies, a very old friend of the family, and my Aunt Caroline, Dowager Countess of Appleton…”
As the Duke of Westall was walked around the room by his host he wondered if Lady Frances had argued with her father. Then, he remembered some similar friction between the two in the study on the day he had come to request her hand. It was also possible that they never got along well. Some young women did prefer their mothers, over their father.
Poor little Winifred had had no choice in this matter, Ambrose reflected further. He was all she had. Well, in a week, she would have a stepmother too. Maybe in time, she would prefer Lady Frances to Ambrose, and her stepmother would become the preferred source of bedtime stories, comfort and advice. How would that feel..?
“Will you take a sherry, Your Grace?” asked Lord Scovell, looking over to the drinks tray where Lord Baxworth was liberally refreshing his own glass, to the evident but unspokendisapproval of a tall and dignified butler. “We await one more family to make up our table and dinner will be served at eight.”
“Thank you, yes, Lord Scovell.”
His host raised a hand and the butler took advantage of this signal to rescue the decanter from young Hubert. A generously filled crystal glass was soon in Ambrose’s hand.
“Now, I expect there is someone you would rather be talking to than a dull old man like me,” Lord Scovell said cheerfully. “Let us find your betrothed.”
“I am keen to get to know all the family,” Ambrose replied diplomatically although his eye was naturally drawn towards Lady Frances, wearing a pale lilac evening gown tonight, and with a simple amethyst pendant at her throat.
Presently she was engaged in supporting her great aunt to rise from the sofa and putting the old lady’s walking cane back into her hand. While slim, her willowy figure was strong too and her movements capable.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Great Aunt Caroline?” Ambrose heard her ask her senior relative.
“Not at all, dear. As long as I have my stick, I am quite capable of reaching the retiring room alone. Anyway, there is a young man here whose claim on your time is greater than mine, I believe.”
Following her great aunt’s eye and seeing the Duke of Westall’s approach, Lady Frances smiled politely. Then, upon perceiving her father beside him, that look became almost a glower.
“The Duke of Westall is a kind and sensible man who would make no fuss about releasing me for five minutes to assist you,” the younger woman declared very surely.
“My wife-to-be speaks truly, at least on the latter points,” said Ambrose with a bow to the ladies. “I cannot answer for the former, which must always be matters of opinion.”
The old lady laughed, the bright eyes in her wizened face twinkling at him.
“Oh, my dear Frances, you have caught a good one here,” she said, taking the liberty of age with her personal comments and causing a becoming blush across Lady Frances’ cheeks. “Take care with that clever tongue of his.”
“You are mistaken, Lady Appleton,” Ambrose returned. “If there was any catching to be done, it was done by me, although I am thankful that Lady Frances allowed herself to be caught.”
“Too clever by far,” chuckled the old lady, looking him over approvingly, “and handsome too in a good old-fashioned way, not like all these pretty boys with smooth faces and perfumed hair. It is far better to marry a man than a boy.”
Her dismissive glance towards Lord Baxworth raised a smile on both Ambrose’s face and that of Lady Frances.
“Boys do tend to grow up into men eventually,” laughed the duke. “I must defend my sex on that point.”
