Lord Scovell cleared his throat.
“Aunt Caroline, if you require any assistance, I should be only too happy to…”
Subtly rolling her eyes again as soon as her father began speaking, Lady Frances turned and spoke quietly to her mother, bringing Lady Scovell to Lady Appleton’s side. Helen Harcourt then whispered something in her husband’s ear that made him step back with a slightly foolish expression.
“Come, Aunt Caroline,” Lady Scovell said, taking the arm that was not holding a stick. “I too am going to the retiring room and we might walk together.”
Arm in arm, they departed and Lord Scovell faded into the background, hardly encouraged to stay by his daughter’s notable coolness towards him. That was something Ambrose wanted to get to the bottom of, but not tonight.
“Your outfit becomes you, Lady Frances,” the Duke of Westall told her once they were as alone as it was possible to be in a busy drawing room. “You look quite wonderful tonight.”
“As do you, according to Great Aunt Caroline,” returned Lady Frances with that true smile that brought out her dimple. “Do you always have such an effect on elderly ladies, Your Grace?”
Ambrose laughed and shook his head.
“I am not sure that my own grandmother, Lady Levene, finds me in the slightest bit charming. She thinks me stubborn, independent to a fault and far too slow in taking her advice to marry again. I am reminded regularly of these things so that I should be in no doubt as to her opinions.”
“From what you say, I suspect she either adores or detests you,” Lady Frances observes. “Which is it really?”
“Well, Winifred is her favorite great-grandchild, so I suppose I pass muster simply by virtue of being her father.”
“I am looking forward to meeting young Lady Winifred,” the young woman told him with a look of gentle softness that boded well for his daughter’s future. “I regret that I cannot meet her before the wedding but I do understand your decision.”
“My little Winnie is so very shy and young, Lady Frances,” the duke replied, smiling as he thought of his child. “I prefer not to introduce you until I can do so very firmly as my wife, her stepmother and Duchess of Westall.”
Lady Frances nodded her understanding. Although she had suggested that Winifred join her sister and friend as bridesmaidat the wedding, she had not argued when Ambrose explained that Winifred would only wish to hide behind her great-grandmother in front of so many people at the church. By society standards, it was not to be a big wedding, but it was still big enough for a shy nine-year-old child.
“What does Winnie look like?” she asked, following his lead in use of the diminutive name, and Ambrose’s smile deepened.
Impulsively, the Duke of Westall reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver locket which he opened to reveal a miniature by a talented artist who had perfectly captured the dark curls and grave blue-green eyes with which little Winifred regarded strangers so guardedly.
“This was taken last year, when Winnie was eight years old. The artist made two and my grandmother has the other.”
Lady Frances made a soft, tender sound as she took the locket from his hand and gazed on the picture within.
“She is lovely, Your Grace. What a sweet child, and how well she has smiled for the portrait.”
“I stood beside her holding her hand for hours,” admitted Ambrose with some laughter. “I was afraid of running out of amusing stories before the artist was done.”
“Whatever you told her was clearly appreciated,” Lady Frances remarked, her eyes still on Winnie’s picture.
Then she sighed a little, closed the locket and went to hand it back to Ambrose. His ungloved hand closed on hers and their eyes met, Lady Frances’ expression a little startled at this development although making no move to step back from him.
“Keep it,” the duke said, willing – but not really wanting – her to withdraw her hand as a familiar heat began to flow in his veins from the slight skin contact.
“I cannot,” she protested, her grey eyes earnest. “It belongs to you as Winnie’s father and evidently means a great deal to you if you carry it about in your breast pocket.”
“You are to be Winifred’s stepmother,” Ambrose pointed out. “Consider it only a loan, and return the locket to me on our wedding day. As I cannot introduce you to my daughter in person yet, please accept the locket in lieu of a meeting.”
“Very well,” Lady Frances finally agreed, slowly pulling back her hand and slipping the locket into the pocket of her skirt. “I do like the idea of having Winifred’s portrait about me since we are soon to be family. I only hope she will like me. Children do not always take to their stepmothers, you know.”
“I have no such doubts,” the duke assured her, putting his own hands behind his back to ward off the temptation of touching her again.
A few minutes later, following the arrival of the final members of the dinner party, the gong sounded for dinner.
“You will miss Frances when she leaves for Westall Park, I am sure,” remarked Lady Orville as the main course was served. “I know that we shall be sorry not to have her dropping in for tea on one of her walks, won’t we?”
This consultation of the views of her husband and son elicited a murmur of polite agreement from Lord Orville, but only a slight nod from their well-refreshed offspring.
