“But I haven’t finished eating!” protested Hubert in slurred tones, his hair falling untidily over his brow as he licked his lips and looked longingly back at his roast beef.
“A tray can be brought to the library with dinner and coffee,” Lord Scovell offered tactfully.
“Thank you, but he does not deserve such kind treatment,” the youth’s father at first resisted. “He ought to sit alone in silence and think about his selfishness.”
“Food will sober him up faster than anything else,” argued their host. “That would be to everyone’s benefit, I believe.”
“Maybe you are right,” Lord Orville answered, calming down and coming round to this way of thinking. “I will escort him to the library myself. Is the drinks cabinet locked in there?”
“We keep no drink in the library,” Lord Scoville assured his neighbor.
“I say,” Hubert tried to object as his father strong-armed him from the room. “I want to stay here and…”
“You will do as you are told, young man!” grumbled the older man, pulling him through the open door.
As they vanished, Lady Orville looked as though she might cry.
“I am so embarrassed, Lady Scovell,” she told her hostess.
Ambrose stood up and raised his glass, deciding that this would be no bad time for a round of toasts.
“Let us not worry about spilled wine tonight,” he began, with a smile to Lady Orville. “These accidents can always be put right and are rarely as bad as we fear. Rather than apologies, I’d like to offer some thanks…”
Chapter Seven
“Well, I do not think the gentlemen shall sit over port tonight,” Lord Scovell pronounced once pudding dishes were cleared away. “Coffee will be served in the garden drawing room for both ladies and gentlemen.”
Nods and agreeable murmurs from the assembly followed this announcement. The incident with Lord Baxworth had been smoothed over but still it was best to leave the scene of the disruption.
“We should depart soon, Lord Scovell,” Lady Orville put in. “I hope you will all excuse us. We look forward to seeing you at the wedding.”
“I shall go and ready Hubert,” Lord Orville stated grimly. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
“Of course, don’t think of it at all,” their host replied quickly. “I shall come and assist you, Lord Orville.”
While his wife and other guests observed Lord Scovell’s active and helpful behavior with approval, his eldest daughter only raised a cynical eyebrow. Her father might play the good host, the faithful husband and dutiful father as hard as he wished. Frances would never believe in him again.
“That was a very nice little speech you gave, Your Grace,” said Beatrice approvingly after Lord and Lady Orville had vanished with Lord Scovell and the rest of the diners were leaving the table together more slowly. “It put things back together after Hubert nearly spoiled everything.”
Frances nodded agreement with her younger sister. This was one of the first occasions that seventeen year old Beatrice had been permitted to stay up late for dinner with an adult party and she had comported herself well. Certainly far better than Lord Baxworth who was two years Beatrice’s senior.
“It was hardly a speech,” the Duke of Westall told the girl with an amiable shrug, “only a few words of thanks.”
It took Frances a moment to realize that after pulling out her chair, the duke had remained there, offering his arm to escort her from the room. How strange it felt to know that this was expected now and that it was also expected that she should take that arm. In another week she would be Duchess of Westall, after all.
Without looking at the Duke of Westall’s face, Frances laid her hand lightly on his forearm and noted again that this contact did not give her the twinge of repulsion she felt at touching allother men, especially Oswald Keeton. In fact, she felt again an unusual sense of assurance and the indefinable stirring of her blood beneath it.
Great Aunt Caroline was right that Ambrose Clarke was a handsome man, but his features were strong and sturdy rather than possessing the smoothness of certain other men whom society considered handsome – Oswald Keeton, for example. The faint lines at his forehead and few silver hairs at his temples gave the impression that life had buffeted the Duke of Westall and he had stood strong under its blows.
“Whatever it was you did, you provided an excellent distraction,” Frances told him. “Once you had offered one toast, all the other gentlemen felt bound to do the same and soon we were all laughing again. Thank you, on behalf of my family.”
“I only hope you still want to marry Frances after all that palaver tonight,” said Beatrice rather pertly. “I do want you for a brother, I have decided. It would be most inconvenient for me, if you decided we were all tarred with Hubert’s brush and ran away.”
With a laugh, the Duke of Westall offered his future sister-in-law the arm that he had not already given to Frances and walked the two young ladies from the room in the wake of other guests ahead of them.
“Once I have made up my mind about something, or someone, it takes far more than a spilled glass of wine to change it,” he assured Beatrice, although his smile was directed rather towards Frances. “I am most determined to marry Lady Frances.”
“Oh good,” replied Beatrice happily as Frances merely smiled. “The dresses are all made and the flowers ordered so it would be rather difficult if you were to have second thoughts.”
