How odd it made Frances feel to be looked upon by a man expressing such sentiments, even if they were only part of his wit and good humor. In itself, such jesting about the certainty of her wedding did not bother Frances, which she supposed was an advantage of a marriage of convenience. She had known brides for whom a single word of doubt was a catastrophe.
Not everyone was as evenly disposed as Frances, however.
“Beatrice!” chided Lady Scovell, welcoming the three of them into a large drawing room of pleasant garden aspect and overhearing some of this conversation. “What a thing to say! I hope this young lady has not been bothering you, Your Grace. I allowed her to stay up late especially to meet you.”
“Not at all, Lady Scovell,” the Duke of Westall assured his future mother-in-law, relinquishing her younger daughter’s arm and allowing Beatrice to be embraced by her mother. “I am very glad to make my new sister’s acquaintance. Lady Beatrice will always be welcome to visit us at Westall Park.”
“Wonderful, I am glad that we are all getting along so well. You really do feel like one of the family already, Your Grace.”
“Where is Father?” Lady Beatrice asked, looking around.
“Edmund is still helping Lord and Lady Orville to get Hubert into their carriage,” explained her mother. “He will be back presently. Frances, why not take His Grace out onto the balcony in the meantime? It is warm tonight and I do fear what Aunt Caroline might say next. You two must have plenty to talk about.”
Frances nodded, not unwilling to be alone with her betrothed, although she had not sought it. It would give her the chance to ask some of the questions still alive in her mind. Opening the long windows on one wall of the room, she led the Duke of Westall out onto a balcony overlooking the gardens of Scovell Hall.
The night air was not cold but fresh with an early summer breeze that carried the scent of sweet blossoms to their noses. Shivering, Frances belatedly remembered her bare arms and exposed throat and bosom in the pretty but rather insubstantial evening dress she wore.
The duke immediately took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, simultaneously spurring even further the twin sensations of security and excitement already warring in her blood. Frances had not expected such a gesture, any more than she had expected him to wait and escort her from the dining room. Even so, she felt no desire to reject it, supposing the jacket to be offered in kindness.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. “I should have fetched a wrap.”
“We will be married soon enough, and it will officially be my duty to fetch your wrap or give you my jacket,” the Duke of Westall responded with a shrug. “It is as well to begin practicing early.”
After securing the jacket, the duke did not step back and Frances was able to study his face at close quarters. In a week, this man would be her lawful husband and she would be living under his roof. So far, he had not taken a wrong step in their short and formal courtship, but it was far too early to imagine that she really knew him.
“Why did you tell Beatrice that you were so set on marrying me, Your Grace?” she asked abruptly. “The more I think about you wishing to marryme, the more questions I have. You might have married anyone, or at least anyone who looks kindly on a stepdaughter. There are certainly ladies of the ton who are richer and more beautiful than I.”
Her question was genuine, and Frances hoped the duke would have the understanding and respect to know that she was not fishing for compliments about her looks or general eligibility.
“I met you, and I knew we could understand one another,” he answered very simply. “You were the only woman on Lady Kempleforth’s list whom I wanted.”
“But why?” Frances persisted, still not quite satisfied. “Why not the lady you were avoiding at the Morgan House ball, for example? She must be very keen to pursue you so assiduously.”
“Never her,” he stated vehemently, without naming his pursuer. “You would never want to put a child in that woman’s care. When I think of her with Winifred, I feel the opposite of what I feel thinking of you.”
The Duke of Westall gazed at Frances in the moonlight, still so very close to her.
“Very well, but there are other women too,” she pressed. “Don’t you want to fall in love, as the rest of the world seems to crave?”
At this question, the duke shook his head with very little consideration.
“I can’t say that I do, Lady Frances. My first marriage was arranged and worked well. If Charlotte had lived, I believe we should have been content together. Falling in love has always sounded rather tiresome and painful to me, although my parents were a love match and claimed otherwise.”
Frances laughed at this observation.
“Yes, I suppose so. I have no experience myself but from all that I read and hear, tiresome and painful does seem a fair description.”
“You have not wished to fall in love any more than I,” the duke stated and she nodded.
“No, I have not,” Frances confirmed, the matter being of as little concern to her as to him. “Love likely grows over the years when two people share a life, but that is a different kind of love.”
“You see, we do think alike,” he asserted. “Well, I hope that you will at least grow to love Winifred. She is very lovable and I don’t think you will find it hard.”
“If all you expect from me in our marriage is to take care of that sweet little girl, I promise that I will make you an excellent wife, Your Grace,” Frances responded. “As we have already discussed, there are other marital expectations I cannot meet.”
“You will be a loving stepmother and a dutiful duchess, I am sure,” the Duke of Westall answered carefully. “Beyond that, my expectations rest entirely on your own wishes. You may bolt your door against me if you wish.”
At this allusion to her previous categorical rejection of marital intimacy, Frances blushed and looked away into the gardens. She did not want to seem naive and unworldly, but this was a difficult subject to navigate, especially with a man who would soon legally have the right to bring her to his bed.
