“You must think me very strange and silly,” she commented, trying to keep her tone even and reflective. “I know others would think so, if they knew that I did not plan to share a bed with my husband.”
“Your Great Aunt Caroline seems as though she might try to talk you out of such a stance,” the Duke of Westall replied withgood humor. “She was determined to talk of wedding nights and babies this evening, it seems.”
“I don’t know how we all kept our faces straight while Mother distracted her,” Frances agreed, shaking her head ruefully. “Please do not expect me take after Great Aunt Caroline.”
“Forget my expectations for a moment,” the duke then put to her. “Would you really never want a child of your own? Most women do want that very much.”
“Can I really believe that you will not expect me to give you an heir?” Frances countered lightly and then shivered again as a particularly cold gust of air blew onto the balcony. “Most men want that very much.”
“I have Winifred,” the duke said rather indifferently, occupying himself with wrapping his jacket more tightly about Frances. “She is enough for me. My sister’s son, or Winifred’s son, can inherit the duchy of Westall, as long as I stay alive that long. If I don’t, she will still be… well provided for, through my mother’s line.”
“How fine that we can discuss love, life and death with such dispassion,” Frances remarked, wary of the growing air of intimacy between them, and also the peculiar restlessness his proximity seemed to excite in her body. “How cool-headed and rational we are about our marriage!”
“We are indeed,” the duke said with a smile. “Although I’m sure there are limits on both sides. For example, if Beatricehad been right and I had been scared away by Lord Baxworth’s foolishness, would you simply have accepted the next man offered from Lady Kempleforth’s stable?”
Somehow, the Duke of Westall’s hands had come to rest on her arms and Frances’ felt quite breathless. He was not quite embracing her, and yet this was more than the act of keeping her warm strictly required. The steady gaze of his deep blue eyes quelled the momentary panic that rose in her stomach, and let her consider his question.
Would she have been prepared to accept the promises of another man, to go to the altar with him, or even simply to stand out here on the balcony like this with anyone else? As soon as Frances asked herself the question, she knew it was impossible although she could not say why.
“I would not,” she admitted very quietly, her eyes still fixed on his face, and felt his hands hold her a little more securely.
“Good,” the duke said in a low voice.
He leaned forward so slowly that there was all the time in the world to avoid that well-shaped mouth from coming to rest on hers, and yet Frances made no attempt to escape him. When his lips touched hers, they burned there for a moment, making her heart leap in her chest.
Unhurriedly, the duke’s mouth moved down to brush Frances’ neck, trailing featherlight kisses across her throat and décolletage, the unexpected sensations of this drawing a sharplittle sound from France’s own mouth. How strong, warm and alive his body felt against hers!
“Your Grace,” she moaned, knowing that she must stop this, whatever it was, and yet not wanting it to end.
“Ambrose,” he corrected her, his tongue fluttering at her ear. “My name is Ambrose.”
With an exertion of her remaining will, Frances pulled back and stepped away, panting. The duke made no attempt to hold her.
“You must not…” she said. “I cannot…You must not do that again…”
“What if you wish me to kiss you?” the duke asked her, his eyebrow raised. “Am I to deny my wife’s wishes?”
“I shall not wish it. I must not!” Frances blurted, her heart and mind both in utter confusion after what had just occurred between them.
“We shall see,” said the Duke of Westall, his mouth crooking in a small smile, as though instinctively pleased with events of the last few minutes. “This matter is in your hands, Lady Frances.”
Chapter Eight
With all the petulance of a small child, Oswald Keeton threw his coat, hat and walking stick to the ground in the hallway of Mulford Manor, without any consideration for the young footman who had to scrabble to pick them up.
“Damn it all!” he snarled at no one in particular and everyone in general as he marched through the hall. “Who the hell does she think she is? The Queen of Sheba, free to come and go in and out of my life as she pleases? The Harcourts always go to the Marchioness of Elford’s musical afternoons. Baines? Baines?!”
At this ill-mannered summons, a weary-faced but professionally-mannered butler appeared from an adjacent corridor.
“Yes, Your Lordship?”
“Is the drinks tray in the blue drawing room replenished?” snapped Lord Mulford. “There was almost nothing left butwhisky last night. Entirely unacceptable! What do I pay you all for? What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
Nothing was as it should be this week, it felt to Oswald. With the Season now at its height, he had expected to see Lady Frances Harcourt at least three times at various salons, dinners and dances. Instead, the whole Harcourt family seemed to have gone to ground and no one, including the Elfords, could say why.
It was most frustrating, especially since Oswald had thought of some very creative ways to discreetly pay Lady Frances back for stamping on his foot at the Morgan ball. He had long learned the particular words and gestures that seemed to most rile and disturb her and how to deliver them without raising the suspicion of other guests.
As always, Oswald had been very much looking forward to her silent humiliation and the knowledge that she could do nothing to stop him. But Lady Frances had not even been there at Lady Elford’s outdoor concert today, damn it all!
