“Well then, unless you would like a liqueur or anything else, I think I shall go and begin writing letters of thanks for all our wedding presents and messages of congratulation. You must do what you wish for the rest of the evening. Let the servants know if you want a bath drawn, or a hot drink before bed.”
As Frances confirmed that she required no further food or drink, the duke pulled out her chair and then bowed a polite farewell before stepping back. It was all very relaxed and civilized, and yet, for Frances, there was no escaping from the fact that was still their wedding night.
This knowledge preyed on her mind as she took her bath and then fitfully attempted to read an undemanding romantic novel that Beatrice had loaned her, about a queen in some former era of history. There was a restlessness in her belly that refused to be banished.
Frances had sent Nettie to bed immediately after the young maid had run her bath and laid out her nightgown an hour ago. Alone now, the new duchess paced her new bedroom, jumping nervously when the clock struck ten.
The duke had promised, hadn’t he, that he would not require her to share his bed. Or had he? No, he had promised not to do anything she did not want.
Once that would have been promise enough. After the last few weeks and her various encounters with the Duke of Westall, at the Morgan ball, at Scovell Hall, and now here at Westall Park, Frances no longer trusted in what she wanted.
She had heard footsteps that she already recognized as belonging to the duke, passing along the corridor about a quarter of an hour earlier. Standing near the wooden door that connected their rooms, Frances could now detect faint sounds of movement within. The duke was there, perhaps washing his face, cleaning his teeth, undressing…
The thought of her husband naked gave Frances another start and she looked down at the key in the door before her. Was it locked? If she tried it, the duke would doubtless hear. If she locked it against him, it might seem that she doubted his promise. If she unlocked it, he might think she had changed her mind and take it as an invitation to enter.
Frances must have spent five whole minutes staring at the key in an agony of indecision. Then, feeling herself slightly ridiculous, she determined to take matters into her own hands. The civilized thing to do would be to knock, go in and bid goodnight, and then return to her own room, locking the door behind her.
There could be no room for misunderstanding if she did that, could there?
Wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her and pushing her feet into slippers, Frances took a deep breath and rapped three times on the wooden door, neither too softly nor too loudly, and slowly enough that she should not take Ambrose by surprise. When she tried the handle, she found the door unlocked and it swung open.
“I wanted to say goodnight and thank you for…Oh!”
Frances had managed only three steps into the room before she pulled up short and her voice faded in her throat. The Duke of Westall stood beside his washstand, bare to the waist, with a small towel slung around his still damp neck. He looked across at her expectantly, presumably waiting for some explanation of her presence. She tried again to speak but no words came.
Why had he not donned his dressing gown, or at least put on a shirt? It seemed positively indecent to be simply standing there bare-chested and smiling slightly at her. Frances had to remind herself that most people would not find it indecent at all. Ambrose Clarke was now her husband, after all.
Unwillingly fascinated by the sight of him, Frances could not quite turn away. The duke’s torso was strong and well-muscled with a scattering of dark hairs and he seemed to have no shame in his nakedness before her. He put her in mind of some ancient warrior or athlete she had seen in paintings or statues at London museums or in private galleries.
Frances’ breath caught in her throat as she looked into those deep blue eyes below his damp, tousled hair.
“Have you changed your mind, Duchess Frances?” he asked her mildly, a smile still playing on his lips.
“Oh, no, I have not. You must not think…Oh my!”
Utterly flustered, embarrassed and furious with herself Frances felt her face glowing bright red as her nervous fingers tightened her dressing gown belt.
“I only came to say goodnight,” she attempted to explain. “I did not think…”
“You did not think that I might be half undressed in my own bedroom and hoping for such a change of heart?” Ambrose suggested, dropping the towel onto the edge of the washstand and walking over to Frances.
“No! I did not!” she protested, horrified that he could even consider such a conclusion.
“Ah, that is a shame. I must therefore put all my efforts into controlling myself, since you have been brave enough to venture in here, despite the determination you profess in avoiding my bed.”
The duke’s voice was low and caressive and Frances could distinctly feel her body responding to him yet again, just as she had done in the ballroom and then on the balcony. If he kissed her again, she knew she would not stop him, despite all her resolutions. These feelings were beyond her comprehension.
“Frances,” he breathed, taking another step towards her.
Now able to feel the warmth of Ambrose’s body and smell the scent of freshly soaped skin, Frances closed her eyes. It provided no escape, however, and she heard herself moan faintly at the light stroking of his hands on her face and arms.
“Look at me,” he urged, and she opened her eyes slowly, tremulous but full of strange desire. “How lovely you are, Frances.”
Again, he caressed her face but did nothing more than that even though she was practically in his arms. In all Frances’ imaginings, she had run far and fast from any male advances. Until she met the Duke of Westall, it had never occurred to her that she might not want to run, and she had prepared no other defenses.
“Do you want me to kiss you now?” he asked her and Frances’ heart raced. “I shall do nothing that you do not want, but you must tell me your desires clearly. I will not risk hurting you.”
Without conscious thought, Frances found that her hands had lifted and were resting on the duke’s bare chest, his heart beating powerfully beneath her fingertips. Was this gesture intended to bring him closer or push him away? Frances could not say, but she did not wish to release him.
