Unbidden, a brief memory of Ambrose’s first wedding night had also come back to him as he reflected on his second. He and Charlotte had sat up late drinking champagne and comparing favorite books. They not consummated their marriage for several days, both being young and unsure in bedroom matters, and neither of them feeling any great urgency.
Ambrose and Charlotte never had really felt that overpowering physical instinct that drove coupling in both the human and animal world. It was only after Charlotte’s death that the attention of a series of comforting widows had demonstrated to Ambrose that this urge really existed and could bring something close to ecstasy. Intriguingly, he felt echoes of it simply standing next to Frances, whatever that meant.
Ambrose supposed that Frances herself had as little idea of such sensations as he and Charlotte at the start. Well, he must be patient and wait for her desire and curiosity to overcome her reticence. He already knew that he would rather have Frances in his bed than any number of discrete widows of means, even if it took weeks or months to lead her there.
“All very well for the past and present, but what about the future?” Frances asked as Winnie laughed at her father’s silly wordplay.
“Yes, what shall we do next, Father?” his daughter asked. “What would you like to play?”
Ah, another question that the Duke of Westall could not answer entirely honestly.
At this moment in the gardens, Ambrose would like to thread wild flowers into Frances’ hair, caressing her graceful neck and silken locks as she sighed with pleasure. He was sure that she would enjoy his touch, if she allowed herself to do so. For some reason, she was still not ready to grant herself that permission. Therefore, he must hold back.
“Why don’t you put some flowers in your stepmother’s hair?” he suggested to his daughter, offering her the second little nosegay.
“Don’t you want to do it?” Winifred asked innocently, glancing between the two of them as they both laughed and looked away from one another.
“One flower, please, Winnie,” Frances said, crouching down beside the child and smelling the small bouquet. “Mmm. What a lovely scent! Now, I must go and speak to Mrs. Betsworth about the menus for next week as I promised. I’m sure your father will play with you until luncheon.”
As Frances walked away a few minutes later with a single white anemone in her hair, the Duke of Westall’s eyes followed her lissome form across the lawn.
“I wish Duchess Frances could have stayed too,” Winnie sighed wistfully, taking her father’s hand. “I like her better than anyone, except you and Great-Grandmama, Papa.”
“How was London?” Frances asked as Ambrose hurried up the steps of Westall Park a few days later, laughing to see the little reception committee waiting for him by the front door.
“Very well indeed. My appointment at the bank took less than an hour and I had luncheon at my club with the Duke of Redford. Colin sends his regards…”
“Did you bring presents?” Winifred interrupted, much to Frances’ amusement. “You always bring a present when you go to London.”
“Your father was only absent for a day, Winnie,” Frances reminded the little girl. “Surely, you cannot expect a present every time he is gone for a day. Come, let us all go inside and have tea. Miss Winters said that you did well in your lessons today and should have a treat.”
Ambrose enjoyed the look of delight on Winnie’s little face as he produced the usual small bag of peppermints and held them out to her.
“I would never forget your present,” he told her gravely.
“You see?” Winnie said, turning happily to the now-laughing Frances. “My papa always brings a present from London.”
“I should not have doubted you,” Frances said, turning to face Ambrose, as Winnie skipped away ahead of them.
“I brought something for you too,” the duke told her as they walked towards the drawing room. “I hope you like it.”
“For me?” Frances queried, looking startled as he took the small package wrapped in paper and ribbon from his pocket and presented it to her.
“For you,” Ambrose confirmed, enjoying her surprise. “I believe it is permitted for a man to buy a present for his wife now and then.”
“I keep forgetting that I am married,” Frances confessed, accepting the package with a faint blush.
“Then I suppose must keep reminding you,” he teased. “How forgettable I must be that my wife of only a few weeks’ standing has already stopped thinking of me…”
“Not at all!” protested Frances, her grey eyes meeting his briefly with some flaring of emotion. “You are most kind, Your Grace, and an excellent father and…not at all forgettable.”
“Ambrose,” he reminded her. “My Christian name is Ambrose and my wife should use it.”
“Ambrose.”
What was she thinking, Ambrose wondered? Frances’ eyes had quickly dropped back down to the package and she was hiding her expression in its unwrapping. He saw her smile as she retrieved the small vial of scent it contained. When she opened the stopper and inhaled it with closed eyes, the pleasure on her face was all the response Ambrose could have hoped for.
“It smells like the wildflowers you picked the other day,” she observed. “How very lovely!”
