“What is wrong with me?” she demanded of her reflection in the mirror, looking at the flushed young woman with half-unfastened hair. “Why must I do this?”
In less than an hour, Frances must go downstairs and eat dinner with her husband as though nothing had happened at all. Perhaps Ambrose thought her a madwoman, one moment happy and the next deranged. Or perhaps he would be frustrated with her, wishing for a more amenable and available wife who would welcome his attentions fully.
Whatever he might think of her, Frances was still the Duchess of Westall, however, and must play her part in the household.
Swallowing, she unfastened her day dress and shrugged it off together with her stays, before unpinning her hair and brushing it out around her shoulders. In the candlelight, it had a sheen like light-brown silk or moonbeams. The act of brushing soothed her somewhat and her pulse began to calm.
“Why am I not like other women?” Frances wondered aloud, still looking steadily at herself in the looking glass.
She turned her head to and fro, taking in her finely drawn profile and elegant neck. Pushing her petticoat from her shoulders, she regarded the swell of her pale breasts, covering one with her hand just as the Duke of Westall had done that night, although it did not feel the same. What would he have done next if Frances had not broken away?
Ambrose Clarke was an extremely handsome and personable man. She had no doubt that there were many women who would be more than happy to go to his bed, married or not, and even if he had not been the Duke of Westall. There would be yet other women willing to consort with him on account of his rank and fortune. All would envy Frances her position.
As ever, her reflection gave her no answers, and ever more questions filled her head. What if Ambrose ran out of patience eventually and demanded his marital rights? Was it inevitable that Frances must allow him to claim her in the end? Ought she simply to lie back and not resist the inevitable?
That thought made her shudder, even though the closeness of the duke’s warm body itself had never had this effect, even on his bed. Rather the very opposite… How confusing it all was!
A little over half an hour later, Frances descended the grand staircase in a blue silk evening dress, her hair put up tidily once more with large sapphire pins matched to her silver sapphire pendant. She believed that she looked neat, elegant and calm. Now, she must only manage to act in accordance with thisveneer, her heart already speeding at the thought of simply seeing the duke again.
On the sideboard in the hallway, a folded piece of paper marked only for “Frances,” had been propped up prominently so that she saw it immediately as she turned towards the corridor where the dining room and main drawing room lay.
Her heart simultaneously leapt and fell at what was obviously a message from Ambrose Clarke. With both excitement and foreboding she picked it up and unfolded the page.
We need to talk. Come to the library before dinner.
A.
Chapter Fifteen
Summoned by the Duke of Westall…
Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, Frances changed direction and made her way across the large hallway, towards the library that sat at the front of the house.
It was hard to make out from such a short message what the duke’s mood or intention might be and she had no idea whether to expect anger, concern, or even some sort of amorous approach…
No, it would not be the latter, Frances told herself. Not in the library. If the duke had chosen his private sitting room, or bedroom, that might have been his agenda, but the library opened onto the hallway, where servants passed frequently, and its windows overlooked the front gardens.
It was even possible that his summons had nothing to do with Frances personally at all. Perhaps he only wished to consult heron something to do with Winifred, or Westall Park staff, or to arrange tea with his grandmother, or…
The possibilities were endless. Well, there was only one way to settle the matter. Taking a deep breath, Frances pushed open the library door and walked inside with as much confidence as she could muster.
“I wasn’t sure that you would come,” Ambrose Clarke said with a smile, turning around where he stood at the window and walking towards her. “You have been avoiding me since you came to Westall Park, I believe.”
It was a statement, not a question. Was there a slight tone of reproach in his voice despite his good-humored expression? Or maybe only disappointment? Frances supposed that either might be considered reasonable, and perhaps inevitable, given their situation. Either way, she could not deny what he said.
“I thought it was best,” Frances returned, taking the seat he indicated beside the fireplace, as he sat down opposite.
The Duke of Westall shook his head. His hair was damp, reminding her again of those first moments when she saw him half undressed at his washstand. He was fully dressed now, of course, in a finely cut dark suit, but Frances automatically visualized the lines of the masculine torso beneath.
“We cannot avoid one another while bringing up a child together,” he told her, his voice kind but pointed. “That wouldnot work at all. Eventually Winnie would notice and it would confuse her.”
Frances bit her lip and looked out of the window. This was true too. She knew she could not spend the coming years rushing away from Winnie each time the girl’s father appeared and smiled at her. Yet how could she bear to stand still beside him when her blood rushed so madly in her veins at his presence?
“I would also like to get to know you better, and for you to know me,” the duke added. “If we are to live together, we must know one another.”
Know? What exactly did he mean by that?
“I told you before we married that I cannot share your bed,” Frances stated directly, taking refuge in bare facts so as to avoid uncomfortable feelings.
