Together, they walked towards an amiable-looking middle-aged lady in pale blue muslin, who regarded Lady Frances with fond and hopeful eyes.
“The Duke of Westall,” Ambrose introduced himself with a bow of his head as they reached her mother. “Your daughter dances beautifully, Lady Scovell. Did she learn such grace from you?”
Lady Scovell curtseyed and smiled, shaking her head somewhat ruefully. Ambrose perceived the same dimple in her cheek as he had seen in Lady Frances, only visible with laughter and all the sweeter for it.
“No, I was…unwell… for much of Frances’ youth. My daughter’s grace is entirely her own, although she had the advantage of an excellent dancing mistress too.”
“I am honored to meet you both,” said Ambrose then, doubting that his dance partner would want a longer conversation now that he had performed his function as a possible suitor in her mother’s eyes. "I hope we will see one another again.”
Lifting Lady Frances’ hand in its long silken glove, the Duke of Westall bent his head over it now. Then, a sudden impulse made him touch his lips very lightly to the fabric and he heard the young woman’s breath catch in her throat.
Without meeting Lady Frances’ eyes again, the duke straightened up and walked away. Why on earth had he done that?! It had been a step more than was necessary for their small charade, but he supposed it would at least have strengthened Lady Frances’ defenses against the matchmaker. Maybe even her small sound of surprise had been part of their act..? No, he was sure it had not.
Shaking his head at his own peculiar behavior, he headed for the smoking room. Ambrose did not much appreciate tobacco himself, but did appreciate the fact that it was one of the few places he was guaranteed not to find Miss Annabelle Sinclair.
Chapter Three
“The Dowager Viscountess of Levene has arrived, Your Grace,” Burrington the butler informed the Duke of Westall as he returned from a long morning walk around Westall Park’s woodlands.
“My grandmother is here?” Ambrose questioned, blinking at this news and then sighing. “Of course, she is. It is Tuesday morning and she told me she would call. It is lucky I came back now and did not stay out until luncheon.”
“Lady Levene would doubtless have had Parker take her out in the buggy to find you, as she did last time, Your Grace,” Burrington reminded his employer with a twinkle in his eye as he took the duke’s coat and hat.
Both of them knew Euphemia Wilson, Lady Levene, well enough not to underestimate her energy and determination. She had outlived three husbands and two of her six children. Sometimes, Ambrose wondered if this indefatigable relative would outlivethem all. He could quite imagine her getting past a hundred and still riding about the countryside or gadding around London.
“Lady Levene might not even have bothered with the buggy,” the duke noted with a laugh. “My grandmother might be eight-and-seventy but she still rides a horse around her grounds every morning and has no intention of stopping. The family have begged her to at least be accompanied by a groom, although I suspect she ignores this.”
“Her Ladyship awaits you in the library,” Burrington added solemnly and then turned to close the front door.
Before Ambrose could get anywhere near the library, brisk light footsteps sounded on the stone floor and a silver-haired woman in a grey silk walking suit came marching across the hallway. Euphemia Wilson’s back and shoulders were as erect as those of a trained soldier, as her first husband, General Sir Arthur Naseby had been.
Thirty years younger than Sir Arthur, Euphemia had married her second husband, Ambrose’s grandfather, after being widowed at only three-and-twenty. When the old Duke of Westall passed away after thirty happy years together, she had then succumbed to the advances of a hearty country neighbor, Nathan Wilson, Viscount Levene, but outlived him too.
With six children between her first two marriages, and four step-children besides, Euphemia now had a fine crop of grandchildren and great-children. Ambrose’s daughter Winifred was her favorite, however, and the old lady was a frequent visitorto Westall Park, although she made her home in the Levene Hall Dower House, an hour’s drive away.
“There you are, Ambrose,” his grandmother said sternly but with smiling eyes. “I was beginning to think that I must lead a search party again. Did you not remember that I was coming today?”
“I did, but not until you were already here,” Ambrose admitted, stepping forward to kiss her dutifully on the cheek. “How well you are looking, Grandmother.”
“As are you, Ambrose, although I could wish to see more roses in your cheeks. You are looking thin and pale. You need someone to look after you.”
At this, Ambrose burst out laughing.
“My valet assured me that I looked well enough this morning and Winnie told me last week that I was the most handsome father of her acquaintance.”
“Nonsense. You cannot expect your child or your servant to see the full truth, never mind speak it,” retorted Euphemia, taking hold of her grandson’s arm and walking him back in the direction of the library. “I, however, will never mince my words.”
“I know it,” said Ambrose, amused, and glad already of her stimulating company. “Shall we ring for tea?”
“I have already done so, young man,” she responded and then paused. “Did you remember that I was bringing someone with me today?”
“Vaguely,” answered the duke, hoping that it was another elderly lady and not some pretty but vacuous granddaughter of a friend or neighbor who would make eyes at him for the rest of the morning.
“Vaguely is better than nothing, I suppose. Well, the Dowager Marchioness of Kempleforth awaits us in the library. I have been telling her all about you while we waited. She is most eager to meet you.
Now, the Duke of Westall frowned. Kempleforth – where had he heard that name recently…?
“I see you know of her,” commented Lady Levene. “Good. Well, I did tell you that if you did not see to things yourself, I would be forced to call in a competent matchmaker and now I have.”
