“I must write back to Beatrice,” she sighed, sipping her coffee and drawing up her knees a little. “It has been two days since her note arrived, although I am sure she will have many other friends to occupy her time in London. I have not replied to Lydia either.”
“You should go to town and meet Beatrice,” Ambrose commented. “An older sister is likely better than general friends, for a girl just coming out.”
His words were at odds with his actions, his lips simultaneously at Frances’ neck and one hand gently cupping her breast again, regardless of the tray on the bed. Frances laughed and arched into him as much as she could without tipping the tray.
“You say that but you don’t want me to go,” she told him with certainty.
“True,” Ambrose agreed. “But you still should. Otherwise Beatrice will feel neglected and I will never answer all my outstanding correspondence. My agents will eventually come to find me and I shall look like a fool. Or perhaps only like a husband with a highly desirable new wife.”
Frances pressed her soft pink lips on his and regarded Ambrose with an expression that both scalded and melted him.
“You have made my whole world look different,” she told him seriously. “I don’t think I have ever been so happy as this week. I did not believe I could be.”
Ambrose’s heart felt aglow at this praise, while his body tingled anew with faint fresh desire. After restraining himself for a few more minutes, he put the tray aside and set about making his wife happy yet again, his body wrapped around her back, his rod deeply embedded and his fingers playing gently in her wet fur.
When they had temporarily sated their appetites for both food and sensual pleasure, Frances finally rose from the bed and stretched at the window before Ambrose’s admiring eyes. Stooping, she picked up a small piece of paper from the floor.
“Madame Rousset,” she read aloud, casting an amused glance back towards the bed. “‘Parisian night and daywearà la mode.’ Is this your French mistress or the dressmaker that I must thank for my nightgowns?”
“You have caught me out,” Ambrose laughed, sharing the absurdity of the joke. “But now that I am discovered, I shall tell all my mistresses, both French and English, that my wife will not share me. I am yours alone, Frances.”
“I am very glad to hear that…”
The smile on her face flickered for a moment as she turned over the paper and looked at what was written on the back, presumably only the details of the gowns. Madame Rousset would surely not have written the prices on the packing slip, would she? Oh well, it was no great indiscretion. The smile returned to Frances’ face a moment later.
“I shall dress and go to London to see Beatrice,” she pronounced. “I can’t hide here forever, can I? However much I might wish to. That should also give you time to deal with your correspondence.”
“It would be for the best,” Ambrose agreed with mock gravity. “It appears that you have a husband with very little self-controlaround you, Duchess Frances. While you are here, it is a sorry state of affairs. I can only turn my mind to new ways in which to seduce you back to my bed, or over my desk, or on the ground in the woods…”
“I look forward to hearing more of your imaginings when I return tonight,” Frances answered with an arched eyebrow as she opened the communicating door to her own rooms.
In the carriage on the way to London, Frances still felt strong, buoyed with life, and beyond the reach of the fears that had assailed her since the Fordham House ball.
Ambrose would have done his best to quash the scandal sheet story, but even if it was still on anyone’s lips in town, Frances could imagine now laughing it off. There was no truth left in it at all, and nothing to fear.
Frances was an adult woman and the Duchess of Westall. She had been thoroughly claimed by her husband and was his wife in every sense. The sensation of Ambrose inside her was still fresh and vivid, and her womanhood felt damp and tingling whenever she thought of him.
Whatever anyone else thought of the state of her marriage no longer mattered. When Frances bore her first child, how ridiculous such gossip would seem to everyone then!
A baby… Frances’ smile both deepened and softened at this idea. How long might it take before she fell with child? Or might it already have happened? She would ask Ambrose. It would feel strange to consult her mother, and Lydia would only know the answer for horses, not humans. Frances also wondered if Winifred would welcome a little brother or sister. Yes, she likely would.
Frances was still smiling when she finally arrived at the fashionable café where she was to meet Beatrice, and perhaps Lydia too, if her friend received her note in time, and saw that she was in town today. She was about a quarter hour early and ordered some tea while she waited.
The other occupants of the café were largely groups of very young women and their mamas, largely eating colorful ices. Some sat together and some at separate tables, presumably to allow freer gossiping for the older ladies. It was not a venue Frances would have chosen. She supposed that it must be one of the places that was “in” for the younger people in London this year.
It was not long before Frances’ ear tuned into the sound of the whispering, just as she had at the ball.
“…the Duchess of Westall…poor thing!”
“…can’t blame him though, if it’s true…”
“…doesn’t say who, but there must be someone…”
Calmly, Frances drank her tea and paid the whisperers no attention. How ridiculous that this story should still be occupying their attention more than a week after its publication. Had there really been no greater scandal in London since then? Surely society was overdue an elopement or a scandalous criminal conversation case for this Season.
Dreamily, she thought of Ambrose’s eyes, the color of the midnight sky, gazing down into her own eyes with intense desire and concentration as their bodies thrust together. She thought too of the warmth and security of simply lying in his arms, and of their shared laughter and fun with Winnie.
This was Frances’ real marriage, not the weeks of uncertainty, self-doubt and nervousness that had preceded it, and had then been held up for social mockery by some unidentified enemy. She was grateful for Ambrose’s patience, advancing step by step towards her since their betrothal until she was ready to be in his arms.
