“But why was he in his study with Annabelle Sinclair?” Frances almost wailed. “Why did he marry me for money? And why did he buy four nightgowns and only give me three?”
Lord Scovell frowned and shook his head before a slight smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
“I do not know, but I think you ought to ask Ambrose. I know little of either Miss Sinclair and less of the nightgowns but I suspect that all might not be as you believe. Certainly, he did not marry you for money, though. God knows where you got that idea.”
“I know he bought four gowns,” Frances gabbled, trying to justify her doubts to herself. “I saw the receipt and I even went and spoke to the dressmaker who sold them. One was a larger size and he told the dressmaker it was because he was unsure what would fit me, but the other three were perfect. Where did it go if he didn’t gift it to Annabelle Sinclair?”
Now Lord Scovell did smile gently.
“Perhaps it is in a drawer and Ambrose is too embarrassed to admit his mistake. Perhaps he intends to have it altered for you and will gift it later. Perhaps he dropped it in ink or coffee on hisdesk while he was wrapping it for you and has thrown it away. Who knows, Frances? You never will unless you ask him.”
“Do you think I’m being ridiculous, Father?” Frances sighed, smiling sadly at herself. “Do you think it would be absurd for me to leave Ambrose?”
“I don’t find you ridiculous at all, Frances,” Lord Scovell answered. “Nor do I think it would be absurd to leave Ambrose, if you really felt you had just cause. But to leave him on account of a missing nightgown and having seen him briefly with a young lady whom he has already admitted has pursued him around the town…? Yes, that would be absurd.”
“Why is it all so complicated?” Frances asked herself more than her father.
“Do you want to leave him?” her father asked her directly. “Do you want to end this marriage, come back to Scovell Hall and get a formal separation? I would make that happen if it was really what you want.”
Now, Frances shook her head and tears pricked her eyes yet again.
“I don’t want that at all, but I can’t think straight, somehow. Things like the nightgown, or Annabelle Sinclair, or the idea that he married me for financial gain…they all hurt me more than they should.”
“Why do you think that might be?” Lord Scovell put to her and Frances realized that it was a leading question as she answered it.
“Because I love him,” she sobbed as her father put an arm about her shoulders and patted her back for the first time in many years. “It’s because I love him…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was a little after eleven o’clock when Ambrose heard the sound of carriage wheels approaching along the drive at Westall Park. Jumping up from his seat in the library and casting down the letter that the Duke of Redford had written from Paris, he strode to the window and saw a coach approaching in the distance.
While it was still too far away to make out any crest on the vehicle, his gut, or perhaps only his hopes, told him that it was one of Lord Scovell’s coaches. It was hard to stop himself from rushing outside and racing ahead down the path to meet the coach, as he wished to do.
More soberly, he hoped that Winnie had neither seen nor heard the vehicle from the nursery schoolroom, in case he was wrong about its provenance. Even after three days of absence, little Winifred was missing her stepmother terribly. Ambrose’s explanation that Frances was sick and resting at her parents’ house sufficed for now, but could not be stretched out for ever.
The house had seemed terribly empty without Frances’ presence, far emptier than it had ever seemed in the all years that he and Winnie had lived here together without her. The emptiness was made worse by the pitying glances of servants whenever they thought Ambrose unaware. Evidently, many of them thought that Frances had left him after that incident with Annabelle Sinclair, and they might be right.
As for Ambrose’s bed, it had never felt so large and cold, even though he had slept alone there most of the time since inheriting the duchy. He dreamed of Frances’ warmth and kept one of the silk nightgowns she had worn beneath a pillow, hoping that its scent would not fade too quickly.
By the time the coach pulled up before the house, its doors emblazoned with the Scovell crest, Ambrose was walking down the steps and waving a footman aside to open the door himself.
There was only one occupant, and Frances met his eyes rather shyly.
“Welcome home,” he said with a small bow, just as wary of embracing her now as he had been at the start. “We have a lot to talk about.”
The Duke of Westall took a deep breath and waited for Frances to make herself comfortable in the library chair while he stood by the mantelpiece. While still a little pale, she seemed well and quite as delicately lovely as ever in a light blue summer dress.
“Where shall we start, Frances?” he opened, knowing that it would hurt to gaze on his wife for too long without hope. “As I said in my letter, you may ask any questions you wish. It is better to clear the air. Then we can see whether we can start again. I have already explained about my father’s will and hope that at least is clear.”
“Why did the scandal sheets say that you had a mistress?” Frances asked first, without further preamble.
“Because Annabelle Sinclair told them so. It was a deliberate lie and they printed it anyway. As the maid who acted as her intermediary with these publications is presently in Paris with Colin I do not think we will be seeing any more such stories.”
“With Colin?” Frances queried and Ambrose laughed and waved his hand.
“You may read his letter from Paris later. It is very funny. But coming back to your original question, there was no more basis to this rumor than Miss Sinclair’s imagination.”
“Then why were you kissing her?” his wife asked and Ambrose immediately shook his head.
