The Seduction of a Duke (31 page)

So Fran did, noting how she smiled prettily up to William while lightly tapping the right side of her face with the closed fan. She seemed deeply engaged in the conversation.

“She’s asking when she can see him,” Emma observed. “Look at that!” Though hushed, Emma’s voice clearly expressed her outrage. “She wants to speak privately with him, though by that look on her face, it’s not talking she has in mind.”

Fran studied Emma. She had heard of individuals who could read another’s words by the shape of their lips. Did Emma possess that talent? “How do you know?”

“By the way she uses her fan. One of the spinsters teaches a class on the language of the fan at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies. With all those girls practicing, I’ve become rather expert at interpretation.” Emma smiled.

Fran had heard mention of such a secret language but never gave it much credence. It could hardly be secret if another across the room could interpret the motions. But then perhaps this was another strange courtship ritual unique to England. “Did you speak with Nicholas by means of a fan?” Fran asked, intrigued.

Emma blushed for no apparent reason. “I’m afraid I lost my fan fairly early in our courtship.” She averted her gaze. “We spoke in the ordinary fashion.”

Fran glanced back at William. She couldn’t tell if he was responding to these apparent signals from Lady Mandrake. He did stroke a finger up the side of his face that sent a slight jolt of alarm through her. “Is there a secret language for men as well? One by which to respond?”

Emma thought a moment. “No, I don’t think so. At least, there is nothing that we’ve covered at the school. I suppose I’ll have to ask Nicholas about that.”

That wouldn’t help her for the present, Fran thought. She’d like to interpret these so-called signals sent by Lady Mandrake herself. Even more, she’d like to know how to send out signals herself in the event that William could interpret them. She turned her back to the assembly in the room. “Can you show me some of these motions?”

Emma managed to show her some of the basic movements before Nicholas joined the group. His eyes narrowed on the couple on the far side of the room before he shifted his gaze to his wife, then Fran. His expression brightened. “It appears I am once again honored by the company of the two most beautiful women in all of England.”

“Now that we are all assembled,” Lady Rosalyn announced. “Let us proceed to the dining room.”

DAMNATION! IF HE DIDN’T ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH on his hands with the abbey crumbling overhead, a royal visit for which to prepare, and a tantalizing wife to resist, now, thanks to his high-handed aunt, his former mistress seemed anxious to reestablish relations. There he sat, next to the viper that seemed determined to find a way into his bed, and across from his comely wife who would do the same given an opportunity. By his own determination, he had closed himself off from the one he wanted, which only served to encourage the one he didn’t. His brother enjoyed his predicament entirely too much. While his aunt remained seemingly unaware of the problems she had wrought.

“Bedford, your aunt tells me you’ve been working ceaselessly to bring this magnificent abbey back to its formal glory. Have your efforts extended to the gardens?” Lily stopped the slow fluttering of her open fan to shield her next words from the rest of the table. “Meet me there later.”

A loud snap like the crack of a whip pulled his attention across the table to his wife. She fluttered her aggressively opened fan with a passion. “We have a large pile of discarded weeds that you may examine, Lady Mandrake, but as we’ve only been back for a short period of time, the gardens haven’t yet shown the benefit of our efforts.”

Franny’s finely drawn brows raised in what appeared to be a dare. He almost choked on his wine. When had his gentle, generally reclusive wife taken such an aggressive turn? Of course, he’d known of her rather forward efforts in the area of intimacy, but not in a social setting. Perhaps if he hadn’t been trying to avoid her these past several days, he’d have been forewarned of her “sea change.”

Lily slowly closed her fan. Franny mirrored the action, then pressed the closed fan to her left cheek, her gaze intent on Lady Mandrake.

William felt Lily stiffen beside him. He seemed to be in the midst of a silent duel, the weapons—the innocuous hand fan accompanied by intense, narrowed stares. Like two peacocks, engaged in spreading their plumage for a peahen’s attention, so did these two repeatedly spread and close their fans. Emma and his aunt watched the volley with great intent, lips parted as if ready to cheer the victor. He glanced toward Nicholas who simply shrugged. The Viscount was too engaged with his roast venison to observe the proceedings.

“I know the ball is to occur within two weeks,” Lily said, drawing her closed fan through a tunnel created by her fingers. “But when is the Prince of Wales to arrive?”

While William could have easily answered her query, he thought it best to remain silent. He settled back in his chair to watch his wife in this feminine battle of wills.

Franny smiled, then raised her fan above her left ear as if to lightly tap at the nest of plumes fastened there. Lady Rosalyn gasped. Emma smiled.

“I believe Bertie likes to keep his own schedule,” Franny replied. “We hope he arrives after the repairs are complete on his room. They should be completed in a week.” Her gaze shifted to him. “Do I not have that correct, Bedford?”

He nodded, enjoying his wife’s apparent success at whatever was transpiring. Lily placed her closed fan on the table beside her plate. He wondered if that was some admission of defeat.

Franny tapped a partially opened fan on her lower lip as if deep in thought. “I believe most of the staterooms are under some sort of repair . . . in which room were you placed?”

Lady Rosalyn responded, a note of urgency in her voice. “I had them installed in the red stateroom, next to the Duke.”

“Pity,” William said, his gaze locked with Franny’s. She had the most amazing twinkle in her eyes; it could rival the diamonds around her neck. “I believe that room is scheduled to be draped for plastering tomorrow.” He glanced quickly at Lily. “Had we known you were coming . . .”

Lily narrowed her eyes at Franny. “It is well we haven’t completely unpacked. We should be able to move to another room if it will accommodate your preparations.”

“I believe all the staterooms will be worked to some extent,” Franny said. “Perhaps we should leave things as they are and forgo the improvements on your room until after your departure. I would think that would result in the least upheaval to your comfort.”

“Excellent suggestion,” the Viscount offered from his seat next to Lady Rosalyn. “Our room will be fine just the way it is. We’re just grateful to be welcomed into your hospitable home.”

William nodded. He imagined given the Viscount’s run of finances that the words were heartfelt and sincere. He glanced toward Franny. Her wrist extended just above the table and held her fully opened fan. When she turned her head from the Viscount’s direction toward him, the black lace hid the lower part of her face leaving just her eyes visible. But what eyes! Her glance toward him smoldered with a passion that he felt square in his groin. If this was the result of winning an argument, by God, she could win every argument for the rest of his natural life.

“Yes.” Aunt Rosalyn signaled for the footman to pull back her chair. “With that, I believe it’s time for the ladies to leave the men to their port.”

Fran felt a heat infuse her that no fan could alleviate. Already a bit giddy from her triumphant volley with the former mistress, when she caught William’s gaze, a jolt of sensual awareness sizzled through her that glued her to her chair. Inexplicably, it had nothing to do with Bridget’s journal, her corset, or any attempts to draw attention to her more feminine features. She saw admiration, appreciation, and desire for her in his gaze. Just her.

She almost regretted Lady Rosalyn’s signal to leave and thus hesitated, perhaps a bit too long, as now she was filing out of the room with Lady Mandrake by her side.

“He doesn’t love you,” the woman said in low tones. “He only married you for your money.”

Her words stung because Fran knew them to be true. William certainly had not spoken of love, yet that look they had shared . . .

“He’ll be back in my bed,” Mandrake hissed. “You’ll see.”

Fran stopped short, drawing Lady Mandrake to a halt as well. She called on her mother’s training to mask both the hurt inflicted by the vile woman’s words and the hope that William did indeed care for her. Exposing such a desire to this woman could only result in further scorn, so she kept that hidden. She did, however, appreciate the opportunity to use a bit of that colorful language she had acquired as a result of Bridget’s journal.

“Should the Duke choose your affections over my own, I shall still be his wife. I shall still be the Duchess of Bedford. And that would make you, Lady Mandrake, little more than a carrion hunter with horns to sell and a cunny with the wear of a hobbyhorse.”

She left the woman sputtering behind her as she hurried to catch Emma on her way to look in on her precious daughter.

 

 

PROGRESS WAS A NOISY PROPOSITION.

The urgency surrounding the renovations meant workers attacked the western façade at the first break of light. Echoes of hammers and chisels disrupted morning dreams, directions shouted from one laborer to another challenged decorum, wagons jostling heavy loads rattled illusions of tranquility.

Even though William frequently found himself in the midst of the renovation chaos and took great pride in leaving this stamp on the Chambers legacy, he found that he needed to occasionally escape it as well. On those occasions he had his stallion, Chiron, brought round, then he headed for the quiet of the countryside.

Paths wove through the surrounding plain to a stretch of woods that dampened the construction cacophony. Beyond the woods, tenant farmers worked the estate land, turning fields into productive acreage.

This was the true legacy of his dukedom, the land. Riding along the paths proved a balm to the spirit, allowing him to set aside the multitude of details requiring address before Bertie’s arrival. For a brief time he could dismiss his aunt’s continued complaints about Franny’s appropriateness as a duchess. The more he observed Franny, the more he was convinced she was eminently qualified for the role if she would just assert herself in that position. He chuckled softly to himself. She fairly well asserted herself in that battle of fans last night at dinner. Though he wasn’t sure the exact nature of the grievance that led to that feminine test of wills, he could tell Franny emerged the victor. Even though Lady Rosalyn would vehemently disagree, it was a good sign that Franny was coming into her own.

Of course, if he hadn’t been purposively avoiding his wife, he would have been able to support her in testing her authority. However, to be near her and not touch her . . . it was just too difficult.

Stop that! He scolded himself. Stop tormenting yourself with thoughts of Franny. It shouldn’t be long before the truth of her condition would be obvious. Then he would be free to enjoy the full benefit of those marriage vows. He would be able to touch her dewy skin and taste her honeyed sweetness in the most intimate of settings. He would brush her silky hair and she would tell him stories of talking beasts and magic wishes. He found his lips turning into a smile, imagining the light in her eyes when he presented her with the fairy-tale books he’d ordered to help stock the depleted library. Imagining she would thank him with a kiss, or maybe with the artful employment of that ostrich plume, or . . .

Damnation! He was doing it again!

Trying to extricate himself from thoughts of his wife, he spied a mysterious swath of blue at the edge of a field dotted with the yellow flowers of squash plants. He turned Chiron to investigate.

Although the thickly veiled hat would hide her identity to most, the fashionable riding habit combined with the beekeeper’s protective netting, proclaimed that the wearer could only be Franny. He smiled. Who else would consort with a gnarled old beekeeper with a full set of whiskers in the middle of a vegetable patch and have no thought as to the appropriateness of her being or attire?

“Franny!” he shouted.

The hat tilted his way before she quickly passed a frame of sorts to farmer Thackett, then dashed toward the edge of the field. Her mount, Thalia, if he wasn’t mistaken, waited a distance away from the series of boxed hives.

“Franny, wait!” he shouted as he urged Chiron forward to follow.

He was closing in, when she expertly mounted Thalia, turning the mare toward a path that would take her back toward the woods.

William followed close behind. What in blazes did she think she was doing? He had to admit as Thalia sailed over a fallen tree, his wife knew how to sit a horse. He would have felt more secure about her abilities if she weren’t wearing that heavy veiling. It had pulled loose from her hat and whipped about behind her. He saw her reach toward the veiling a moment before a low tree branch caught her raised arm unaware. Thrown off balance, she fell from the racing horse, her cry of distress ending abruptly with a dull thud.