Page 10 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 10

T hey crossed into Scotland just as twilight fell over the hills.

Frances had never seen such a sky—streaks of lavender and deep rose stretching behind the silhouette of distant mountains, the gold of fading light dusting every blade of grass like powdered fire. Even the air tasted different—untamed and clean, like freedom distilled.

She inhaled it like someone remembering how to breathe.

They did not stay long in Gretna Green.

They were safe now, or safer than before, but Frances had needed more time. And Johnathan, to his credit, had not pressed her.

“We shall remain close by,” he had said. “A day or two. Rest. Heal. Decide.”

Now, they found themselves in a sleepy, little hamlet a day and a half ride from Gretna—six cottages, an inn, and a green where children chased dogs and the older men smoked pipes beneath a gnarled old tree. Not quite a village, but a community.

Frances had not known what she expected when Johnathan told her he knew the perfect place to relax, but this quaint little corner of the world had not been it.

It felt… free.

A place where no one knew her name. Where no one expected anything from her. No masks. No rules. Just quiet.

They rented a room at the inn. It was humble—a peaked ceiling, two narrow windows, a wrought-iron bed with wool blankets and lavender sprigs tucked beneath the pillow—but after days of cold ground and campfires, it felt like a palace.

Frances sat on the edge of the bed that evening, brushing her hair free of tangles as the lamplight painted golden stripes across the wooden floor.

From the open window, she heard music—faint fiddle strains, laughter, the rhythmic thump of feet dancing on packed earth.

She rose, drawn to the sound.

Outside, a dozen villagers had gathered in the green, where someone had lit lanterns and hung garlands of flowers. A festival, she realized. Or some local celebration of spring.

She longed to feel carefree and joyous. It had been over a week since they had fled London, and felt like a lifetime. Frances watched the villagers dance with a strange ache in her chest, as though they belonged to a world she had once known but could never truly return to.

And then, on the far side of the square, she saw him.

Johnathan stood beneath a tree, arms crossed, speaking with the old innkeeper. He looked like no duke she had ever known—coat unbuttoned, collar open, wind teasing his hair. A few children ran past him, chasing one another with ribbons, and he laughed. That laugh—the one she remembered from long ago, full and reckless and boyish—cut through her chest like a blade made of sunlight.

He glanced up, and their eyes met.

Something in her stomach flipped.

She turned away before he could approach and moved back inside. Her heart beat far too quickly for someone who had no intention of dancing.

But the air inside the room suddenly felt too tight.

She set down her brush, crossed to the valise they shared, and pulled out a pale blue ribbon. One of the few embellishments she had salvaged from the start of their flight. It smelled faintly of smoke and rosewater. But wearable.

She wove it through her hair, the pinched color into her cheeks. The faint strains of fiddles and lighthearted laughter of villagers beckoned to her, urging her to let go of the fear that had weighed her down for so long.

She did not know why she did it.

Maybe it was the music.

Maybe it was the fact that she was, for the first time in days, not running.

Or maybe it was the memory of the boy who had once dared her to dance barefoot in the gardens of her family’s estate. The same boy who now stood beneath a Scottish tree, watching the locals.

She stepped into the evening air, the hem of her gown brushing the grass, her hair loose around her shoulders.

He saw her immediately.

Johnathan broke off his conversation and crossed the green.

“You came down,” he said, voice low, smile curving.

“I was intrigued.”

“They say this happens every spring,” he said, offering his arm. “I cannot let the moment pass without offering you a proper invitation.”

Her brows lifted. “Are you asking me to dance?”

He bowed low, mock-formal. “Lady Frances Rowley, would you honor me with the next set?”

She pretended to consider. “Are you any good?”

“I am a fair dancer, but I am told that flattery can improve my performance.” He offered a roguish grin.

She took his hand.

And he led her into the light.

The villagers did not blink. A new couple, dressed modestly, faces unfamiliar but friendly. The fiddle picked up a cheerful rhythm. Someone clapped, and the dance began.

Frances let him lead. There was warmth in the music, safety in the arc of his arm, and laughter catching at the corners of her mouth.

As Frances danced, a sense of lightness filled her—a feeling she had not known in what seemed like a lifetime. It was as though the music itself had washed away the weight of her fears, replacing them with something freer, something closer to hope. She felt like a woman who could make her own choices.

She danced.

Really danced.

Spinning beneath lantern light, her skirt catching the breeze, her pulse light and heart unburdened.

Johnathan’s hand never left hers.

And when the music slowed, he pulled her close—not too close, just enough that she could feel the steady rise of his breath and the quiet beat of his heart through the layers of fabric.

“You are smiling,” he murmured.

“I had not noticed.”

He leaned in. “It suits you.”

Frances swallowed, caught between breath and something deeper. “So does joy. On you.”

They did not kiss.

But they did not need to.

There, in the heart of a stranger’s hamlet, they shared something quieter than passion and stronger than any vow.

They shared peace.

The music faded, replaced by soft conversation and the rustle of grass beneath retreating feet. The locals began to drift away, lanterns swaying in their hands as they made their way home, smiling and warm from the evening’s merriment.

Frances and Johnathan stood together at the edge of the green, her hand still in his, neither one quite ready to let the night end.

“Walk with me,” he said quietly.

She did not ask where. She just nodded.

He led her through a small orchard behind the inn, the path winding between flowering trees whose petals fluttered in the breeze like confetti from some unseen celebration. The moonlight filtered through the branches, bathing everything in silver.

They stopped beside a narrow stream. A fallen log served as a makeshift bench, and Johnathan sat first, gently tugging her down beside him.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

The quiet was not heavy. It was comfortable. Like the kind shared between old friends or lovers who did not need words to feel understood.

Frances leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring down at the moon’s reflection rippling on the water.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” she murmured.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Stillness. Safety. Something that is not running.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

She searched his gaze. There was something unguarded in his expression. No mask. No jest. Just the man—no title, no scandal, no shadow of Cranford hanging over them.

“You could go back,” she said suddenly. “To London. Alone. Leave me here. They would forgive you in time.”

Johnathan’s brow furrowed. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” she said. “But it is what might make your life easier.”

He reached for her hand. “Frances. The easy life never suited me. I spent a decade trying to build a persona I thought would keep me safe. Untouchable. Alone. But I was miserable. And it was only when you burst through my door that I realized what I had given up.”

She swallowed hard.

“You make me want to be someone worth standing beside,” he said. “Not just because I have rescued you or because of a childhood promise. But because when you look at me, you see something good. And I want to believe that’s true.”

Frances turned fully toward him, heart thrumming. “It is.”

He leaned in slowly, as if asking permission without speaking.

She met him halfway.

This kiss was different from the others. It was not born of danger or desperation. It was slow, reverent—like the sealing of something they had not dared name until now.

When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.

“I am scared,” she admitted.

“So am I.”

“But I trust you.” Her lips curved into a ghost of a smile.

His arms tightened around her. “Then let us face our fear together.”

They stayed like that for a long time, the scent of blooming apple blossoms in the air, the wind rustling through grass, the stars above blinking down like quiet sentinels.

Eventually, they rose, fingers laced.

They did not need the music anymore.

They danced again—just the two of them—beneath the branches and the stars. No steps to remember. No audience to perform for.

Only Frances and Johnathan, moving together as if they always had.

As if they always would.

They returned to the inn well past midnight.

The fire in the common room had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone hearth and wooden floor. The world outside had gone still again, the kind of stillness that soothed the soul.

Johnathan opened the door to their room for her, and Frances stepped inside. She did not hesitate. She did not look back.

There were no expectations between them. No assumptions.

Only truth.

She sat at the edge of the bed and removed her shoes, watching the pale moonlight spill across the quilt. The blue ribbon had come loose. Her hair, once carefully brushed, had tangled again from the dancing.

Johnathan crossed the room and knelt in front of her.

She did not speak as he took her hands gently in his.

“Frances,” he said, voice rough from emotion, “whatever happens next… whatever decision you make about tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that… I want you to know something.”

She nodded for him to continue.

“I would walk through fire for you. But I would also wait. For as long as it takes.”

Tears stung her eyes, yet she smiled through them. “You are not the man they say you are.”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.

He kissed her—slowly, sweetly.

Not to possess. Not to convince.

Just to be close.

They lay together afterward in the quiet hush of the inn, fully clothed and wrapped in woolen blankets, the tips of their fingers tangled between them on the mattress.

Sleep came slowly, but peacefully.

Frances drifted with her head against his chest, the rhythm of his breathing guiding her into dreams.

She dreamed of nothing extravagant.

Only of laughter, and summer wind, and a hand in hers beneath starlight.

The next morning, Frances awoke with the birdsong.

The hamlet was already stirring—someone drew water from the well, a door creaked open across the green, and a child’s delighted squeal echoed through the air.

She sat up and turned to find Johnathan still asleep, hair tousled, one arm outstretched where she had lain.

For a long moment, she watched him.

She remembered all the versions of him she had known—the mischievous boy with scraped knees, the wounded young man who fled London, the brooding rogue who had burst into a church to steal her away, and now this one. The one who held her gently in the night and said nothing of his own pain until she asked.

All of them were real.

But this man—the one who had listened, who had waited, who had risked everything—this was the man she could fall in love with.

Had already fallen for him once.

Had already begun to again.

She rose quietly and crossed to the window. The sun crested over the hills, gilding the rooftops in soft amber. And in the distance, the road stretched on—uncertain, unknown, but no longer terrifying.

Not if they faced it together.

Frances closed her eyes.

Soon, they would talk of marriage again.

Of Gretna Green.

But not today.

Today, they would walk hand in hand to the market and barter for apples and bread. They would speak to strangers as if they were not fugitives but travelers. They would smile and pretend for just a little longer that the world was kind.

Today, they would choose joy.

And under the same stars where they had danced, Frances would allow herself to believe—not just in love, but in the kind of future that had once seemed impossible.

One forged not by expectation or duty…

…but by choice. Like dancing beneath stars. Like waking to sunlight and laughter. Like love, softly spoken.

For now, they had this moment, this space between them, where nothing else mattered but the quiet of the world, the warmth of his hand, and the promise of a life they could choose together.