Page 10 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

G ray met Frances at the door, and there was a little strain around his eyes. He took her coat, bonnet, and hat, all the while exuding an air of anxiety.

“Gray?” she ventured at last. “Is something wrong?”

He met her eye with a jolt and swallowed thickly. “W-Wrong?”

“Yes. You seem worried.”

“It’s just that you came home sooner than I had imagined, Your Grace.”

Before Frances could question him further, the sound of smashing glass echoed from a room somewhere in the depths of the house, followed by a high-pitched peal of laughter. Female laughter.

Something tightened in Frances’s chest. She glanced back at Gray, who was not meeting her eyes.

“We have guests?” she managed at last, trying to sound calm.

“Yes. That is, his Grace has guests.”

“I see. And where are they?”

Gray met her eye at last. He looked apologetic. “In the ballroom, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. I shall go and introduce myself, shall I?”

Before Gray could respond, Frances set off down the hallway, following the distant sound of voices. Her chest was tight, and she was a little surprised to feel anger surging through her.

What exactly do I expect to find in this ballroom? And no matter what it is, surely I cannot believe that I have any right to object?

The ballroom door stood open, and Frances could now hear a woman talking, and another female voice—she was sure that there were two—laughing hysterically about something.

She didn’t bother to knock, striding straight into the room.

The ballroom was a cavernous room with a high ceiling, spacious enough to swallow up the entire house that Frances had lived in with Mama. It was the perfect place to host a party.

There was plenty of space, and a platform with a railing around it at the end for musicians. There were no musicians now, of course, only a pianoforte sitting forlornly in the corner. The room was empty except for four people, who stopped abruptly when Frances stormed in.

A man and a woman were in the middle of waltzing to no music, it seemed. She did not recognize either of them. A second woman was standing over by the wall, smiling coyly down at a man seated there, gripping his hand as if to pull him to his feet to dance with her. Lucien .

When she saw Frances, she dropped his hand as if it burned.

The dancing couple stumbled to a halt, the woman pressing a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles.

“Well,” Frances said at last, when the silence dragged out a little too long. “I’m glad I arrived in time for the party.”

Lucien got coolly to his feet. “How was tea with your mother? I trust you enjoyed yourself?”

She ignored his question. “Who are these people?”

He came to stand beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away. He could not have failed to notice, but did not respond in any way.

“May I present Lady Frances Russell,” Lucien announced, “The Duchess of Blackstone.”

There was a brief silence, the three strangers all staring at her. Lucien broke the silence first.

“It is customary,” Lucien said, his voice loud, clear, and almost angry , seeming to echo in the silence, “to curtsey, ladies, I believe.”

The two women turned matching shades of crimson. They murmured pleasantries and bobbed curtsies.

Frances did not recognize either of them and had never encountered them in her social circle. They were pretty enough, about twenty-five or thereabouts, dressed like gentlewomen but not elaborately so.

Their high spirits had disappeared at once, and they stood close together, seeming a little embarrassed.

The one who had been tugging at Lucien’s hand and trying to get him to dance with her did not meet Frances’s eyes.

The women did not introduce themselves, and Frances did not ask for an introduction.

The man came stepping forward and held out his hand. He smiled at Frances, the sort of charming smile she imagined he used on lots of women. She offered her hand reluctantly, and he bowed over it.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” the man said, straightening up and flashing that grin again.

“My name is Benjamin Holton. I have been very much looking forward to meeting you, and your wretch of a husband has been extremely remiss. I have hardly heard a word about you, and it’s clear that you have heard nothing about me . ”

Frances cleared her throat, folding her hands in front of her waist and trying to act calm.

“No, I have not. I haven’t seen you in London, Mr. Holton.”

“I’ve been abroad for many years. But come, where are our manners? Lucien, find a seat for your bride, can’t you? Miss Tupps, track down a servant and have tea brought, can’t you? Mrs. Black, why don’t you play us a tune on the pianoforte? And then…”

Frances stared at the man in amazement as he gave out orders in her house, just as easily as if he were the owner. Lucien watched him wryly, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his drink, benevolently allowing it.

She took a second look at Mr. Holton. He was around eight-and-twenty, she guessed, the same age as Lucien. He was good-looking, with a head of untidy chestnut-brown curls, large brown eyes, and a square, even-featured face.

He was not tall, barely taller than Frances herself, but he had a stocky and broad-shouldered build. His clothes were fine, but on closer inspection, Frances noticed a button missing from the waistcoat and subtle darning at the cuffs. His boots needed a good polishing, too.

Whoever he was, he was not a wealthy man. But he must be Lucien’s friend, as Lucien was continuing to allow him to give out orders.

“Perhaps the duchess might favour us with a pianoforte playing later?” Mr. Holton ventured.

Lucien set down his drink with an echoing clack .

“Enough, Benjamin,” he said, his voice cool and even. There was a weight to his words, however, and Mr. Holt swallowed briefly, avoiding looking at either Lucien or Frances.

“No, no, of course not,” he mumbled, seeming chastened for the first time. “Do forgive me, your Grace, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Frances wondered which Grace he was asking forgiveness from: her or Lucien?

In no time at all, it seemed, three chairs were arranged neatly in a circle.

Mrs. Black was playing a halting tune on the pianoforte, and her companion, Miss Tupps, had scuttled over to join her.

Both women appeared to want to sink into the ground with mortification.

That, of course, made Frances wonder why they felt so guilty.

“Now,” Mr. Holton said, sinking down into a seat with a sigh. “Shall we all get to know each other?”