Page 13 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

“What circumstances are these? The circumstances of me getting dressed for bed in the privacy of my own room? How audacious of me,” Lucien responded dryly.

All the fury of earlier came rushing back, and Frances found herself taking several steps forward until she was barely a forearm’s length away from Lucien.

“You are extremely irritating, do you know that?”

Lucien gave a faint smile. “I have heard it said, yes. What is this about, O’ dear wife of mine?”

Her blood boiled. “What is this about? What is it about ? Can’t you take a guess?”

“I couldn’t possibly. It could not be regarding Benjamin and his guests, as I came to your room at the time and requested to speak about it. You refused, and so the matter is closed.”

Frances blinked up at him. Had she really been intending to apologize only minutes ago?

“Just because our union is one of convenience and contracts does not mean that you can humiliate me in my own home,” she managed at last. “May I remind you, too, that I am the one who must bear you an heir, not any of the women with whom you spend your time. Perhaps you might remember that in future.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You presume too much, my dear.”

She waved a finger in his face. “Do not call me your dear . I am not your dear. I am a duchess , as you made me. My name is Frances, or else I suppose you can call me Your Grace .”

In a flash, his hand shot out, long, cool fingers wrapping around her wrist. He jerked her arm side, not roughly, but she knew without trying that she would not be easily able to wrench her wrist out of his grip.

He stepped forward, coming almost nose to nose with her.

“You might be the duchess, but I am the duke,” he breathed. “Be very careful, Frances.”

She tugged her wrist away, and he released her. Taking a step backward, Frances drew much-needed air into her lungs.

She felt as though her skin were on fire.

As if all of it were on fire, goosebumps prickling up and down her entire body.

She was breathless, like she had just run up and down a flight of stairs in a great hurry, or as if her corset were too tight.

There was an ache in the pit of her stomach. Frances did recognize that feeling.

She’d noticed it before, when she was reading particularly breathless romances, the ones where the author said rather too much for respectability.

But this feeling, while similar, was so much more intense.

And under the circumstances, considering the lack of reading material before her, she had to be honest with herself.

It was Lucien who was making her feel this way. Yes, he was attractive, to be sure, but Frances had encountered attractive men before, and they had not inspired this sharp spark of desire. She imagined it as a flame, growing inside her, licking at the underside of her heart.

Swallowing hard—and memorizing that particular description for Eleanor’s exploits—Frances took yet another step back.

Distance. Yes, that was what she needed. The more distance between them, the better. Backing away might make her look weak, so she would have to carefully gauge just how much distance to put between them.

She held Lucien’s gaze, trying to breathe evenly. The ache of desire remained in her gut, no matter how much she tried to reason it away. Well, there was no need to let him see just how much he had rattled her.

He had still not put his clothes on. In fact, at some point, he had dropped the linen shirt he had been holding and was now standing with his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with each angry breath.

He was angry, Frances noticed, to her surprise. Not the heated sort of fury that might make her wish she had not confronted him, but something colder and sharper.

“So you wish to hold this over my head, do you?” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know my need for an heir, and you’d hold it against me?”

“We had a bargain,” she insisted. “You would earn my trust. We would get to know each other. And now I feel that I know you less than I did when we first stood at the altar.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, it is! I thought you would be… that is to say, I wanted…” Frances floundered a little.

What did she want? Perhaps she should have thought about that before she came storming in here.

Sighing, Frances felt some of her anger trickle away.

She held her arms out to either side, a little helplessly.

“You humiliated me, Lucien. I came home, and it was so clear that everybody knew what was going on and pitied me. You should have seen the way Gray avoided my eye. And then those women were here, and I caught the way they looked at me. And Mr. Holton treated me like a guest—an uninvited one—in my own home. As if I don’t already feel like such an intrusion. I was humiliated .”

There was a short silence after that. Lucien held her gaze, his stare unwavering. Then he gave a long, slow exhale, shoulders deflating. She saw that his skin was breaking out in goosebumps, no doubt from the chill of the room. She found herself fighting the urge to run her fingertips over it.

“I did not mean to humiliate you, Frances,” he said at last, voice low.

“Please believe me. I did not invite Benjamin, and while I would have welcomed his presence, I certainly did not invite those women. Frankly, I cannot remember their names. I was as unfriendly and sharp as politeness allowed, but they seemed to ignore it altogether. I know that I should have asked them to leave, but I was taken by surprise, and then it was too late. And while Benjamin can be something of a trial, he is my friend, and I do care for him.”

There was a short silence after this. Frances held his gaze, green eyes meeting grey. She found herself wanting to find a seat, but there was nowhere to sit except for the bed, and that was out of the question.

“I see,” she said at last, her voice wobbling. “I… I don’t mean to prevent you from entertaining your own friends in your own house. Ours is a marriage of convenience, and so I have no right to tell you how to behave. But those women…”

“Those women, or any like them, will not enter our home again,” Lucien interrupted firmly.

He took a step toward her, and Frances found that she struggled to breathe again.

What was it about the wretched man that he seemed to steal the air from her very lungs?

Why did he have to look at her in that way?

“I did not mean it,” Lucien continued, “but I am not the sort of man who refuses to admit his faults. While it was unintentional, I did humiliate you. I ought to have been firmer with Benjamin. I should have explained the situation earlier, instead of letting this fester. I am sorry, Frances.”

She blinked, taken aback. An apology? She hadn’t expected that.

“Think nothing of it,” she managed at last, feeling ungracious.

“Now, let us focus on the problem at hand. You say that I have not earned your trust, and that you know me less than you did when we first met.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Frances mumbled. “It’s not true and is probably impossible in any case.”

“Quite. But tell me, please, what I must do to win your trust.”

There was a long silence after that. Frances dragged her eyes from the ground—when had she dropped her gaze?—and stared at him.

His earlier words came back to her with a hammer-blow force.

“Now, I intend to be a suitable husband and will not share your bed until you wish it, but make no mistake. This is not a love match. I am not wooing you. I am simply going along with your wishes until we both have what we want. This marriage of ours, my dear, is one of convenience. You must never lose sight of that.”

It would be easy for a silly young woman to stare in the duke’s clear, steady, grey gaze and see what she wanted inside those eyes. She might see love or at least the potential for it. But hadn’t he warned her against such a thing?

He had told her, clearly and plainly, that no matter how loving he may seem to be, it was only to achieve his own aims with the least discomfort and inconvenience to herself. He was a patient man, that was clear, but nevertheless one who would do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted.

And what he wants is an heir, not me.

Swallowing thickly, she hastily compiled a list in her head.

“Well, you will have to make me laugh, at the very least,” Frances said, as firmly as she could manage. “You must care about my interests. You mustn’t order me around. You are to ask me questions about myself, which you have not done, and I expect a…”

In the blink of an eye, Lucien lunged forward, coming almost nose-to-nose with her again.

She gave a squeak of alarm, wobbling backwards, but he saved her from falling, catching her by both forearms, his cool fingers pressing against the insides of her wrists.

He was so close that even by candlelight, she could see traces of gold in his grey eyes.

“Now, my dear duchess, I am not sure we need all of that,” he murmured, his gaze dark and intense. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the heat coming from his body. Her heart hammered, and desire knotted itself in her gut.

“I…” she squeaked, but words would not come. A slow smile spread across Lucien’s face, his grin wide and white and wolfish.

“Cat got your tongue? Oh, dear. You see, the thing is, Frances, I don’t need all of those things to impress you. I rather think that you already desire me more than you’d care to admit.”

Now that helped to cut through the haze of Frances’s desire.

“That,” she snapped, “is untrue.”

“Oh? Is it?”

He lifted one hand, the knuckle of his forefinger trailing along the curve of her jaw. The touch seemed to tingle, prickles shooting down her neck. Frances swallowed reflexively, fully aware that her eyes had widened and flush had spread over her cheeks, which he could not fail to notice.

“I think,” Lucien whispered, his voice rasping and low, “that you are enjoying being at my mercy already.”