Page 14 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

N ow would be the time, Frances thought, to say something clever and sharp. Something exceptionally witty, to diffuse the tension of the moment and neatly extricate myself. Eleanor would manage such a thing.

To her disappointment, however, no such witty comment came to mind. Real life, unfortunately, did not have the same sparkle as fiction, it seemed.

Instead, Frances found herself staring up at Lucien with huge eyes, her jaw hanging loose, blood pounding in her ears and desire churning in her gut. He pinched her chin ever so slightly, almost teasingly, then lifted the pad of his thumb to swipe across her lower lip.

Frances was quite sure that all of the air had gone out of the room and that she was minutes away from suffocation. She had read plenty of depictions of desire in various books, but none of them were so physical .

Her legs had turned to jelly, so perhaps Cecilia’s constant swooning was not so very unrealistic, but her gut tied itself in knots, and the place between her legs throbbed in a way that Cecilia never described.

He cupped her cheek, the warmth from his palm soaking into her skin, and Frances felt that she was somehow entranced. Hypnotized, even.

“Wallflower indeed,” Lucien murmured, his voice catching in a way that it had not done before. In a smooth, practiced movement, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Now, Frances had read about hundreds of kisses in the books she had devoured over the years. Some seemed delightful, others sweet, others merely uncomfortable. She had not, however, ever been kissed herself.

It’s not at all like the books, she thought hazily.

Lucien’s lips were soft and firm, pressed against hers as if he were trying to taste her.

One of his hands still lingered against her jaw, fingertips beginning to graze the tender skin of her neck.

His other hand rested on her waist, just above the curve of her hip.

Frances had not waltzed often, but when she did, the gentlemen generally put their hands on her waist in just that place. It had never bothered her much before. With all her layers of clothing in the way, she could barely feel their touch.

This time was entirely different. For starters, there was only one thin layer of fabric between her skin and his, the warmth of his hand burning her. She was entirely sure that if she were to look now, she’d find a hand-sized print on her side.

The tip of his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, giving Frances something of a jolt. Should she be taking a more active part in the kiss? Her insides were in turmoil, wanting to do everything at once, and in the end, she found that she froze, unable to do anything.

Her fingers curled around the curve of Lucien’s bare shoulders, giving her something of a start. When had she decided to touch him?

It didn’t matter. His skin was warm and smooth, and when one of her hands slid further over his shoulder, she felt muscles shift under the skin when he moved.

Something about her touch seemed to excite him, and he growled faintly under his breath, pressing her closer against him. Now the heat was suffusing Frances’s whole body, making her gasp aloud. His hand splayed out over the small of her back, and he shifted, breaking the kiss.

Frances sucked in a breath as if she had not breathed for minutes on end. There was no time to react in any way before Lucien tilted his head, fitting his lips to the space underneath her jaw.

The skin there was soft and sensitive, his lips sending a flurry of sensations hurtling down her spine.

Gasping aloud, Frances tilted her head backwards, closing her eyes and letting the sensations rush through her.

She let one hand slide from Lucien’s shoulder, her palm pressing against the firm, muscled curve of his chest.

I can feel his heart beating under his skin.

Was it her imagination, or was that heart beating faster? Frances’s certainly was. Blood seemed to pound harder in her veins, making her dizzy. She felt a gentle scrape of teeth against the side of her neck, not enough to leave a mark but certainly enough to be felt.

Arousal shot through her, hot and impossible to ignore. At the same instant, he placed his hand on her side, higher up this time. The hand inched upwards, until Lucien’s fingertips nudged at the underside of her breast.

Frances’s eyes flew open, panic cooling the red-hot desire in her chest.

Is this it? Is he going to bed me? Does it usually happen in such a rush? Perhaps it is too late for me to change my mind. Perhaps after tonight, I will be carrying a child, and then there’ll be no need for him to concern himself with me ever again.

She felt the same barely-there press of teeth against the side of her neck, but there was hardly any pleasure in it this time, only panic.

And then, quite abruptly, all the sensations ceased. Lucien released her, leaning back, and stepped away.

Cool air seemed to rush in between them, making Frances stagger. She found herself reaching out for him, wanting the contact again, wanting to feel like that again.

A red flush had spread over Lucien’s face, climbing up from the center of his bare chest. He breathed heavily, shoulders heaving, and his hair was disarranged.

Had she put her fingers in his hair? Frances could not remember; her memories already hazy.

She remembered sliding her hands everywhere—over his shoulders, down his chest and the ripple of his stomach, up his sides and along the curve of his neck—so perhaps she had put her hands into his hair.

She found herself wishing she could remember the texture.

Was his hair soft? It looked as though it was.

“That is enough, I think,” Lucien said at last. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting at the top of his voice, and there was a barely-there tremor in his words.

Frances blinked. “I… I don’t understand.”

He tilted his head, grinning wryly. “It’s late. I am tired. Besides, you wanted to trust me, did you not? Well, at this moment, I am not sure that I can trust myself with you. Perhaps a parting would be prudent. So, off to bed, wife. Alone.”

The last word, the pointedly added alone, made Frances shiver again. Had the room always been so cold? It seemed that just moments ago, the room was almost too hot to bear.

She opened her mouth to speak, not entirely sure what she planned to say. The fear had receded just as quickly as it had come, leaving only the persistent throb of want .

I do want him. More than anything, I think.

Lucien narrowed his eyes, perhaps sensing her reluctance. “Don’t let me tell you again, wife. I am the duke, after all. I’m sure you don’t want me to fling you over my shoulder and carry you to your bed, hm?”

Perhaps I do want that.

He took a step towards her, and Frances turned on her heel and fled, red-faced.

He did not pursue her, and she could not decide whether she was relieved or disappointed by this. Darting back into her own room, Frances closed the adjoining door. After a moment’s thought, she slid across the bolt.

She had left her candle burning beside her bed, and it was almost out, guttering on barely an inch of wax.

It threw odd, menacing shadows over the walls.

Shuddering, Frances took a flying leap into her bed, sending her poor notebook flying into the air.

It was colder than she remembered, and she hurried to burrow herself under the covers.

It was cold in the bed now, and as Frances lay there, shivering and trying to ignore the pulse between her legs, she thought about the man next door.

I can’t make him out at all. I can’t make myself out at all.

Why was I afraid of taking things further?

Yes, once he has an heir from me, he won’t desire me anymore, but why should I care?

That was always the way it was meant to be.

I wish I could approach this in a calm, rational sort of way. I bet Mama could do it.

No answer presented itself, and Frances had no intention of speaking to Mama about anything that had occurred. Groaning, she rolled onto her side. Sleep seemed less likely than ever. In fact, she was more awake now than she had been when she retired to bed.

Oh, bother. Frances, you silly goose, what have you gotten yourself into?

Standing in his room, heart still pounding, Lucien listened carefully for the slide of the bolt on Frances’s side of the door. He heard it and breathed a sigh of relief.

I cannot trust myself not to unbolt the door in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with her.

Arousal continued to rush through him, but Lucien had always prided himself on his self-control and was fairly certain that with a little time and concentration, the feeling would fade.

I cannot allow myself to lose control in such a manner again. What am I thinking?

Closing his eyes, he lifted a shaking hand to his head. He had intended only to tease her, to leave her breathless and wanting more.

And instead, like a fool, I dismissed her and left myself breathless and wanting more. Such is the price for gentlemanly behavior.

In a bid to distract himself, he strode over to the washbasin in the corner, splashing cold water on his face. The drops ran down his bare chest, making him shiver, but the heat of desire did not fade.

With a growl, Lucien snatched up the candlestick, stamped over to the door, and threw it open, stepping out into the dark corridor beyond.

He did not think much about where he was going, letting his feet take him where they wished. Or perhaps he simply knew, deep down, where he was going.

As he walked, words echoed in his head. Mary-Jane’s words, mostly. Out of the three of them, she was always the most cheerful. And the kindest, although not the most realistic. Perhaps that was because she was the youngest, and the Russell pessimism was all used up on her two older brothers.

Optimism did not thrive in the Russell household.