Page 19 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

Katherine sighed. “Well, I suppose so. I should love to call on you properly, of course. We have so much to catch up on. Oh, you must tell me, are you still writing?”

Lucien’s ears pricked up at this. “Oh? Writing?”

Frances flushed. “Nothing, nothing. It was a childish hobby, nothing more.”

Katherine, who seemed incapable of understanding hints, sniffed.

“I should say not. Your Grace, she was an excellent writer. She wrote a few short stories when we were at school together, and they were thrilling . I was on the edge of my seat whenever she told one of her stories. She wrote a good deal of romantic stories, too, but the teacher said that proper ladies shouldn’t think much about that.

When she caught you writing that other story—the one you wouldn’t let me read—she flew into a rage and wouldn’t let Frances go outside for three days.

Do you remember? I certainly do. She told you that you were never to write anything like that again.

I’m not sure if you listened, though. In fact, I’d wager that you didn’t, ha-ha.

You are still writing, aren’t you, Frances? ”

Glancing down at his wife, Lucien was a little shocked to see that she was bright red, her eyes wide and warning Katherine to be quiet, for heaven’s sake .

Lord Tockton, who appeared to be better at taking hints than his daughter, laid a careful hand on Katherine’s arm.

“It’s likely to rain soon, my dear,” he murmured. “We should get going. Good day to you both.”

Taking Katherine’s arm, Lord Tockton gently manoeuvred her away. Katherine twisted around to say goodbye, and Lucien caught a glimpse of Henry the gecko peering up over her shoulder, staring at them out of his intent, yellow eyes.

“Well,” Lucien said, when they were out of earshot. “What fascinating friends you have, Frances.”

Frances’s cheeks burned. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

She turned on her heel and began to hurry back the way she had come.

“I am not making fun of you,” Lucien responded, catching up to her easily. He grabbed her hand, drawing her arm through his. “Try and look as though we’re in love, my dear. People are watching.”

“I don’t care,” she responded shortly.

He chuckled. “What a fiery duchess you are. Why did you not tell me about your writing before?”

She bit her lip. “As I said. It’s a silly habit, and I wish you’d think no more of it.”

“A silly habit? Writing is a most noble habit. Unless, of course, you were writing about unseemly things,” Lucien added, nudging her and grinning.

“I’ve noticed that young ladies do that.

The extreme repression they endure does not in the least restrain their…

appetites , shall we say. Instead, it only forces them to hide it.

They seek out certain types of art—paintings, sculptures, and, of course, books. I wonder where your interests lie?”

Frances cleared her throat, lifting her head. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her chin jutting out. Lucien couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration.

Quite a duchess, indeed.

“None of your concern,” she responded tautly.

He laughed aloud at that. “Come now, you told me you wanted me to ask you more questions, didn’t you? You wanted me to show interest in your hobbies.”

“Not about that one!”

She elbowed him in the side, although it felt more playful than angry. She turned her head aside, the bonnet hiding her face, but Lucien was sure that she was smiling.

“If I do earn your trust,” Lucien murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear, “you will have to give me one of your stories to read.”

He knew from experience how pleasurable a breath of warm air on the sensitive shell of one’s ear could be. Frances shivered, and he allowed himself a grin.

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, still not turning her head to look up at him.

He wanted her to look up at him, wanted it so desperately that he ached deep inside.

He wanted her to turn those glorious green eyes on him.

He wanted to run his fingertip over the curve of her lip once again.

He wanted to hear her shuddering gasp in his ear, fingers tightening on his bare shoulder.

I want her, he realized, to his chagrin. This was not a new thought, but it was recurring with a more powerful longing. Lucien did not consider himself a man to be easily swayed by a pretty face, but Frances was more than that. She thrilled him, fascinated him, and he…

No. What am I thinking? This is a business transaction, no more and no less.

She receives freedom, and I receive an heir.

We share her money, which we both desperately need.

I have no real hold on her, and she has none on me.

That is what we decided, wasn’t it? This is not a game, and I had better not let my feelings run away from me.

He straightened up abruptly, turning away from her. Frances blinked, turning to look up at him as if she missed his proximity.

No, that could not be true. She eyed him with suspicion; he’d seen it. She did not trust him. She needed him to prove himself before she would let him near her, and Frances was not the sort of woman to let desire overrule her good, sensible thoughts.

“We should return home,” Lucien said, a little more brusquely than he had intended. “I believe it’s about to…”

Before he could finish the sentence, the first few fat drops of rain fell, spreading out on the pathway, dampening their shoulders.

Frances sighed.

“I think perhaps it is already too late for that.”