Page 21 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

He folded his arms. “I shall ask you again. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Only my pride. And a few scrapes and bruises, perhaps.”

“Hmph. Well, you are lucky. Now, why don’t you tell me why you insist upon breaking my rules?”

Frances flinched. “You found out my secret today. I wanted to learn one of yours.”

He scoffed. “Your friend told me, without any prompting from me at all! I did not choose to learn your secret, you little wretch!”

She looked up at him properly then, her temper flaring.

“You can’t possibly blame me for being curious! Why am I forbidden from the tower?”

“Because it is dangerous . I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself. I would have thought you’d have discovered that for yourself. Since you disobeyed, however, I’ll have to hurt you myself.”

Frances recoiled at that, eyes wide. She shuffled backwards on the mattress, eyeing him uneasily.

“What are you talking about?”

Lucien perched on the edge of the bed and flashed her a wicked smile. “Oh, it won’t be too bad. You just wait and see. Come here, my dear.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lucien patted his thigh. “Over my knee, I’m afraid. A good spanking should convince you to behave better in future.”

Color rushed into Frances’s face, and her eyes widened. Was there a flare of desire there, too?

“You must be mad.”

He tilted his head. “Do you think so?”

Frances’s heart pounded in her chest. Heat pulsed in her gut, even circling the join of her legs. Why should the idea of being… being spanked thrill her so much? She had never been spanked, never, but of course Frances knew of the practice.

It was meant to be a punishment, was it not?

She found herself imagining the duke’s warm, broad hand resting over the lower curve of her back, just before the swell of her buttocks, and the idea made her almost shiver.

She had read of this concept in one of the more risqué books of her collection.

The lady was the one who had suggested the punishment of spanking.

She had never discovered whether or not the spanking was administered, though, as Mama had found the book in the library, and subsequently thrown it out.

Frances had only been sixteen, if her memory served her right, and had been able to convince her horrified mother that she had only begun to read the book.

In any case, she had not read the end.

“It was only a suggestion,” Lucien remarked idly, his gaze fixed on her face. “If you care to choose a different punishment…”

“No,” Frances blurted out, before she could stop herself. His eyes darkened, fixed on her, and he waited in silence for her to continue. She cleared her throat. her face growing redder by the minute.

“I ought not to have gone into the East Tower,” she breathed at last, her eyes never leaving his. “You… You’re right to be upset at me. I suppose this is fair.”

Heat coiled in Lucien’s chest. He stayed quite still, and Frances crawled tentatively towards him, almost warily.

When she was close enough for him to feel her breath on his face, she hesitated, blinking as if unsure.

Wrapping his hands around her upper arms, he guided her forward until her stomach was resting on his thighs.

He could feel her heart beating hard, pounding as if it were trying to escape from her chest.

He admired the dainty curve of her backside and felt a powerful rush of desire.

Oh, he was in trouble. Yes, he wanted her entirely too much.

He placed his hand on the curve of one buttock, letting it rest there.

Her skin was warm, the nightgown entirely too thin.

He lifted his hand and brought it down in a firm little tap.

It would not have hurt, or even really stung a little.

Frances gave a hitching little breath, flinching.

One of her hands curled around his knee as if to steady herself.

He delivered another blow, just a smidge harder than the first, and her grip tightened.

He smoothed his hand over the place he had spanked, feeling the warmth of her skin.

For his part, Lucien was beginning to find it hard to breathe.

He delivered a third slap, harder than the first two.

This one might leave the faintest red mark.

He imagined how the delightful blemish might look against Frances’s perfect white skin and noticed to his horror that his hand was shaking.

This was getting too much, and he couldn’t claim her right now. He shouldn’t.

Rubbing the part he imagined his mark would be, he heard Frances moan . Oh, God. At first, he thought he would just tease her. He was sure she’d say no. But his little Duchess was far more wicked than she let on. If he lost control now, if he laid her on her back…

He cleared his throat. What was meant to be her punishment was far too tormenting for him .

After one final tap, he let his hand wander upwards, outlining the curve of her back, noticing how Frances’s breaths became more ragged the moment he found the back of her neck and used the roots of her hair to help her up.

“That will do, I think,” Lucien managed, keeping his voice as cool and steady as he could. “Did you learn your lesson, Duchess?”

Frances scrambled backwards, sitting on her heels and staring at him, wild-eyed. Her hair was disarranged, and her cheeks were flushed. Even if Lucien had never seen a woman in the throes of desire before, he was sure that he would recognize it here and now on Frances’s face.

She liked it, he realized, the thought sending him juddering into a lustful haze. She enjoyed it.

“Perhaps some more education is required,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m not a quick study, you see.”

“Oh? Have you suggestions for a further project?”

“You can kiss me,” she breathed. “If you like.”

Lucien tilted his head, flashing a lazy smile. His hand was still on the back of her neck, and he used his thumb to stroke her lower lip. “Ah, but I must impress you first, mustn’t I? You must trust me before we go further. Isn’t that what we agreed?”

Frances reddened, biting her lower lip where he had touched her. “You ought not to tease me.”

He shrugged, removing his hand and getting to his feet. Space, that was what he needed. He needed space from this thrilling, terrifying woman that he desired so intensely. He needed to cool down.

“Well, you went to the tower that I forbade you from visiting. Clearly, you don’t trust me. And you, too, have secrets, my dear.”

Frances narrowed her eyes, seeming to wake up from her lustful daze.

“My secret is that I enjoy romance stories, and write them too, but yours is that you are a murderer, so perhaps I require a little more trust than you.”

Silence fell after this outburst. Lucien stared down at her, his arousal gone like frost before the sun.

Frances blinked, as if surprised at her own words. She opened her mouth to explain or apologize, Lucien did not know and did not care—but he turned away before she could speak.

“Goodnight, my dear duchess,” he said levelly. “Sleep well.”

“Lucien!”

He didn’t turn around when she called him. Instead, he hurried out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Come in,” Eleanor said, her voice hoarse and breathless.

She stepped back from the door, and Timon stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached behind himself and pulled the bolt across.

Click . It was a harsh, metallic sound, not suited to the quiet of her boudoir.

And yet the sound made her shiver in pleasure.

Why was that? Eleanor did not understand; she only knew that she was doing something very wrong.

And she did not care one bit.

Timon set down the candle, the light jumping and guttering.

“I adore you, Eleanor,” he breathed. “I love you.”

“You must not say such things to me,” Eleanor whispered breathlessly, but she knew that she did not mean it. In a rush, he came towards her, catching her up in his arms. She pressed herself against his firm, warm body, and their lips met.

Eleanor had not been kissed before, naturally. His lips were soft, but there was a firmness behind them. His skin was warm, and she could feel his fingertips burning through the thin material of her nightshirt. It was thrilling, breathtaking. Heat swept through her, making her tremble.

They broke apart, both gasping for breath. Timon did not release her, as if afraid to leave even an inch of space between them. He lifted a shaking hand, eyes wide with wonder, and touched the curve of her cheekbone.

“My own, my love,” he murmured. “I must have you, Eleanor. I want… I want…”

Frances stared down at the page, frustration welling up inside her. What did Timon want? She had no idea how to begin writing it. She could understand the feelings that had reduced Eleanor to a trembling, gasping mess, but what came next?

Abruptly, she turned back through the pages, back to the earlier chapters where Timon—Sir Timon Addershall, who was secretly once a highwayman who had accidentally killed Eleanor’s beloved father—was described.

She had written him as a fair-haired man, with long curls reaching to his shoulders like one of the knights in an old fairy tale, with impish, forest-green eyes.

Frances’s hand shook as she crossed out this description and began writing another.

Timon was a tall man, she wrote, with dark hair swept back from a high brow.

There was something almost wolfish about his features: a pointed chin, a long nose, and a wide, white smile that made one think of crocodiles.

He was handsome nonetheless, and rendered more handsome still by a pair of large, grey eyes, streaked with gold… .