Page 22 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

“ I … I beg your pardon, but is His Grace joining me for breakfast?” Frances ventured. Gray looked down at her in sympathy.

“I do not believe so, Your Grace. Should I carry a message to him?”

Frances flushed. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Gray.”

The butler bowed and inched out of the room, leaving Frances to her breakfast.

She had bathed that morning and had her hair done up in a new and exciting style that left copious curls falling over her neck. Frances felt clean, fresh, and new.

And guilty. She also felt guilty.

I should not have gone poking about in the Tower. I certainly should not have called Lucien a murderer.

She could still recall the start he’d given when she’d spoken that dreadful word— murderer —and the way his eyes had turned blank.

His father was said to be a vile man. No doubt he deserved to die. And Lucien is not in any trouble with the law, so there must not be any evidence against him. Oh, how can I explain?

It was only Lord Easton, after all, who’d accused Lucien of killing his own father. Perhaps it was all cruel lies. In which case, how could Frances have been so cruel as to have thrown them back in her husband’s face?

You are unworthy, Frances, she scolded herself, staring down with dislike at her breakfast. She was not hungry.

Besides the overwhelming feeling of guilt, there was another emotion nibbling at the back of her mind, one she was steadfastly trying to ignore.

The memory of those three little blows he had rained on her backside still lingered, as if she could almost feel them. Children were spanked as a punishment. It was a dreadful thing. Frances did not recall having ever been spanked before. One was not meant to enjoy it.

She closed her eyes tightly, recalling the way heat had rushed through her body, pulsing between her legs.

Is there something wrong with me, I wonder? Why did he suggest such a thing, and then leave as if it were nothing?

Sighing, Frances pushed back her plate and stood up.

At once, a couple of footmen hurried forward to attend to her.

More and more staff arrived at the Abbey every day, and already some fresh revenue was coming in from the estate.

Frances’s dowry had breathed new life into the house and grounds, and its heartbeat steadily grew stronger.

“Where might I find His Grace?” Frances asked no one in particular.

The footmen exchanged glances, and then one of them hesitantly spoke up.

“I… I believe the duke is in the garden, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” she responded crisply and swept out of the room.

It took close to half an hour to find Lucien. The morning was well along, the sun streaming down, and Frances was unpleasantly hot by the time she discovered him kneeling by a clump of rose bushes, scrabbling around in the soil. He glanced up as she approached, his expression cool and blank.

“Good morning, Duchess,” he said at once, offering a faint smile. “I trust you slept well?”

She flushed, folding her hands in front of herself. “Let us dispense with the small talk.”

He sat back on his heels, dusting soil from his hands. “An interesting beginning. Go on.”

“I am here to discuss the events of last night.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “And what conclusion have you reached?”

“Well, I am sorry for my behaviour, of course. I already apologized for breaking your rule and visiting the East Tower, so I shan’t repeat that, but I am also sorry for the way I spoke to you.

I called you a,” she paused, hesitating, and forced herself to continue.

“A murderer. That was entirely wrong of me. I hope you can forgive me.”

He stared at her unblinking for a long moment. At last, he sighed, scratching his head and leaving soil traces in his hair.

“There is nothing to forgive. I’m aware of the rumors surrounding me. And I know that you, too, are aware.”

She bit her lip. “I know, but I oughtn’t to have said it.”

“It’s only natural, I suppose. There is so much we do not know about each other.

On that note, I have been thinking.” He got slowly to his feet, dusting off his knees, rising to his usual height far above Frances’s head.

“We must learn more about each other. Starting tonight. Courting couples attend events together, do they not? They have quiet, intimate assignments. I have something planned for us. What is your schedule for today?”

Frances blinked, a little taken aback. “My… My schedule?”

“Yes, my dear. With what have you filled your time with today?”

She flushed at his teasing. “I am going to the modiste with my mother and the Duchess of Clapton. Oh, and with Katherine.”

“How charming. Be home by no later than six o’clock. Oh, and be sure to bring a new gown.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lucien dropped her a wink and stepped around her, striding coolly off across the lawn. Frances was left feeling slightly breathless, as though she had missed something important.

I suppose he forgives me, then. He doesn’t seem angry, which is a relief.

But what on earth are we doing tonight? A private dinner? A ball? An opera? The wretched man didn’t tell me what event I should be dressing for!

“Not the burgundy, Frances, dear,” Mama tutted. “It’s a color for an older woman.”

“Don’t be so old-fashioned, Margaret,” Aunt Emily snorted. “Burgundy is a perfectly proper color. It’s not as if she’s draping herself head-to-toe in black velvet and pearls. If you like the burgundy, Frances, you ought to get it.”

“The dress can be completed by tonight, your Grace,” the modiste added eagerly, clearly keen to make a sale. “The adjustments needed for this gown are very small. It fits you almost perfectly already.”

Frances bit her lip, thumbing the material.

She was trying on the dress, standing on a pedestal in front of the mirror.

The cut was something different from what she would generally wear, with a much lighter skirt and long, tight sleeves that reached to the backs of her hands, the cuffs dotted with pearls and sequins.

The bodice of the dress was thick with sequins, like the scales of a fish.

“What do you think, Katherine?”

Katherine looked up from her perusal of some ribbons.

“I think you look extremely pretty, Frances, but you know that my taste in clothing is not to be trusted.”

Frances had to smile at that. Today, Katherine had chosen the most ridiculous bonnet Frances had ever seen, heavy with false fruit and silk flowers, and what appeared to be a pretend bird nestled in amongst it all.

If she mentioned anything about the bird to Katherine, she had no doubt that her friend would reveal that she had named the bird something, probably a ridiculous name like Horace.

“There’s a lot of talk about you and your husband in town, by the way,” Katherine added, while Mama and Aunt Emily quietly argued over lace in the background. “Personally, I think that you two are very well suited. And he is very handsome, you know. Exactly your type.”

Frances snorted. “I was not aware that I had a type. Besides, we were brought up in an all-girls' school. Aside from my rather pathetic Season, when would I have had the time to develop a type ?”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly say, but one still has eyes, after all, and one can see that he’s extremely good-looking, in a canis lupus sort of way.”

“Perhaps you can marry him, then,” Frances mumbled, turning this way and that.

The gown flattered her figure, drawing attention to the curve of her chest and of her hips.

The neckline was a little lower than what she was used to, revealing a little decolletage .

There was something thrilling about that.

She met Katherine’s eye in the mirror, and her friend gave a slow smile.

“I think perhaps you are enjoying being married to him quite enough,” she murmured.

Frances flushed, but before she could respond, the door opened and another gaggle of ladies entered.

They were vaguely familiar faces, from places like Almack’s and other parties, but Frances had not been introduced to any of them.

One of them was demanding a fitting at that moment, and the modiste threw Frances an apologetic look.

“Don’t worry,” she assured the modiste, stepping down from the pedestal. “I’ll take a little time to decide whether I’ll buy the dress or not.”

The modiste’s attention was now entirely diverted by the gaggle of ladies, and Katherine had been pulled into the now-heated debate over lace. That left Frances free to wander around the shop, fingering silken ribbons and letting cool, colorful skeins of thread slip through her fingers.

“Pretty, aren’t they?”

She flinched at a sudden male voice at her shoulder, and spun around to find rake Benjamin Holton at her elbow. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the ‘party’ at the abbey. He was also wearing the same mocking, knowing grin.

“Mr. Holton,” she managed. “Good day.”

“You don’t seem happy to see me, Your Grace. If anything, you seem rather shocked.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I’m shocked to see a man in a modiste’s.”

He chuckled. “I’m buying a gift for a friend. Perhaps it’s good that you’re here. I can apologise in person for making you so uncomfortable the other day. At your own home, no less.”

She flushed, lifting her chin. “I was not uncomfortable. My husband is perfectly entitled to choose and keep his own friends. In fact, I hope that you will, in time, become my friend, as well.”

Benjamin’s smile widened at this. He didn’t respond for a moment, simply eyeing her with a curious expression.

“What an interesting thought, your Grace. Let us hope to have a happy and speedy conclusion to this whole business. I must say that Lucien has not at all been himself lately. Perhaps that is due to you.”

Frances waited for him to elaborate on whether the change was a good one or a bad one, but he did not. Instead, silence descended between them, heavy and stifling.