Page 23 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

“Perhaps it is,” Frances said at last, feeling as if she’d missed a beat. “I suppose that nobody stays the same after marriage.”

Benjamin smiled wider, as if she’d said something particularly amusing.

“Very well said, Your Grace, very well said indeed.”

Abruptly, he leaned forward, and Frances flinched back, eyes wide.

It almost seemed for an instant that he was about to kiss her.

But he only reached past her to a low shelf where pairs of gloves were stacked up.

He picked up a pair of kid gloves with a shockingly expensive price tag and leaned back out of Frances’s space.

She straightened up, having darted reflexively backwards. She felt rather foolish now and knew that her face must be bright red.

“A present,” Benjamin explained, holding up the gloves. He glanced over her head, catching the eye of the modiste. “Add it to my account, if you please.”

The modiste did not seem pleased and opened her mouth to speak, but her attention was entirely taken up by the lady on her pedestal, so she shook her head and turned away. Benjamin glanced down at Frances again and smiled.

“Are you going to buy that dress?”

She smoothed the bodice self-consciously. “I don’t know. I thought I might, but it’s cut very differently from the gowns I usually wear. And as for color, Mama prefers to dress me in greens and blues, and occasionally in brown. I am blonde, you see, and she says it suits me better.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And do you always dress according to what Mama wants?”

Frances's head snapped up, glaring at him. “No, of course I do not!”

He laughed aloud at her reaction. “What a viper! You have a spirit of your own, Your Grace. I daresay Lucien will have his hands full with you. But no matter, you must dress to please yourself, and no one else. Having said that, I must advise you to buy that particular cut, and in burgundy. It suits you famously.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply. Jamming his hat back on his head, he winked—winked at her! Frances was sure her eyes must have deceived her, and moved towards the door. He slipped out into the busy London street without a backwards glance and was soon swallowed by the crowds.

Frances stared at the closed door for a moment or two, nibbling her lower lip. He had left her unsettled, and she couldn’t say why.

He’s trying to be friends, she thought. He wants to make amends. I should make it easier for him. I daresay I’ll see him again.

This idea was not a pleasant one. To stifle the unease, Frances finally turned around to join her mother, aunt, and friend, and reluctantly began to give her opinions on the lace.

The old clock in the hall began its mournful toll. Six o’clock.

Letting out a slow, ragged breath, Frances stared at her own reflection in the polished glass opposite.

The burgundy dress suited her perfectly. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a cacophony of curls, a few ringlets draping down the back of her neck.

I look beautiful, Frances thought, faintly surprised. She knew that she had always been pretty, in a sweet, blonde, unassuming sort of way.

This was different.

The clock finished its tolling, and Frances hastily applied some rosewater scent and hurried downstairs.

Lucien was pacing like a caged lion across the foyer.

He glanced up when she began to descend the stairs and stopped dead.

His face was unreadable, as always, but his eyes lingered on her form, following her every move as she hurried down towards him.

His stare made her shiver. Goosebumps broke over her skin and across her exposed decolletage, hidden beneath the satin shawl she’d pulled over her shoulders.

“You look…” Lucien wavered, just a little. “You look beautiful.”

Frances held his gaze, smiling tentatively up at him. “Thank you. In truth, I… I feel beautiful.”

He smiled at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “As you should. Now, come along, Duchess. We have a party to go to.”

“It’s not Almack’s, is it?” She was dreading the exclusive social club and was hoping for something a little more intimate.

He laughed aloud. “Almack’s? Goodness, no. Nothing of the sort.”

He was right. The party was not Almack’s. Any one of the staunch patrons of that respectable circle would have dropped dead at the sight of what went on before them.

Lucien had taken her to a small and unobtrusive townhouse in a middling area of London. They were greeted at the door by a young man and woman—a married couple, she guessed—who Frances did not recognize, although they greeted Lucien by name.

“Downstairs, as usual,” the man said off-handedly. Lucien nodded and did not ask for directions. He led Frances through a narrow hallway to where a door opened, revealing a set of downward-leading stairs.

“Is it a cellar?” Frances questioned, lifting her hem to follow him downstairs.

“It was once a kitchen, inhabited only by servants,” Lucien explained, his broad shoulders nearly filling the width of the staircase. “Then Mr. and Mrs. Brown decided they would rather have a little light in their kitchen and turned the old kitchen into this .”

Abruptly, the stairs ended, and Frances found herself in a huge space.

She could not have imagined that such a cavernous room lay beneath that modest little townhouse.

The ceiling was not very high, but the room was wide and long.

Countless alcoves in the wall held candles and candelabras, filling the room with bouncing, buttery light.

There was a raised platform at the end of the room, where musicians were playing a fast, exciting melody that she did not recognize.

A dozen or so couples danced wildly in the space in front of the platform.

Was it dancing? The only type of dancing Frances knew was the grave, stately waltzes, cotillions, and country reels allowed at Respectable Gatherings, with measured, careful steps.

This dance was something else entirely. Each couple appeared to be dancing a different reel, at a different rhythm, and half of them were missing the steps half of the time. And yet they were laughing with glee.

Frances noticed one woman in particular, with a mane of red-gold hair, swinging around hand-in-hand with a mousy, bespectacled man.

She laughed far louder than would be appropriate for a woman in any genteel gathering, throwing back her head and spinning round and round.

The gentleman, his face flushed and his spectacles steaming up from the exercise, looked at the woman as though she were a goddess.

Frances’s insides constricted.

I want somebody to look at me like that. As though the moon and stars can be found in my eyes. I want to dance with that sort of wild abandon. I want to take all the pins out of my hair and let it fall over my shoulders while I spin round and round and round until the world blurs to nothing.

Fingers skimmed her elbow, making her jump. Frances glanced up at Lucien and smiled uncertainly.

“This is quite something. I don’t recognize anybody here.”

“This is not a gathering of polite Society ,” Lucien chuckled, steering her to a bank of seats placed near the walls.

“This is where the black sheep and prodigal children gather, along with the rising artists and the ones without noble blood in their veins. These parties are a great deal more exciting, I can tell you.”

“I can believe it,” she countered.

A pair of gentlemen passed by, their gazes flitting over Frances’s form and lingering on her low neckline.

Their stares thrilled and horrified her.

It would never happen in any of the parties she had ever attended, such blatant staring.

Oh, men looked at women, of course they did, but in a careful, guarded way so as not to invite censure.

These gentlemen, it seemed, did not care. If they were gentlemen, that was.

Before Frances could say a word, a warm arm slid around her waist, pulling her close to him. She found herself nestled into Lucien’s side, tucked safe against him.

He stared over her head at the two gentlemen, his gaze cool and steady.

“Move along, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I should hate to cause a scene.”

The men glanced up at him, paled, then scurried off without another word. Frances bit back a smile.

“Nicely done,” she murmured.

“I try my best,” he countered. He did not remove his arm, leaving it, a warm, steady weight at her side. The warmth seemed to seep into her skin, circling in her gut, and forming into something stronger and steadier.

The music stopped with a flourish, and the dancers cheered and broke into wild applause.

The room was still ringing from the applause and laughter when a woman climbed onto the platform. It was the same red-haired woman from before; her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her cheeks were a mottled, rosy color.

She was breathing heavily and took a moment to square her shoulders and look about at the audience. Gradually, silence fell, and understanding dawned on Frances.

“She’s going to recite something!” she whispered. “Or will she sing?”

“It’s a poetry recitation,” Lucien admitted. “I thought you might enjoy something literary themed. Do tell me you don’t hate poetry, or this entire evening will have been wasted.”

She laughed. “I adore poetry, but I can’t write it.”

The room was entirely silent now, and the woman began to speak. Her voice was cool and clear, nothing like the melodious, genteel tones expected of a woman in polite Society.

“ I met a traveller from an antique land, ” she began, intoning the words like a prayer. Frances gasped.

“Oh! She’s reciting Shelley!”

The woman continued her recitation, glancing into the audience from time to time and smiling as though she were sharing a joke with the people there.

“ And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias , King of Kings! Look on my works, ye Might, and despair!”

Frances clasped her hands under her chin, closing her eyes as the final lines were recited. She felt as though the rest of the room were holding their breath, too. When the woman—Frances, simply must learn her name—finished her recitation, applause thundered through the room.

The red-headed woman looked around, as if waking from a dream. She made a quick, mocking curtsey.

“Would you like a funny one next?” she called and was met with raucous cheers.

Beside Frances, Lucien chuckled. “Her name is Miss Sampson, and her limericks are exceptionally funny.”

The woman—Miss Sampson—cleared her throat, placed a hand on her hip, struck a pose and began to speak.

“ Lady P., the model wife

Keeps herself a quiet life.

And all the while, her husband dear

Engages in behaviors queer.

I think it is not very long

Perhaps not e’en beyond this song

Till Lady P., her patience sparse,

Kicks her husband up the arse.”

There were squeals of laughter at this, and Frances let out a hoot of surprised laughter, clapping her hand over her mouth.

“It’s about Lady Ponshure!” she whispered. “She’s so quiet and dignified, but everybody knows that her wretched new husband is…”

“Yes, yes,” Lucien chuckled. “You’ll hear a good deal of poetry that would suit a gossip column. Well? What do you think? Do you like the place?”

“I adore it,” Frances said, laughing in disbelief. “It’s fascinating. I want to meet everybody. I only wish it wasn’t so hot down here, I can scarcely breathe.”

“It does get warm,” he admitted. “There is a poetry competition, you know. You could enter it and maybe recite one of your own.”

She shook her head. “I can’t write poetry. I write stories. I just began a new one, actually.”

He shot a quick, calculating glance down at her. “Oh? May I read it?”

She flushed, thinking of the lines she had written only last night, and how Timon had suddenly become Lucien .

“Not yet. It isn’t ready to be read.”

He held her gaze for a moment, eyes flickering as if looking for something there. Then he nodded.

“Of course. Perhaps when it’s finished, I might take a look at it?”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s it about?”

She hesitated, a lie coming quickly to the tip of her tongue. She could answer vaguely, and he might not press the issue.

The truth, however, seemed to burn, longing to be spoken.

“It’s about you,” she admitted at last.

Lucien’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

“Yes. You, and your…” she paused, licking her lips. “Your punishment last night.”

He stared down at her for what seemed like an eternity, entirely frozen. it struck Frances that at last she’d managed to properly shock him.

Then he recovered, giving himself a small shake. He removed his arm from her waist, taking her hand instead.

“You said you were too warm, did you not?” he murmured, his voice low and heavy, full of promises that made Frances shiver. “Let us find you some fresh air.”