Page 24 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

F rances’s heart thudded against the inside of her ribcage.

Lucien’s fingers were cool around hers, gently leading her through the crush of people towards the edge of the room.

For the first time, she noticed a large alcove near the back, ringed with old Grecian pillars.

It was the sort of place one might see on a folly, set at the top of a hill and half-forgotten.

It was odd seeing it here, in the strange underground cavern.

Lucien seemed to know exactly where he was going. He led her into the forest of pillars, leaving the light behind. She could still hear the poetry recitation, however. Miss Sampson was reciting again, her words echoing around the room. Frances didn’t recognize this poem, but found she didn’t care.

When they were about halfway into the empty alcove, Lucien abruptly spun her around, hands on her shoulders, and gently pushed her back to lean against one of the pillars. Her back was to the crowd, and the candlelight filtered through onto Lucien’s face.

She stared up at him, chest heaving. Hot desire filled her belly, and Frances wished, not for the first time, that she knew what to do about it.

“What a fascinating story,” Lucien murmured, his eyes intent and unblinking. “I should love to hear more about it.”

Her breath stuttered in her throat. “As I said, you… you will have to wait until it’s finished.”

He held her gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Good things come to those who wait, I suppose?”

And then, quite without warning, he leaned forward and kissed her.

His lips were soft, faintly tinged with whiskey—when had he been drinking whiskey?

—and they were warm, so warm. In fact, the heat from them seemed to surge through Frances’s mouth, down her throat, where it burned around her heart.

She gave a little, involuntary gasp, which he swallowed.

His fingertips brushed the side of her neck, a feather-light touch, but just enough to ignite her skin.

Tentatively, Frances lifted her hands to his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth material of his jacket. Desire engulfed her, tightening her insides and pulsing .

The kiss deepened, and Lucien pulled her firmly against him, his arm winding around her waist. The tip of his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips, and Frances, quite without thinking, slackened her jaw, opening her lips to allow his access.

His tongue gently touched against her lower lip, sending thrills down her spine.

Just as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ended, and Lucien pulled back. Frances sucked in a ragged breath—had she not breathed since it began? No wonder her lungs were burning—and blinked up at him.

“Lucien?” she whispered, eyes wide. He was looking at her so very strangely, his eyes dark and hungry. The fingertips against her neck lifted to graze the side of her jaw.

“You really do look beautiful tonight,” he murmured. “Now, shall we create another scene for your story?”

Her heart fluttered. Before she could respond, Lucien leaned in to kiss her again. This time, Frances was ready, tilting up her face to meet his lips. However, the kiss lasted only a couple of seconds before he angled his head, fitting his lips to the space beneath her jaw.

This made Frances gasp aloud, and she remembered just in the nick of time that a whole crowd of people stood only ten feet away, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

She felt, rather than heard, Lucien chuckle against the side of her neck, the vibrations making her shiver. He pressed against her, and Frances found that she wanted more of that pressure, of his body against hers.

The hand that was not lingering at her jaw slid downwards to cup her hips. Frances shifted, wondering hazily what that touch would feel like without the layers of clothing and fabric in the way.

She did not have to wonder for long.

Lucien’s hand bunched and twisted in the fabric, and Frances felt a cool rush of air around her ankles.

He is lifting my skirt, she thought dizzily.

This was the time when a proper heroine , the sort described in the more respectable novels, would have done something to extricate herself from the situation.

In fact, a proper heroine would never have allowed herself to get into a situation like this in the first place.

Cecilia had spurned Lord Malevonte, hadn’t she? Quite firmly.

A proper heroine would never have come to an underground ball where such shocking poems were read. She would have run away screaming ages ago, or swooned, or done something dramatic.

Frances did nothing of the sort. Instead, she wound her arms around Lucien’s shoulders, digging her chin into his shoulder.

His lips caressed her neck and cheek, but she sensed that his attention was elsewhere now.

At the first brush of his fingertips on the bare skin of her thigh, Frances’s breath hitched in her throat.

She pressed her mouth against the material at Lucien’s shoulder, desperate to stay quiet.

Fingertips danced higher and higher, until his knuckles grazed the join of her legs. Frances squeezed her eyes shut, tightening her grip on him.

“Are you quite well, Duchess?” Lucien whispered in her ear, sounding amused.

“Y-Yes, quite well. Thank you for asking,” she added, as it seemed polite and there were no formal rules for behavior in this setting.

Lucien’s fingers moved in a lazy stroking motion, sliding against her.

Sensations peaked with every pass of his fingertips, and something built inside her until she could scarcely breathe.

It was not enough and entirely too much all at once, and Frances squeezed her eyes closed so hard that she saw fireworks behind her eyelids.

“Will you write about this, I wonder?” Lucien breathed, continuing to stroke his fingers up and down against her.

Her climax seemed to rush upon her from nowhere, a maddening, chaotic bundle of sensations that left Frances gasping and her vision blurring. Somewhere in the distance, a poetry recitation ended, and she was aware of muffled applause.

Lucien let her skirts fall back into place, but stayed pressed against her as her heartbeat returned to normal. When he finally stepped back, Frances’s legs had turned to jelly.

“Steady,” Lucien murmured, his voice a little thick. “Are you well, Frances?”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “I… Yes.”

What should I do now? Should I touch him ? I don’t know how. Will he ask it of me, or ought I to offer? He did not ask me , after all. He simply did what he knew I would like.

Frances had not known what to ask for, and she found it impossible to believe that Lucien might have the same level of inexperience. He was looking down at her, breathing heavily, his face flushed, but she could not work out what was in his eyes.

Clearing her throat, Frances straightened her bodice and shook out her skirts. The insides of her thighs felt damp and a little sticky, but pleasant aftershocks still rolled lazily through her body.

No wonder some women enjoy marriage so much.

“Should we…” she began hesitantly, not sure what she wanted.

Lucien cleared his throat, glancing away. “We should leave, I think.”

“Yes, perhaps we should.”

Frances couldn’t imagine socialising after that had happened to her.

Lucien stepped past her, leading the way back into the main room, and she followed, still feeling wobbly.

A man was on the platform now, telling a humorous poem of his own invention.

Frances was barely aware of it, concentrating on following Lucien’s broad back through the crowd.

And then she heard her own name spoken in the last lines of the poem.

“ Pretensions to grandeur are tiresome indeed,

My darling, I see through your lies.

For your Social Endeavors, I wish you Godspeed.

Oh Frances, expect a surprise!”

Laughter broke out amongst the audience, and a little applause. Frances tapped the arm of a nearby gentleman.

“Forgive me, what was that poem about?”

“Hm? Oh, it was a novel composition,” the man explained, chuckling to himself. “About an uppity young woman, acting the part of a gentleman’s daughter when she is no such thing. In fact, she’s entirely a fraud. Lord, it was funny.”

The color drained from Frances’s face. She turned around to face the platform, but already knew who she would see there.

Lord Easton stood high above the rest of the audience, his face flushed with drink.

His cravat was undone, hanging sloppily at his neck, and his hair was dishevelled.

In short, he was a far cry from the cool, stern man she’d stood beside at the altar.

He was grinning maliciously, his face turned toward her.

Can he see me? Oh, heavens, I pray he can’t see me.

Turning abruptly, Frances found Lucien standing directly behind her. He was not looking at Nicholas—although he must have seen him—and was in fact staring straight at her.

“Are you well, my dear duchess?” he said at last.

She swallowed thickly. “I would like to go home, please.”

The night sky was cloudy; not a single star could be seen. Frances climbed out of the carriage, the dark Abbey looming before her.

They hadn’t exchanged a single word on the trip home. The atmosphere was tight and cold, and Frances could not understand why. Only minutes before she’d seen wretched Nicholas on that platform, she had been positively dizzy with happiness.

Lucien had stretched out his hand wordlessly to her to help her down, and she’d taken it without thinking. However, when her feet landed on the gravel, he did not let go. In fact, his fingers tightened on hers.

“Lord Easton has never paid a visit to us, has he?”

Frances blinked up at him. “I don’t understand. Why would he visit us? I was supposed to marry him, but did not, and I daresay he blames you for it. I did not expect a visit from him.”

Lucien gave a cold smile. “Do you miss him?”

She stared at him for a long moment, sure she had misheard.

“Do I miss him?” she repeated incredulously. “How can you ask me that?”

“I think you heard me quite well, my dear,” Lucien bared his teeth in an emotionless smile. “Did you wish it was him with you behind those pillars instead of me?”

Frances could not summon any words, and Lucien spoke again.

“Just remember that it was my name you whispered, my touch you felt on your body. Remember that , my dear.”

He reached out, fingertips grazing the side of her neck.

Fury surged through her, and she whipped up her arm, knocking his hand away from her.

“How dare you?” she hissed. “How dare you? Are you entirely mad? Tell me, Lucien, is this truly what you think of me?”

Lucien blinked, his face changing, but a muscle feathered in his jaw.

“What was I to think? I saw the look on your face when you first saw him on that platform. You paled, and a look of great sadness came into your eyes. Tell me, what should I think?”

She held his gaze for a moment more, then shook her head, turning on her heel.

“I simply cannot believe you, Lucien.”

She strode away towards the house, fury seething with every step.

He didn’t follow her.