Page 3 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

I t couldn’t be real, could it? Frances had no idea what a special license was meant to look like. But Mama would, of course. She could verify its authenticity.

Somehow, though, she felt as though this man was telling the truth. She glanced up at him, clear, gray eyes meeting hers, and felt a shiver run down her spine.

She’d felt that shiver before, when he first strode down the aisle towards her. At the time, she’d assumed that it was simply foreboding, but now she was beginning to worry that it might be something else.

He was, after all, annoyingly attractive. He was tall, powerfully built, and had the sort of olive skin that one didn’t see often in English gentlemen. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead, drawing attention to sharp and striking features.

Yes, he was handsome, and he was a duke, but really, that was not important in the least.

Keep your head, Frances, she warned herself. She wished Uncle Cassian could be here, with his cool good sense. He’d frightened away several unsuitable suitors during her Season, but unfortunately, he had also frightened away the rest of them, too.

Don’t blame Uncle Cass. It was your fault that your Season was so terrible. You were a weak, pathetic thing, too timid to raise your eyes. A wallflower. It isn’t his fault you didn’t receive a single proposal.

Or that you trod on Sir William’s toes during the quadrille and made him fall over. He knocked over several other ladies on the way down, too.

Or how you accidentally spilled red wine on Miss Briggs’ white dress during her own coming-out party.

She had never been forgiven for that one.

Not relevant, she warned herself, clearing her throat. The man—his Grace, as she should be calling him—had tucked away the special license, watching her with a wry, curious smile.

“It seems a shame to waste a wedding, don’t you think?” he remarked. “The church is reserved, the breakfast taken care of. You’re wearing such a splendid gown; it seems a pity for you to be without a groom.”

She recoiled. “Are you truly suggesting that we get married now? Today?”

So much for my newfound freedom. I was so happy when I thought that I couldn’t marry Nicholas.

The duke tilted his head, grinning. “Well, why not? I imagine you know as much about me as you do about your dear Nicholas.”

Frances flushed. “That isn’t true.”

“No? Then why did you call him Lord Easton, only to correct yourself? A doting betrothed would have no trouble calling her groom-to-be by his name, and here you can’t even bring yourself to look him in the eye.”

“That’s irrelevant,” she shot back hotly. “I have difficulty looking anyone in the eye.”

He paused, the grin widening. “Really? You have managed to glare at me quite intensely enough.”

This was a point with which Frances could not argue. She had, in fact, been staring the wretched man full in the face, almost without thinking.

Perhaps Aunt Emily is right, and I am bolder than I realize.

Bold enough to ask another question.

She took a careful step forward and immediately wished she had not. This gentleman, it seemed, was not like the others she had met so far. He didn’t step back politely when ladies stepped towards him. And now she was entirely too close to him.

He smells of fresh-cut grass. How odd.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Uncle Cassian taking a step forward, his face grim. Ever the protective uncle.

Determined not to be cowed, Frances spoke.

“I haven’t seen you in London before, Your Grace.

And Lord Easton said that he couldn’t believe you had the gall to show your face on these shores again.

So, I can assume that you haven’t been in England for quite some time.

Why not? Why did you leave? And, perhaps more importantly, why did you return? ”

And why did somebody in the crowd call you a murderer?

That cold word echoed in Frances’s mind. Of course, she knew what gossip could be like in London. Rumors started anywhere and everywhere. Surely it did not mean that this man really was a murderer.

His wide smile had faded a little, replaced by a polite and entirely insincere curl of the lips.

“I was involved in an unfortunate accident several years ago,” he responded smoothly.

It sounded rather practiced. “I left the country. It seemed wisest. As you might well have guessed, some people have taken great offence to my existence in general. I imagine they shall get used to it, however. I returned because I missed my family, only to find that my brother was two years dead and no one had been able to contact me.”

Frances flinched a little at that, eyes widening.

She had no siblings, but had often thought it would be nice to have a brother or a sister.

Some of the few friends she’d made during her Season had had siblings, and their relationships seemed to be wonderfully close.

She’d known sisters who were inseparable, joined at the hip.

I always wanted a friend like that. How would I feel if I returned and found them gone, vanished from my life entirely?

Well, as Uncle Cassian would say, it made no sense to imagine scenarios that would never exist. Of course, he’d said that about Frances’s writing, having read one of her more far-fetched stories.

She was only glad he hadn’t come across some of her more experimental work.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that we should take a little time to confirm that this is the best course of action. I do not know you at all, and you do not know me. I imagine that your reputation would not stand up to scrutiny.”

He grinned. “And what about yours, Miss Knight? Would yours stand up to a thorough investigation?”

Her head shot up, ice-cold fear clamping around her throat.

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

She realized an instant too late that she’d made a mistake. Snapping like that was a bad idea. It was defensive and made her look guilty.

Which, of course, I am.

She swallowed this thought and tried to think of more innocent reflections. The duke’s face had not changed; although she could have sworn she saw a flicker of something in his eye.

At last, Frances gave up first, shuffling backwards under the pretense of adjusting her gown. It was really too much, standing so close to him. There was something intoxicating about the scent of him, to say nothing of the warmth radiating from his body.

A forearm’s length away! She had stood less than a forearm’s length away from a gentleman who quite clearly had a terrible reputation. That might get her vouchers to Almack’s revoked, if such a thing were said to the wrong patron.

What am I thinking? I’ll never be able to show my face at Almack’s again after today. The gentlemen will avoid me, which they already did, really, and the ladies will steer clear, too. It’ll be like I have a contagious illness. So that’s something to look forward to, I suppose.

She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. I’m a little snappish after the morning I’ve had. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Oh, I do,” he responded, gaze fixed on her.

“But I would recommend a quick marriage. After all, news of this incident is likely already flitting around London. Both of our reputations are destroyed, and after this humiliation, Lord Easton might not wish to have you after all. I know his sort, you see. They’re very sensitive to rejection of all kinds. ”

This shockingly accurate description of Nicholas was amusing, and Frances had to fight back a smile.

“I have no choice, then,” she heard herself say.

The duke did not seem to like that. He leaned back a little, a furrow appearing between his brows.

“I shouldn’t say that. I have no intention of dragging anybody up the aisle.

I have been quite transparent with you, I think, but you are keeping your own secrets, Miss Knight.

For example, why are you forcing yourself to marry a man you do not care for, and who does not seem to care much for you ?

Lord Easton thinks only of your money, but I believe you know that already.

You have a doting mother, and I do not believe that you are destitute.

I imagine you could avoid marriage altogether, if you wished. ”

“You simply have no idea what you are speaking of,” Frances managed, swallowing thickly. She tried to sound amused and confident, but her voice wobbled a little as she spoke, entirely destroying the illusion.

The duke smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t I?

As to your choice of man, I imagine that’s due to your own reputation as a wallflower and a lady of no conversation – I imagine you were simply nervous, but people can be cruel, can’t they?

– coupled with your lack of a father and a mother who was once an opera singer.

Not every man is lining up for a wife like that.

I imagine that Lord Easton was simply the first man who offered properly for you.

But that begs a more interesting question – why did you take him? ”

Do I have to answer him? Should I call Mama over?

Frances glanced over at where Mama stood, back very straight, face very pale. She knew that if she gave the word, or seemed distressed at all, Mama would fly over here like lightning and probably punch the Duke of Blackstone directly in his well-chiselled nose.

Mama wasn’t afraid of much.

But I’ll still be a living, breathing scandal. I’ll still be a spinster. A wallflower. A failure .

“As I said,” the duke continued, beginning to sound almost bored.

“I shan’t pressure you into anything. You may do as you wish.

If you’re satisfied with your current choice of groom, then marry him.

I shan’t stand in your way. But the fact stands that by contract, no matter how old it is, you still belong to me. ”

Frances breathed in deeply, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, she’d decided.

“Come,” she said abruptly, turning on her heel and striding over to where Mama stood. She did not look at Lord Easton. “Mama, where is the rector? I’m getting married after all.”

Mama blinked, bewildered. “What are you saying, dearest?”

The rector popped his head out from the altar, like a nervous rabbit poking its head out of its burrow. “The wedding is going ahead?” he asked, hopefully.

“Yes, but there is a special license involved,” Frances answered briskly. “I should like you to inspect it. Can you do that?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Excellent.” She turned to face the altar, rigid, waiting.

As she had expected, the duke came striding up beside her, pressing his shoulder against Nicholas’. The viscount stood, open-mouthed, clearly baffled.

“I suggest you move, sir,” the duke whispered quietly, dropping a wink. “You’re in my place.”

Realization drifted over Nicholas’ face, followed by pure, cold anger. He turned to Frances, face beet red.

“This is a joke,” he seethed. “You cannot do this to me.”

“It’ll be better for us both, Nicholas,” Frances responded quietly. “You always did think that I was beneath you. Now you can find yourself an heiress worthy of you.”

Nicholas spluttered in rage, turning to Mama. Mama said nothing. He spat out a curse and turned on his heel, storming away down the aisle.

The rector glanced between Frances and the duke, sure that somebody would stop the madness. When nobody did, he cleared his throat, opened his bible, and began hesitantly to speak.

“Since we are to be married,” the duke murmured, “You might as well call me Lucien.”

Frances swallowed. “Yes. I suppose I must.”