Page 34 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

T he opera was The Magic Flute. Frances had never heard it in person, although she had heard it mentioned very often.

Occasionally, she had heard snatches of the music played by very accomplished ladies at musicales, although Mama tried to avoid musical performances almost as staunchly as she avoided the theatre houses.

Lucien led her up velvet-lined steps, high above the hustle and bustle of the stalls far below.

Her heart hammered against her chest. At one point, Frances paused to peer over the banister railings at the press of people below.

Chatter and laughter drifted up along with a cloud of sticky heat.

Orange-sellers weaved their way through the crowd, bringing a faint scent of citrus along with them.

Shifty, scruffy youths wandered here and there, almost certainly on the lookout for a good pocket to pick.

“If you want oranges,” Lucien murmured in her ear, making her flinch, “I’ll order a whole basket delivered to our box.”

Frances glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling wryly.

“I’m not sure I could eat that many oranges. I think the smell is enough for me, it’s so fresh and delicious.”

“As you like. Shall we proceed?”

He offered her his arm, and Frances took it, her heart hammering in her chest. Together, they walked up the last flight of stairs, finding themselves in a thickly carpeted hallway which rounded the upper quarters of the theatre in a wide semi-circle.

There were fewer people here, but Frances guessed that even one seat in this elevated area would cost as much as ten or twenty seats down in the stalls. Maybe more.

The hallways were oddly hushed, the carpet and patterned wallpaper seeming to absorb all sounds. The atmosphere was almost ethereal, a hush falling over the audience far below.

“They’re getting ready to start,” Lucien explained, pulling back a curtain and ushering her into their box. “The curtain will go up in a moment.”

There were three or four seats in the box, all covered in plush velvet and trimmed in gilt and gold. Tasseled curtains hung here and there, and the carpet was just as thick and opulent here as in the hallways. Frances settled herself down in one of the seats, excitedly craning her neck.

After a moment, she became conscious of eyes on her. A glint in one of the opposite boxes caught her eye, and she noticed a handful of women all staring her way, their opera glasses lifted to their eyes.

“They’re… They’re watching us,” Frances said, surprised.

Lucien winced. “I’m afraid so, my dear.”

“Whatever for?”

He shifted in his seat, almost uncomfortably. “Because you are in an opera-box with a man accused of his father’s murder.”

She twisted to look at him. “Well, you are in an opera-box with a bastard girl who should never be accepted in Society, let alone a duchess. I don’t care about your secrets, any more than you care about mine.”

Lucien blinked, and she saw surprise on his face. “You truly do not care?”

Frances bit her lip. “I know that you are innocent. Whatever happened, I know that you are innocent.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the atmosphere tightening between them. Frances was not entirely sure how to interpret the moment, so she contented herself with sitting quietly and waiting for him to say something, anything.

“I think,” Lucien said at last, speaking slowly, “that I am not quite worthy of you, my dear duchess. Your faith in me is more than I deserve.”

Before she could respond, the orchestra struck up with a flourish. Silence fell in the audience as the overture began, a jaunty, vibrant tune that immediately pinned Frances to her seat with fascination. The curtain rose, revealing a man in a strange costume.

He began to sing, the music turning fast and urgent. Frances leaned forward, eyes widening. Abruptly, some sort of mechanical creature began to descend from above, twisting and writhing in a way that made it clear that the creature intended to attack the man.

“Is that a snake ?” Frances gasped, under her breath. Before Lucien could answer—she was fairly sure he was trying not to laugh—the man on stage collapsed. Before the creature could attack, three women strode boldly onto the stage, arms raised, and began to sing, banishing the snake.

Frances watched breathlessly as the story unfolded. She privately thought that the hero—the man who’d fainted at the snake—was not handsome enough to have all three of the women in love with him at once, but he did have a beautiful voice.

Abruptly, another character joined the fray, and this one seemed more interesting than the somber hero. This one appeared to be wearing a cloak made of leaves and was clad mostly in feathers. Several feathers were waving in his hair, and he bounced around the stage with irrepressible energy.

“Papageno,” Lucien explained. “The man’s an idiot.”

The story unfolded, each song making the rafters of the theatre quiver. When the first act ended and the Intermission began, Frances sat back with a sigh, feeling as though she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

“I should warn you, there’s more, you know,” Lucien said, laughing.

“I know, and I cannot wait,” Frances responded with a sigh. “How beautiful. I don’t understand how Mama could have…” she broke off abruptly, biting her lip.

Lucien shifted to face her. “Don’t understand what, my dear?”

She sighed again. “I don’t understand how she could have given it up. It must have hurt her so very much. I should warn you, I cannot sing at all. I haven’t a scrap of my mother’s talent.” She paused, smiling. “She said that I took after my father in that regard.”

Lucien tilted his head, observing her. “Do you regret that you never knew him?”

She nodded. “Very much. Mama doesn’t speak of him often, but when she does… I can’t help but feel that he was a remarkable man. I do wish I could have met him, even once. Still, Uncle Cassian is said to be very much like him.”

“A brother’s bond is a great thing indeed,” Lucien murmured, and there was something strange and wistful in his voice that Frances could not quite understand.

She eyed him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate, but he stayed silent for one minute, then two.

Then, quite abruptly, he got to his feet, flashing a hasty smile at her.

“Wait here, my dear, and I shall fetch those oranges for you.”

“I’m sure you can have them brought,” Frances tried to say, but Lucien either did not hear or did not listen and vanished at once. The sound of his footsteps was swallowed up by the thick carpeting, and then he was gone.

Left alone, Frances sighed and leaned back against her seat. Closing her eyes, she let the atmosphere of the bustling theatre wash over her.

Did Mama adore this time, as well? Did she rest during the intermissions, or did she scurry around to prepare for the next acts? Did the excitement of the theatre give her energy? Did it thrill her, like it thrills me?

Then somebody cleared their throat behind her, and Frances flinched, turning around.

Benjamin stood in the curtained doorway, looking sheepish.

“Do forgive me,” he murmured. “I saw you and Lucien across the theatre and made up my mind to come and speak to him. But I see that he’s gone.”

“You’ve just missed him, I’m afraid. He went for oranges.”

Benjamin looked truly disappointed to have missed his friend, and Frances felt a pang of sympathy.

“Why don’t you join us?” she suggested impulsively. “It’s only the two of us here; there’s plenty of room.”

He chuckled wryly. “I’m not sure that Lucien would appreciate my ruining his romantic evening at the opera.”

She bit her lip. “Well, at least stay and wait for him to return.”

Benjamin gave a tight smile. “I might just do that, Your Grace. Thank you.”

He threw himself into the chair which Lucien had recently vacated and stretched his legs out in front of himself.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you and Lucien seem closer than ever,” Benjamin remarked, after a moment of silence.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. He’s a fine man.”

“Yes, he is,” Frances murmured, feeling color rush to her cheeks. When she risked a glance up, she found Benjamin staring at her, unsmiling. As soon as their eyes met, however, his expression changed, the coldness vanishing.

“I think you are a woman in a million, Your Grace,” he stated, crossing one leg over the other. “So many modern women would disapprove heartily of Lucien’s activities. Or rather, his past. Of course, you know all about that.”

Frances blinked, missing a beat. Modern women was clearly meant to be an insult, but she still felt as though there was some joke at her expense, something she was missing.

“Of course,” she echoed.

“I knew the old duke, just a little,” Benjamin sniffed, picking imaginary lint off the knee of his breeches. “He was a vile man. Cruel to his sons, cruel to his daughter. He deserved what he got.”

“I concur,” Frances agreed cautiously. “But I feel that if people knew the truth, the facts of what that man was like, then surely…”

“I don’t mean about the murder itself,” Benjamin interrupted.

“No, I believe that most people understood that the old duke deserved what he got. No, I mean the lie. Lying is a serious business, and to keep up such a solid lie for so long… well. Lucien has done well. I’m not sure I could have done that to my own reputation, for all these years. ”

There was a long silence between them. Frances could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

“I don’t understand,” she managed at last.

Benjamin drew his eyebrows together. “Why, I’m talking about the murder. It was never Lucien who pushed his father down that staircase. No, it was his brother. It was James.”

Frances blinked. I must have misheard.

“What?”

Benjamin sucked in a breath, eyes widening. “Oh, heavens. You didn’t know, after all. Oh, I am sorry. I never meant… I presumed…”