Page 37 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

T he carriage ride home seemed to take an eternity. Frances sat very straight and rigid in the seat, staring directly ahead and trying hard to think of nothing.

The house was mostly dark when she arrived home.

Already, Frances knew that when they went out, Lucien encouraged the servants to go to bed early or take an evening off, with only a few key servants staying awake to greet them when they returned.

It was a thoughtful gesture, and one that most dukes would not think of doing.

She tightened her hands in the voluminous fabric of her skirts.

Stop it. Stop thinking of him. Stop thinking of the good things he has done. Face the facts, you stupid, stupid girl.

You were never anything to him.

Frances closed her eyes. It was inevitable, really. Of course, she would begin to romanticise everything he did, to imagine it all meant more than it truly did.

His efforts to ‘woo’ her were only ever to soothe his own ideas of honour, so that when he finally bedded her and conceived the heir he so desperately needed, he would not need to feel guilty. He would not feel as though he had taken something from her.

He’ll sleep better at night that way, Frances thought bitterly.

She was not entirely sure how to proceed.

Could she lock him out of her bedroom forever?

A man had a right, a legal right, to take what he wished from his wife.

She knew without needing to think twice that Lucien was not such a man, but no heir meant no future for the estate.

The title and estate would pass to another man when Lucien died, and Frances would be left an impoverished, unwanted, useless widow.

A woman who wasted her life married to her man who never gave three straws about her.

A sob fought its way up Frances’s throat, and she clenched her teeth to keep it down, pressing her gloved hand over her mouth.

No. I will not crumble. I will not give in. Mama never did, even when she lost the love of her life and married a man she never cared for. Mama was strong. Mama is strong, and so am I.

She had considered going straight to Mama’s house and telling her the whole story, but quickly rejected the idea. She knew what Mama would say.

Go back to your husband. Reconcile. It is better to be with a man you just about like and who tolerates you than to be estranged from a man who blames you for not getting what he wants.

Mama did not know Lucien, of course, but she did know men. Her advice was likely sound, but Frances did not want to hear it.

She considered going to see Aunt Emily and Uncle Cassian, but she decided she could not bear Aunt Emily’s sympathy and Uncle Cass’s inevitable rage at Lucien. It would only make trouble.

Katherine was another possibility, but it was late and she kept early hours.

That left the Abbey as the only possible location. Frances leaned back against the seat, trying to keep her mind cool and blank.

It was not working.

The carriage toiled up the gravel drive towards the Abbey, and Frances found herself wishing the ride would go on forever, just her alone in the silent carriage, rumbling through the dark night.

Nothing lasts forever, however, and the carriage came to a halt. The door was jerked open, and Gray himself stood there, blinking up at her in surprise. He was in his shirtsleeves, and Frances guessed that she’d interrupted him at supper.

“You are back early, Your Grace,” Gray remarked gently. “I did not think the opera would have finished so soon.”

“It didn’t. I left before it ended.”

Gray glanced past Frances into the empty carriage, clearly looking for Lucien, and his expression darkened when he saw the duke was not there.

“My husband is returning home later,” Frances explained shortly, climbing down. “The carriage will go back to fetch him.”

“I see. As you prefer, Your Grace. Shall I arrange for tea and perhaps a light supper to be had in the dining room? Or the drawing room, perhaps, if you prefer a more informal meal?”

Even the idea of food made Frances’s stomach turn.

“No,” she answered crisply. “No. Gray, when you have a moment, I have an important task for you or some of the others. All my things must be moved from my current bedroom into another room.”

Gray was too well-trained to betray any surprise, but Frances noticed a widening of his eyes and a tightening around the jaw.

“Of course, your Grace. Do you have a particular room in mind?”

“I don’t care which, but I want it to be in a separate wing. Do you understand, Gray? A separate wing.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between them and then Gray took a careful step forward.

“Of course, Your Grace. It will be as you wish it, naturally. However, if I may be so bold, is there something wrong? You seem distressed and not at all yourself. Do you require the doctor? Should I send for somebody to attend to you, perhaps your esteemed mother or a close friend?”

She noticed that Gray tactfully did not mention sending for Lucien.

“No, thank you.”

Gray frowned, worrying his lower lip. “Your Grace, I…”

“Could you just do as I ask, please, Gray?” Frances burst out. “I would like my things moved out of that room before he returns home.”

There was a brief silence after that. Frances knew that she’d revealed too much, but it was too late to take it back.

Gray tightened his jaw. “Of course, Your Grace. Do forgive me.”

“Gray, I didn’t…”

“The others are at supper, but I shall collect a few of the maids and get the task done immediately.”

Frances passed a hand over her face. “I didn’t mean for you to miss your supper. Please, finish your meal.”

“This will be done at once, Your Grace,” Gray answered, quietly but firmly. “Is there anything else you require before I begin?”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“No. Thank you.”

He bowed and retreated wordlessly into the house, leaving Frances standing in the square of light thrown onto the gravel from the open door.

Frances waited for a full half an hour before venturing upstairs.

She stripped off her gloves, bonnet, and shawl and left them piled up on a low table by the door.

She wandered up and down the lower floors of the house, walking quickly through the dark, silent Great Hall, careful not to look at the closed door to the East Tower.

No wonder Lucien wants to avoid that place.

She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to think of Lucien.

Half an hour into her pacing, it occurred to her that the maids might go through her things and discover the writings, and some of her more unsavoury books.

Buoyed by a jolt of panic, she went hurtling upstairs and found one of the maids about to lift her pillow and discover her own story underneath.

“That will do, thank you,” she ordered, faintly panicked.

The maids exchanged meaningful looks, then stared at the half-packed boxes of things. Frances smiled thinly and tried to appear calm.

“I’ll pack up the rest of it,” she added.

The maids bobbed curtsies and scurried out of the room, leaving Frances alone.

Many of her things had already been packed up, and the smaller pieces of furniture had already been moved. The fire still burned, flickering flames illuminating a ransacked room.

Her clothes were missing from her closet, the vanity table half-emptied.

It felt like somebody else’s room already.

I was only ever a guest, she thought dully. I just couldn’t accept it, I suppose.

One of her bedside table drawers was half-open, revealing the paper inside. There were endless sheets of discarded chapters for her book, notes, scribbles, even rough drawings of her characters. Pulling open the drawer properly, Frances took out handfuls of paper, crumpling them carelessly.

One sheet contained a rough sketch of her ‘Timon’, from the early days before he turned into Lucien. Eleanor stood beside him, turned half-away from the viewer, a parasol laid elegantly across her shoulder.

They aren’t real, Frances thought dizzily. None of this is real.

She snatched up both sketches, striding over to the fire.

Without giving herself a moment to think twice, she tossed both sheets into the flames.

The paper took a second or two to catch.

Frances stared down at her characters, her own creations, and refused to let herself look away as the fire took them.

It was as if something broke loose inside her after that.

She rushed to and from the bed and the fire, grabbing handfuls of paper and throwing them into the flames without even stopping to think of what they were.

Notes, discarded pages, memorandums, all of it was reduced to ash in the space of minutes.

Last of all, when the drawer was empty, she picked up the book itself, the notebook in which her story was taking form.

Some of Frances’s frenzy faded away. She flicked idly through the pages, taking note of the places she had scribbled out whole sentences and paragraphs, or even torn away a full page.

Several pages, even, when she decided that a chapter did not fit the storyline after all.

What was I thinking? She thought, almost hysterically. Who would have published this? Who would have read it? I’m just a stupid girl who lives with her head in the clouds. I suppose I believed he would have to love me, after all.

How wrong I was.

She walked slowly to the fire, holding out the book before her. The fire seemed to have grown in size and heat, probably after gorging itself on her words.

Only half of the book was full, and Frances had previously estimated that she required another twenty chapters to finish the story. Twenty chapters had not seemed very much, then.

One of the final paragraphs to date was a conversation between Eleanor and Timon. The pages before that were blank, as Frances had found herself unable to write the love scene between them. Not wanting to get stuck and lose her momentum, she’d moved on, planning to write the love scene later.

After I’d learned about it, she thought wryly, shaking her head at her own childishness.

Without meaning to, she began to read.

“We are none of us perfect, Eleanor,” Timon murmured, almost to himself, his naked skin brushing hers. “We admire marble statues and the paragons described in books, but that is not real. We must never lose sight of that.”

“Lose sight of what?” Eleanor laughed. She was still giddy and elated from their intimacy, and it seemed incredible to her that only empty sheets separated her from the man she loved most in the world, without even a layer of a linen shift between them.

Timon did not smile back. There was a furrow between his brow, some worry beginning to grow there. Eleanor longed to smooth it away.

“What is real and what is not?” he answered slowly. “We are real. We are. You and I, always. Forever.”

A lump formed in Frances’s throat, and she could not decide whether it was because of what Timon had said, or Eleanor’s guileless, foolish love for him, or, even worse, because of her own stupidity. She closed the book.

Drawing in a deep breath, Frances extended her hand, holding the book over the flames. Months of writing and dreaming hung there in her hand, shaking ever so slightly. The flames beneath seemed to lick higher.

It’s time, she told herself, squeezing her eyes closed. Let it go.

The book fell. It landed in the center of the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The flames licked greedily around it, keen for more paper to eat.

Her eyes flew open, and Frances drew in a shuddering breath. She seized the poker, knocking the book out onto the hearth. Several pieces of burning wood came with it, smouldering, and Frances seized her book and held it tightly to her chest.

The book was only faintly warm from its brief time in the fire, the edges moderately singed. It stank of woodsmoke, and something told Frances that the smell was going to linger.

Then a gentle knock came at the adjoining door, and she stiffened.

“Frances?”

“Go away, Lucien. When did you get home? The carriage can’t have gotten back to pick you up that quickly.”

“I walked part of the way and took a cab the rest. Frances, open the door. I want to talk to you.”

She gave a short laugh. “No, thank you.”

He gave a long, tired sigh, and there came a creaking sound which she thought was him leaning against the door.

“You say that I kept the truth from you, but I don’t recall you rushing to tell me your secret,” he said quietly.

Frances clenched her jaw. “My secret could ruin my reputation irrevocably. It could destroy my mother, and will affect Uncle Cass.”

“Mine would destroy my brother’s reputation. I was considered an accidental manslayer, but he would’ve been considered a murderer.”

“He is dead, Lucien.”

“Do you think that means I don’t care about him anymore?”

Frances bit the inside of her cheek, sinking down onto the floor in a crumple of fine skirts.

“You demanded that I trust you,” she whispered, “while you never trusted me even a little. I have nothing else to say to you, Lucien, beyond what I said at the opera. You could not have made it plainer what you think of me, and that is very little. You are not a monster, and I imagine you are passably fond of me. I thought perhaps that would be enough, but I am not sure that it will be.”

“Frances, please.”

“You wanted a bride of convenience. Well, you have one.”

He sighed again, and suddenly she could imagine him clearly, standing there with his forehead resting against the wood of the door, pale and exhausted.

“Gray tells me you plan to move into another room. I wish you would stay here. The door can remain locked. I will not disturb you. I haven’t disturbed you so far, have I?”

She gave a short laugh at that. “You have disturbed me more than you can imagine. It seems that I have not had a moment’s peace since you came into my life.

The worst part of it all is that I do not regret any of it.

But I am not a glutton for punishment, Lucien, and enough is enough.

You and I require space between us. Perhaps in time we might come to some sort of arrangement, but for now, it must end. You understand, don’t you?”

“I told Benjamin that I would not tolerate any further meddling. I have put him in his place, Frances.”

She rose slowly to her feet. Her legs were aching. She still clutched the book to her chest. It seemed almost laughable that only minutes ago she had planned to destroy it.

“I don’t begrudge you your friend,” she responded. “He cares for you, at least. And I don’t resent him for what he said. Somebody had to tell me, sooner or later, and it was certainly not going to be you.”

“Frances…”

“You wanted to seduce me, but wanted no more connection than that. And it turns out that I… that I am not content with that. Goodbye, Lucien.”

Without waiting for a response, Frances walked out of the room. She took her book along with her, but left the rest of it behind.