Page 4 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

S he won’t like it if I kiss her, Lucien thought.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the rector said, somewhat lamely. The poor man looked thoroughly miserable, and really, Lucien could not blame him. His wedding ceremony had not been what he’d expected, not in the slightest.

The special license, of course, had stood up to scrutiny on account of being valid. He hadn’t applied for it – Gray had. The man really did think of everything.

Turning to his new bride, Lucien took her hand in his. She wore no gloves, which was an unusual choice. He swiped the pad of his thumb over her knuckles and leant down to press a kiss there. He was careful to hold her gaze while he did so.

Maybe being married to me won’t be as bad as you think. Certainly, it will be better than being married to that milksop Lord Easton.

Miss Knight, however, flushed a vivid red and whisked her hand away, glaring at him. Lucien straightened up, saying nothing.

Interesting. My new bride does not seem very drawn to me. That’s a pity, as I am exceptionally drawn to her. My wedding night is not going to be what I expected, I think.

Of course, Lucien had planned to bed her. There was no sense in having a wife whom one did not bed. He was reasonably pleased with his own charms and was confident that she would have a pleasant time too.

However, Miss Knight did not seem happy. He could not possibly insist on marital dues today . Ladies, for good reason, seemed to balk a little at sharing beds with men they had just met. Husbands or not.

Lucien led the way down the aisle. He could hear from the chatter outside that the Duke and Duchess of Clapton had failed to herd the crowds away from the church.

Then, as Lucien stepped through the doors, somebody flew forward and seized him by the lapels.

“You really went through with it,” Lord Easton hissed, his nose inches from Lucien’s. “You married her, you vile wretch.”

“You had better let go of me, or you’ll be sorry,” Lucien responded evenly, not bothering to struggle or cry out. “If it comes to a fistfight, there’s a sure winner here and it is not you.”

“Nicholas, please!” Miss Knight yelped at his side, diving forward. “This is barbaric!”

Lord Easton ignored her. Lucien guessed that, at the root of it, this business was not about her at all. After all, the viscount was not in love with her.

He thinks she is his. I stole his property. Charming.

“Why did you return?” Lord Easton hissed. “You should have been hanged the day you pushed your father off the stairs.”

Beside him, Miss Knight went very still. Lucien clenched his jaw, ice-cold anger flaring up inside him.

“Enough,” he growled, seizing Lord Easton’s wrist and wrenching it away. He shoved him backwards, as powerfully as he could, and the viscount stumbled backwards into the crowd, landing on his backside.

Lucien turned to Miss Knight – he really must stop thinking of her as Miss Knight – intending to reassure her, but she hastily turned away, avoiding his eye.

Abruptly, the Duke of Clapton was in front of them, his face grim and serious.

“What has happened?” he demanded. “Margaret?”

The Baroness stepped out of the church behind them. “Frances has married this man instead of Lord Easton,” she explained bluntly, her face giving nothing away. “We’ll discuss it later, Cassian. For now, let’s get out of this crowd.”

Frances. Her name is Frances. A pretty name.

“I am taking Frances back to my estate. To Blackstone Abbey,” Lucien explained, as crisply as he could. “No time for a wedding breakfast, I’m afraid.”

The Duke of Clapton pushed forward, teeth gritted. “You expect to whisk her away without a word of explanation?”

The Baroness shot him a strange look, holding out a hand as if to restrain him.

“Frances has married him,” she said simply. “There’s nothing to be done.”

Lucien held up his hands. “I am not whisking her away. Our marriage will be all over London by tonight. She is the Duchess of Blackstone, and with her dowry, we are a remarkably wealthy couple. I imagine that you, Baroness, will visit as soon as possible to ensure that your daughter is comfortable, along with any guests you’d care to bring along.

” He threw a pointed look at the Duke of Clapton to make his meaning clear.

The man really was invested in Frances’s upbringing.

He would think about that later. “You know where to find me, I think. Or rather, find us ,” he corrected.

Taking Frances’s hand in his – she was too surprised to pull away – Lucien led her through the crowds to where his carriage waited.

It was not a warm day. It was grey and overcast, and as they reached the carriage, the first spots of rain splattered the pavement around them, moisture spreading like an ink blot.

Within a moment, the rain was falling fast and heavy, darkening the pavement and dripping down the sides of the carriage.

Yanking the door open, Lucien jerked his head for Frances to climb in and hastily crawled in after her. The door slammed. The coachman snapped the reins, and they were off, leaving the chaos outside the church behind.

Silence descended.

Frances had, of course, taken the seat opposite Lucien, pressing herself into the corner as if trying to get as far away from him as she could. She was watching him now with round, wide eyes.

“It’s bad luck,” she said at last, breaking the silence. “Rain on one’s wedding day.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care much for superstitions.”

“Perhaps I should start. And how did you get a special license without my name?”

Lucien winced. “Truthfully, my butler procured it. On my behalf, I suppose.”

“Your butler ?”

“The finest man I ever knew. I did not need your name, as it turned out. I only needed it to say Baron’s Daughter . Apparently, that was enough.”

Frances smiled bitterly. “I’m nothing if not my father’s daughter.”

There was an edge to her voice. What did she mean by that?

“You seem preoccupied,” he said at last. “What is on your mind, I wonder?”

“What do you think?” she snapped. “I am wondering whether I have made a great mistake.”

“I should think not. Marrying that milksop, now – that would have been a mistake worth worrying about.”

Frances clenched her jaw, turning towards the window. Silence descended once again, and Lucien let it sit.

For some time – an hour, perhaps more – they jolted around together in his well-padded, well-sprung carriage. The driver was rather good at his job and knew exactly where they were going.

They made good time. The journey from Blackstone Abbey to the London chapel where he had just got married was no more than three hours, as it turned out. Faster, if the roads were clear and one’s coachman speedy.

He said nothing and directed his gaze out of the opposite window.

Whenever he glanced over at Frances, she was staring out of the window, still and brow furrowed.

She had fisted her hands into the material of her skirts, bunching up the fabric until her shoes – green satin encrusted with pearls – were revealed.

Oblivious, she bunched up the fabric more, revealing the curve of her ankles, swathed in white silk.

Clearing his throat, Lucien looked away.

“I haven’t got any of my things,” Frances said, quite suddenly. “My things are all packed up in trunks at Mama’s house. We were going to go home and get them after the ceremony.”

“I’ll send the coachman back to fetch them. They’ll be here in the morning. In the meantime, you can continue wearing that lovely gown, and I’m sure there’ll be some linens and such for you to wear.”

For some reason, this made color rise to her cheeks, visible even in the gloom of the carriage.

At last, Frances shifted, facing him directly.

Her clear green eyes fixed on him, and Lucien found his gut tightening.

With anticipation, perhaps? He chose not to explore the feeling.

Now was not the time, and Frances was not at her ease.

“Should I be afraid of you, your Grace?” she asked bluntly. “Am I in danger?”

He had expected this question. The whole business was like some villain’s ploy from a novel.

“Not in the slightest,” he responded firmly, then hazarded a faint smile. “I don’t bite, Duchess. Unless you ask me to, of course.”

She did not smile at the joke. Instead, she leaned forward, not seeming even to blink.

“You shouldn’t joke.”

He lifted his hands. “Forgive me. I only meant to lighten the mood. Perhaps we should spend some time getting to know each other.”

She narrowed her eyes. “An excellent idea. Here is something you should know about me, Your Grace.”

“Lucien, please.”

“Very well. Lucien. I hate lies. I despise liars. I expect truth from those around me, and that includes you.”

“Very admirable.”

“And so,” she continued, as if he had not spoken, “I expect an honest answer to this question.”

Lucien said nothing. He knew what the question would be.

She continued, not waiting for him to reply.

“Why did they call you a murderer? Why did Lord Easton accuse you of pushing your father off the stairs?”

Lucien knew that his response to this question was crucial. He had no intention of telling her the truth, of course, that went without saying. However, he would have to say something , and it was pointless to waste his breath on an obvious lie that would be easily found out.

“My father was not a well-liked man,” Lucien managed at last, careful to hold her gaze.

“He was cruel and vicious, especially so to those he was closest to. My elder brother bore the brunt of his cruelty, but my younger sister and I also suffered. He did indeed die from a fall down the staircase. It was a terrible accident, and you know how people jump to their own conclusions. Some people see Gothic novels everywhere, don’t they? ”

“I suppose that’s true,” Frances murmured. “I’m sorry your father was such a vile man.”

“What about yours?”

“I hardly knew him. I have almost no memories of him. But Mama is the best mother I could have hoped for.”

Lucien tried to smile. After all, the moment was passing. But it seemed as though, quite suddenly, there was a third occupant in the carriage.

Get out, he thought furiously at the shadowy figure, that of a large man in stiff shirt-points and bristling whiskers. He could almost hear the metallic tap-tap-tap of a silver-topped cane rattling against the floor.

The cane could be lifted in the blink of an eye and brought down on an unsuspecting head, or across the shoulders, or the backs of the thighs. Even as he thought of it, the memories came crowding back in – explosions of pain, fractured bones, bleeding noses.

Mary-Jane screaming.

Lucien squeezed his eyes closed, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Lucien?” Frances hazarded. When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him, frowning. “You seem upset.”

He flashed a smile. “Even dukes aren’t immune to motion sickness, my dear. The rocking of this carriage is making me feel quite queasy.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure we’re nearly there.”

“Another hour, I think. But please, I would like to avoid discussing such unpleasant topics on our wedding day.”

Frances tipped her head to one side. “Topics such as your father?”

He flashed a brittle smile. “As I said. Unpleasant.”

They continued in silence until, at long last, through the veil of rain, Blackstone Abbey lurched into view.