Page 44 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

F rances woke with a start, a little surprised that she had managed to fall asleep at all. Her dreams had been full of chaos, of running, and tears, and an impending feeling of dread. She was sure she had heard strange noises in the distance, hammering and muffled shouts.

The sun streamed in through half-opened curtains, bright and full. It must be mid-morning.

Shifting on the unfamiliar bed, Frances rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.

What do I do now?

She was sure that even the redoubtable Katherine would have given up and gone by now.

Frances’s new room afforded her a view of the driveway below.

She’d watched Mama arrive and leave, then Uncle Cass and Aunt Emily do the same.

Katherine had stopped occasionally knocking on Frances’s door sometime in the afternoon, and Frances imagined that she had left soon after.

That’s what I wanted, she thought groggily. I wanted them to leave me alone. I wanted so desperately to be left alone.

I got what I wanted, then.

She closed her eyes, feeling the burn of tears against her lids.

The questions that had plagued her as she fell asleep remained.

Where would she go? What would she do? How could she put her friends at a distance without hurting herself and them too much?

Because, of course, one could not remain friends with a woman as thoroughly ruined as she was.

Even with the support of her husband, Frances knew that she was entirely infamous.

And I do not have the support of my husband, do I? I gave all of that up.

She sniffed hard, trying to hold back the tears. She was not going to spend all day lying in bed and snuffling like a child.

I’m not exactly sure what else I’ll do, but… but something else, to be sure.

A commotion out in the hallway caught her attention. There were muffled, anxious voices, followed by drumming footsteps.

Abruptly, somebody knocked on the door, and Frances flinched.

“Go away,” she called, before she could let herself think twice.

“It’s me, Your Grace,” came Gray’s tremulous voice. “There’s been a… situation.”

A cold hand folded itself around Frances’s heart.

“A situation?” she echoed.

Gray gasped for breath. “It’s the duke, Your Grace. He went into the East Tower for some reason and... You know how it is. You must come quickly, please.”

The world around Frances seemed to rapidly constrict and expand. She was out of bed before she knew what she was doing, swinging a loose robe over her nightgown. The lock clicked, and she hauled open the door.

Gray stood there, out of breath, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“You should hurry, Your Grace,” he murmured.

Frances swallowed reflexively. She didn’t stop to make conversation, or even to slip on some shoes on her bare feet. Before she knew what she was doing, she was flying down the hallway, out of breath already, her robe flying out behind her like a cape.

The floor of the Great Hall was gritty and dusty, in need of a good sweep. She spotted the door to the East Tower hanging open, and a terrible silence came from within.

Why is there no doctor here? No servants around? Is… Is it already too late?

Skidding to a halt, Frances drew in a deep, ragged breath and steeled herself. Stepping into the small, round stairwell, she waited, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom.

There was no figure spread-eagled on the floor, lifeless eyes staring upwards. In fact, the broken steps where Frances’s leg had gone through had been repaired.

Frowning, she glanced upwards, noticing that the steps had all been reinforced. In places, the wooden supports had been replaced entirely. When she placed her foot on the lowest step and tested it with her weight, it didn’t even creak.

“Lucien?” she called, her voice echoing upwards.

“Up here,” came the response.

Frances had not quite realized how the prospect of never hearing that deep, amused voice again had worried her until she heard it.

Her feet moved on their own, carrying her up and up the tightly spiralled staircase.

There was a good deal of light spilling down from above, growing brighter with each step. At last, the steps gave way to an open, circular room. Tall windows let in great swathes of light, affording complete views of the surrounding landscape.

Lucien stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets. He was surprisingly grubby, she noticed. His hair was dishevelled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. A film of whitish dust clung to his breeches here and there. His Hessians were all but ruined.

He cleared his throat, smiling almost awkwardly. “Well? What do you think?”

“I don’t understand. I thought you were hurt. There was a situation…”

Lucien gave a faint smile. “Yes, well… We didn’t think you’d leave your room for anything less. But the situation is a little different than what you might have assumed at first.”

Frances stared at him. She was aware that she should feel offended and annoyed that she’d been fooled in such a way, but somehow the indignation would not come.

“I don’t understand,” she repeated.

Lucien took a careful step towards her, tentatively, as if she were a nervy deer that might spook and bolt at any moment.

“I am tired of being terrified of this place,” he said quietly. “I am tired of it being haunted by my father, by my brother. So, I decided to change things. I had the stairs repaired, removed the heavy curtains at the windows, cleaned and aired the place, and… well, now it is as you see it.”

Frances looked around the room, seeing it properly for the first time. She had not seen the upper room of the East Tower before, but had imagined it as a dark, dismal place. Haunted, as Lucien had said.

It was entirely different now. Light streamed in.

There was a rug on the floor, covering the immaculately scrubbed floorboards.

Chairs were set invitingly here and there, besides low coffee tables and higher writing desks.

There were a pair of armchairs angled beside an empty fireplace, velvet footstools set before them.

A chaise lounge was set beneath the largest window, drenched in glittering sunlight.

And the books! Frances did not immediately notice the books, because the shelves ringed the walls as if they were part of them. Shelves circled the walls, placed between and beneath the windows, and they were full of books. She inched towards the shelves, tentatively holding out a hand.

“These books… they’re familiar.”

“Well, I imagine they are,” Lucien responded with a faint grin. “They’re yours.”

She bit her lip, letting her fingertips dance over the spines.

They were all here, her most risqué books.

There was Valentine , a book so shocking women claimed to swoon when they read it, along with The Monk —not one of her favourites, but still—and Mysteries of Udolpho , which was a little more respectable than the others, but still considered shocking.

There were other books, too. The Highwayman was there, and Frances was sure she hadn’t had that book in her collection yet.

And then she fell upon her favourite.

“ Cecilia’s Trials ,” she murmured, pulling the book in question out of the shelf. She opened it, and the pages fell open to those she had sought most often—an illustration of Lord Malevonte kneeling before the chaise lounge where Cecilia lay in a half-swoon, pleading with her to love him.

His hand rested on the sofa beside her knee, and his other stretched suppliantly towards her.

Cecilia didn’t look at him, of course. She had her back arched, her wrist lay limply on her forehead.

She wore a thin, gauzy nightgown, not unlike the one Frances wore at that moment, except Cecilia’s was torn in the front, very nearly exposing her bosom.

Lord Malevonte’s shirt was torn to the waist, too, revealing the smooth planes of his chest. The picture had made Frances feel extremely strange for a while after she first saw it.

“I moved some of your books here from the library,” Lucien murmured, appearing behind her.

The sound of his voice made Frances prickle all over, heat coursing through her chest. Our library is open to visitors, but this one will not be.

I thought you could write up here, and indulge your inclination for more risqué works. ”

She swallowed thickly, her throat suddenly dry. “This is… This is kind of you.”

“I thought the best way to banish my father’s ghost was to confront him with the living. With you.”

He reached out, almost hesitantly, and took her hand in his.

The warmth of his palm made Frances shiver.

Gently, very gently, he took the book from her hand and set it aside, taking her other hand in his and pressing it to his chest, over his heart.

She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin linen of his shirt and could feel hard muscle shifting underneath her touch.

“I was not honest with you,” Lucien whispered.

“I wanted to protect my brother’s reputation.

I loved James with all my heart, but I suppose my father succeeded in the end.

He wanted to break us apart, and his death seemed to do that.

James did not want me to come home. I suppose he never quite escaped the fear that his crime would become known, even though it was hardly a crime.

The truth is that I did hide things from you, but not for the reason you think.

I could not bear…” he trailed off, swallowing thickly.

“I could not bear for you to think badly of me.

I wanted so much for you to trust me, and yes, to care for me, too, but I never wanted you to know me.

In my experience, when people get to know me better, they pull away.