Page 6 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

Well, that was a Gothic request if ever Frances had heard one. But Lucien was watching her closely, waiting.

“Very well,” Frances responded, finally sinking into the armchair opposite. “Now for my requests.”

He frowned. “You have already made yours.”

“No, I made one request, and it wasn’t really a request at all, more like a statement. I have three conditions of my own.”

Lucien heaved a sigh. “Very well, go on, then.”

Frances adjusted herself, getting comfortable in the seat. At last, she tucked her feet underneath herself. It wasn’t very ladylike, but Mama wasn’t here to scold her, so never mind.

“I don’t want my past discussed, either,” she began. “We can talk of Mama, of course, but nothing about my childhood or anything like that. Nothing of the Baron.” Lucien seemed a little surprised at that but nodded.

“It would be hypocritical of me to object. Go on.”

“Since we are married, we should spend time together. Just a little time to start, I think. We can go on outings, read together, things like that.”

“If I must.”

“And I have… special interests of my own,” Frances added, a little hesitantly. She saw his eyes narrow, suspicious, but he stayed silent, letting her finish. “I’d like not to be bothered when I engage in my interests.”

“I see. It would be pointless to ask about these interests.”

“Yes, it would. Is there a private room where I can work?”

He shrugged. “Use the library. I haven’t time for extensive reading, and I’ve selected a study for myself here, anyway.”

Frances bit back a sigh of relief. That had been the greatest worry. She’d been racking her brain to work out how to continue her projects while being married to Nicholas.

He would not have approved. But it didn’t matter now, because she was not married to Nicholas.

Who am I married to, though?

Cutting off that worrisome thought, Frances cleared her throat and spoke again.

“And I want a sweet treat every day.”

That seemed to take Lucien by surprise. He blinked up at her, bewildered.

“What? A what? Is that some sort of euphemism?”

Color rushed to Frances’s cheeks. “It certainly is not ! No, I like sweet things! Pastries, cakes, jam tarts, and things like that. Mama always laughs at me and says that I have a real sweet tooth, and I suppose that I do. So, I would like a sweet treat every day.”

Lucien’s mouth worked, as if he were fighting back a smile. “Aren’t you afraid of getting plump?”

She threw a scornful glance at him. “You would be amazed , your Grace, at how infrequently such a thing crosses my mind.”

He gave a snort of laughter and rose to his feet, shaking his head.

“Goodness. Now, Gray’s wife, Joan, is coming to show you to your rooms, I believe, and Gray will soon bring tea. You can rest here and go to bed when you like.”

He turned to leave, but Frances sprang to her feet.

“Wait!”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Hm?”

She flushed. “Can you show me to the library first, please?”

Cecilia threw herself down on the couch, flinging an arm across her eyes. “I beseech thee, milord, leave me be!”

Lord Malevonte dropped to his knees beside her couch, hands outstretched. Auburn locks fell across his forehead, shading forest-green eyes. In that instant, he reminded Cecilia of nothing so much as a fox, stepping delicately and cunningly through a forest.

“Let me speak of this only once, my darling,” he whispered.

“Just once, then thou canst leave if it is thy wish.

I love you. I adore you. I burn for you.

‘Tis an ache, and I believe with all my heart that thou feels this ache just as keenly as I. I would give my lands, my castle, and my very soul for one sweet kiss. Nay, even for one look of forgiveness for what I have done.”

He edged closer, reaching out until his fingertips brushed the soft skin at Cecilia’s throat, slipping downwards towards the unlaced front of her chemise….

“There you are, your Grace!”

Frances nearly leaped out of her skin, slamming the book closed.

“What? Who is it?”

“Only me, Your Grace. Only Joan.”

An old woman stood in the doorway, illuminated by a candle, and grinned up at Frances.

The library was a vast thing, spread over several floors, going up and up into the tower. Frances had stayed on the first floor, a round room full of bookshelves and plenty of boxes of books.

A stone spiral staircase led up to the second floor, but Frances had decided that she would tackle that in the daylight.

Besides, in the boxes of books already open, she’d found a stack of novels, including Cecilia’s Trials .

She’d opened it and begun to read, almost without thinking.

At first, she’d been so shocked to see the title in the duke’s library, too shocked to even pick it up.

What was a man like the duke doing with Cecilia’s Trials in his library?

Then she decided that perhaps the books had been bought wholesale, or perhaps this particular copy had been left by a guest and subsequently placed in the library as a matter of course. Certainly, the Duke of Blackstone would not be reading a book of this calibre.

The woman—Joan--trudged forward, and Frances guiltily slipped the book under the edge of her skirt.

“Forgive me, your Grace, but I thought you might want to go up to bed now? Would you like a bath prepared?”

“No, thank you, I think I’ll just go to bed. Are there… is there a nightgown I can use?” Frances asked a little bashfully.

Joan smiled, nodding. “Of course. We’ve got linens and all sorts, your Grace, you’ll be well cared for, and when your trunk gets here in the morning, we can go through it and see whether you need to buy new things or not. His Grace says that you’re to have all the money you need.”

“I should hope so,” Frances muttered. “It is my money.”

“What was that, Your Grace?”

“Nothing,” she responded smoothly, tucking Cecilia’s Trials into the folds of her skirts. “Lead on, then. I’m quite ready for bed, I must admit.”

“I’m not surprised,” she laughed. “It’s been quite a day. To tell the truth, Your Grace, nobody much likes to wander around Blackstone Abbey in the dark.”

“Why? Is it haunted?”

Frances was joking, of course. For all her love of Gothic novels, she did not really believe in ghosts .

Joan, however, did not smile.

“I suppose you could say that it is haunted, yes,” she murmured. “In a way. Haunted by the dead, and by the living.”

She drifted off, bringing the candle with her, and suddenly Frances was very keen to follow her and stay in the light.