Page 8 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

“ L adies—married ladies, that is—generally take breakfast in bed, Your Grace,” the new maid ventured, pinning the last of Frances’s hair in place.

The girl’s name was Susan, and she was Gray’s granddaughter.

She was a pleasant, round-faced girl with a constant air of cheerfulness.

From what Frances had seen of other grand ladies and their maids, Susan’s cheerfulness and chattiness would do her no favours in a great house.

Maids were meant to be quiet and self-effacing, and Susan was none of these things.

In Frances’s opinion, however, this only made her more likable. It was much more pleasant to have a chatty maid who made everything seem so easy than a dour, grim-faced one. And Susan did have a knack with hair.

Frances inspected her reflection in the mirror.

Her hair was elaborately pinned and twisted up on top of her head, a few graceful ringlets allowed to fall over her neck.

It wasn’t a hairstyle she’d had as a single woman, but apparently duchesses had to dress better than everybody else.

She’d already found at least a dozen new dresses waiting for her in her closet.

“I don’t really have the taste for breakfast in bed,” Frances confessed. “Mama and I always took breakfast together, even when the baron was alive. I think I prefer it.”

Susan shot her a quizzical look. “The baron? Who… oh, forgive me, Your Grace. You mean your Papa?”

Frances clenched her jaw, fighting not to react.

“Yes, of course, that is what I meant.”

She’d never known her real Papa. Mama didn’t like to talk about him. Uncle Cassian would, if Frances pushed him, but she hated to see the pain flash across his face.

“Yes,” she managed at last. “My Papa. Thank you, Susan. I am very pleased with this hair. I don’t suppose there’s anything else I need. Forgive me, I’m not entirely used to having a maid of my own.”

Susan smiled. “I shouldn’t worry about it. It’s probably just as well—I’m not used to having such a fine lady to wait upon, and I daresay I’ll make a thousand mistakes.”

“Oh, I doubt that ,” Frances laughed, getting to her feet.

She’d wanted to choose one of her old gowns to wear, but somehow it seemed silly to wear a simple gown when she had such an elaborate hairstyle.

She’d picked a blue gown with a ruched skirt and pearls on the bodice, instead.

It complemented her fair hair, and didn’t seem to be too uncomfortable, although poor Susan had had to cinch in her corset a little tighter.

I will have my dresses adjusted, Frances thought. I’m a duchess. I daresay I can get a good deal of credit at the milliner’s.

She left her room, feeling much like a not-quite-welcome guest emerging for the day, not sure what sort of reception would be waiting for her.

“I believe His Grace is in the breakfast room,” Susan called after her.

Frances let out a deep, shuddering breath, trying her utmost to compose herself.

Well, this is it. My first day as a married woman.

Frances found the breakfast room straight away, mainly because she spotted a footman carrying a silver platter and simply followed him.

The breakfast room was a good deal smaller than the dining room, brighter and less imposing. A table was set out somewhat frugally, with a few dishes waiting—fried kippers, eggs, toast, bacon, marmalade, jam, and butter. Only two places were set, and Lucien was sitting in one.

He ate rather quickly, hunched over his food as if he were expecting somebody to take it from him. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of Frances and seemed to compose himself, straightening up and quite casually leaning back, leaving his food unguarded.

“Good morning, my dear Duchess,” he remarked, flashing a wry smile. “I trust you slept well?”

She had not. In fact, Frances had woken in the night, flushed and with a strange ache in the pit of her stomach. She’d had a shockingly vivid dream in which she found Lucien lying in bed beside her, fingertips dancing over her bare shoulder and smiling that wolfish, inscrutable smile.

She had woken properly to discover that the tickling feeling was in fact the pages of Cecilia’s Trials , the book half open and resting against Frances’s shoulder. She had fallen asleep reading it.

“Yes, quite well,” Frances responded coolly, sitting down in what she hoped was a duchess-like manner and inspecting the food. “Tell me, where did the dresses in my closet come from? You can’t possibly have had time to get them made for me.”

“They were my sister’s,” Lucien responded, something like wariness crossing his face.

“I guessed that the two of you were a similar size. Her dresses have not been touched for a while, but Mrs. Gray was confident that at least some would suit your purpose. I would suggest that you commission gowns of your own soon. A duchess cannot dress badly, you know. I see that Susan has done well with your hair.”

Frances pressed her lips together peevishly. She had never considered that she dressed badly in any way.

“Well, new dresses are expensive.”

Lucien lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps you don’t know how sizeable your dowry is. Speaking of which, you’ll need an allowance. A generous one. I might have married you for your dowry, but I shan’t have the world accusing me of being miserly. It would be unjust to keep you in poverty now.”

It had never occurred to Frances that he might do that.

From what she recollected of the baron, he had always given Mama a generous stipend.

Mama was not given to frivolity or overspending, managing to appear composed and well-dressed even without dripping in jewels.

She saved hard, and whenever they needed money—for example, after the baron died and most of their income disappeared—Mama’s habit of frugality had saved them.

Now she thought about it, however, there were plenty of bad marriages in Society when a lady, although being part of a rich couple, seemed to be always scrimping and saving, darning her clothes too much and not investing in new fashions.

She imagined that no matter how rich the woman was when she came to the marriage, she was a beggar afterwards.

Her husband owned it all, every penny, and if he chose not to give her anything, then he could legally do so.

What an appalling prospect.

Glancing up from her still-empty plate, Frances caught Lucien watching her, his eyes narrowed.

“You seem nervous,” he stated bluntly.

She swallowed, picking up a cup of tea and taking a sip. “I am not.”

“Hm. Well, I thought a monthly stipend of one hundred pounds would suit you. What do you think?”

Frances choked on her tea. “ One hundred pounds? What on earth would I need with such an amount? One hundred pounds? Heavens, that’s obscene.”

Lucien scowled just a little before returning his face to its usual composure. She had the feeling she had embarrassed him, somehow.

“I’ll not have people saying that I keep my wife in rags,” he snapped. “You must have a sensible allowance. People will take note of that kind of thing. How about fifty pounds?”

Fifty pounds still seemed like a terrific sum to Frances—it was a terrific sum—but she supposed she could save whatever she did not spend. She would probably want to host parties, which was what duchesses seemed to do, or organize charitable events.

A literary salon, she thought suddenly. I could begin a proper literary salon. We could meet, read books, and discuss them. I could buy whatever books I liked, even the ones Mama expressly forbade me to buy.

A shiver rolled down her spine at that. She was thinking of a particular book, entitled simply The Highwayman.

The plot, as far as she could tell, involved a beautiful young woman—they were always beautiful young women—who was kidnapped by a dashing, handsome highwayman as part of some nefarious plot.

They naturally fell in love, and the book was said to depict such love in more explicit terms than some other books.

She knew, of course, that proper ladies did not read such things.

They did not even know that such books existed.

But Frances did know and found herself inexplicably drawn to them.

Clearing her throat, Frances put all thoughts of The Highwayman from her mind and applied herself to her breakfast.

“I don’t require a large allowance,” she said at last. “I don’t intend to waste my dowry.”

“Nor do I. Ah, here comes your breakfast. I suggest you put that bacon aside.”

Lucien sat back with an air of smugness and waved for Gray to come forward.

The butler set down a silver plate bearing a sticky jam tart and a fresh, citrusy-smelling slice of lemon cake.

“Sweets every morning, as requested,” Lucien remarked, lifting an eyebrow. “I trust this suits your needs?”

The sweets smelled fresh and delicious, as if there was sugar in the very fragrance. Frances breathed in deeply, unable to resist a smile.

“I think that this is an excellent start,” she remarked at last, grinning.

“Good,” he responded, taking a swig of his tea. “Perhaps this will encourage you to avoid harassing my staff for information about me.”

“I’ve promised I won’t snoop,” Frances responded primly, “so I shan’t. But there are a great many things you shall have to do to earn my trust.”

He smiled faintly, fingertips clicking rhythmically on the side of his cup.

“And to get in your bed.”

Frances froze, a jam tart halfway to her mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

He chuckled. “Come now, my dear, let’s not beat about the bush. You’re a clever young woman, and you know quite well what ladies and gentlemen get up to in bed, I imagine.”

“I would rather you didn’t imagine such things about me.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. “This coyness is very sweet, my dear, but it will lose its savour very quickly. I am a proponent of plain speaking. There is no sense in avoiding certain words and subjects, not when they must be discussed.”

“Must they?”

“Yes,” he responded calmly. “The plain fact, my dear duchess, is that I require an heir, sooner or later. And you, my prim little angel, refuse to give one to me. Now, I intend to be a suitable husband and will not share your bed until you wish it, but make no mistake. This is not a love match. I am not wooing you. I am simply going along with your wishes until we both have what we want. This marriage of ours, my dear, is one of convenience. You must never lose sight of that.”

A brief silence followed. Frances was horrified to discover that her chest was tightening, and she felt… Well, she felt hurt .

I have no right to feel hurt, she scolded herself furiously. This is a marriage of convenience. We both know it. I almost married another man whom I did not love. Of course, I didn’t think that Lucien was actually courting me.

That wasn’t entirely true. Frances realized, to her chagrin, that she had begun to think of their relationship as a sort of courtship. Well, that was silly. It was not a courtship, and she was grateful—yes, grateful-to Lucien for reminding her of that.

“Of course I know that,” Frances responded, a little more snappishly than perhaps was necessary.

She ate the jam tart in several large bites.

She would have to eat the lemon cake too, as it had been made for her, and he would only laugh at her if she left any.

Doggedly, Frances dug her fork into the cake.

It was delicious, but she found that she wasn’t particularly hungry anymore.

When she risked a glance upwards, Lucien was watching her, his expression unreadable.

The wretched man. If only I knew what he was thinking. I daresay he thinks it’s a great joke to flirt with me and then remind me that we are in no danger of falling in love.

“I am going out after breakfast,” Frances said at last, once the silence had dragged out a little longer than she felt comfortable with. It was clear that he was not going to break it first. “I assume that’s allowed?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You’re a duchess, my dear. You can do as you like. However, considering that you have a reputation as a wallflower, I have a feeling that you already do as you like.”

“My Mama is very indulgent, if you must know. So is Uncle Cass.”

At once, Frances regretted mentioning Uncle Cassian. Lucien pursed his lips, tilting his head.

“Your mother seems to have a great deal to do with the Duke of Clapton. If I were the Duchess of Clapton, I might look askance on such a friendship.”

Frances said nothing. She knew quite well that some members of Society considered that Mama and Uncle Cass were too close, but of course, they simply did not know the truth.

Mama and Uncle Cass were connected by a person they both had loved and lost—her father, Matthew, Uncle Cassian’s brother.

But that was a dire secret that could never be shared.

In fact, now that she was a duchess, the secret must be more carefully guarded than ever.

Frances carefully avoided Lucien’s gaze, as if he might pry the secret out of her by simply staring into her eyes.

“I shall be sure to mention it to Mama when I visit her today,” she answered crisply. “That is where I am going, by the way. We’re taking tea together, and I shall ask Mama for her advice on how to run a household. She was a baroness, not a duchess, but I imagine that the principles are the same.”

Lucien said nothing, only nodded, smiling wryly. He gave the impression of knowing a juicy secret that he had no intention of sharing. It was infuriating. That was the only reason for her annoyance, Frances reminded herself, and it had nothing to do with how his sharp reminder had made her feel.

It’s a marriage of convenience. Nothing more, nothing less. And that suits me. It really does.

She finished the last bite of lemon cake and rose to her feet.

“Well, I shall see you later, I imagine.”

Lucien did not rise—which was rather rude, staying seated when a lady was on her feet—but his eyes did not leave her for an instant.

“Yes,” he responded thoughtfully. “I imagine that you shall.”