Page 16 of His Arranged Duchess
“So, Joan,” Frances said, a little desperately. “Did you know Lucien as a child? His Grace, I mean.”
“That I did, Your Grace, that I did! Ed and I have served in this house for decades, although back then he was a footman and I was just a maid. He was a sweet boy, I must say. But then, all three of them were such good children.” Joan sighed heavily, shaking her head. A line appeared between her brows. “It was a pity, what happened to them. No, a tragedy. Makes me sick to even think about it.”
Frances’s heart was beating faster. Lucien had made her promise not to speak about his past, but so far, she had several pieces of the puzzle together. She knew that his father had been vile, that his brother was dead, his sister was missing, and Lucien himself had left England for years.
It is abitlike something Mrs. Radcliffe would write.
“Oh?” she ventured, trying to sound as careless as possible. Joan mustn’t think that she was trying to mine for gossip. “What happened?”
Joan hesitated, meeting Frances’s eye through the mirror.
Before she could say a word, however, a low chuckle ran through the room. Both women flinched. Frances’s eyes shot to the top corner of the mirror, where the adjoining door was reflected. Sure enough, it was open, and Lucien lounged in the doorway.
Oh, bother. He certainly heard what I said.
“Joan, I’d like a moment alone with my duchess, if you please,” he said pleasantly.
A pang of something not quite fear, but not quite excitement, shot through Frances. It curdled into something like an ache in her gut. She sat very still, not looking at Joan.
“Of course,” Joan said, a little nervously. She set the hairbrush down on the counter. “Good night, Your Graces. Please do ring for me if you need something else, Your Grace. Duchess, I mean.”
Joan slipped silently out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Frances took up the hairbrush, pulled a hank of golden hair over her shoulder, and began to brush vigorously. For a moment, theswish-swishof the brush through her hair was the only sound.
On velvet feet, Lucien crossed the room to stand behind her. If she hadn’t watched his progress in the mirror, she would not have heard him approach.
It was clear that he had been interrupted in the middle of dressing for bed. He had stripped down to his stockinged feet, breeches, and a loose shirt, untucked. The sleeves had been carelessly rolled up, crumpled about his elbows, and it was unlaced at the top, revealing a deep V of olive skin, dusted with dark hair. She could see the curve of his muscled chest pushing up towards his collar, spreading out into broad shoulders.
The room was dimly lit, only a fire and a handful of candles lighting the space, throwing dancing orange shadows everywhere. The shadows played over Lucien’s face and figure, deepening the shadows around his face and making him seem even larger.
“I don’t like that door being there,” she said briskly, before he had a chance to speak. “I don’t want anybody in my room without permission.”
“I have no intention of coming in here uninvited.”
“I didn’t invite you now.”
“Well, you were speaking about me. That’s something of an invite, wouldn’t you say? By the way, my dear duchess, you’ve already broken the rules.”
She bit her lip. “No, I haven’t.”
“You have. I said that I did not want you to ask questions about my past, and that includes snooping and asking questions of the servants. Poor Joan doesn’t want to get in the middle of all this.”
Frances flushed. “Well, all right. I won’t talk to her about it again. Not for your sake, but for hers. I don’t wish to make Joan uncomfortable. She’s a dear.”
“She is a dear,” Lucien agreed. He leaned on the back of her chair, hands curling around the topmost rung. She could feel the brush of his knuckles if she leaned back, how the chair shifted under his weight. Shifting her position and clearing her throat, Frances brushed harder.
“As to the door,” Lucien continued, “it can be locked from both sides. You’ll see a bolt just by the handle. You can pull that across, and I wouldn’t be able to get in, even if I tried. Do you feel better now?”
“I suppose,” she muttered, tugging at a stubborn knot.
Lucien tutted. “Don’t drag at your hair like that. You’ll tear it out. Here, let me.”
Before Frances could respond or react in any way, he had taken the brush deftly from her hand and begun brushing her hair.
He was exceptionally gentle, starting from the ends and working gently upwards, easing out every knot and tangle, brushing and brushing until her hair flowed through his hands like silk. It wasa thrilling touch, sending throbs of pleasure through Frances’s scalp and to the rest of her body.
I shouldn’t be allowing this. It… It feels good, to be sure, but I only met this man today. This is madness.
Cecilia would never be so foolish, that’s for sure.
