Page 28 of His Arranged Duchess
“Let me be clear, Benjamin. We are talking about this matter calmly and placidly here because you are my old friend, and it is just between the two of us. But if I hear you speak unkindly about my duchess in public, things will be very different. I hope that you never are so foolish as to dothat, old friend.”
Benjamin’s face tightened. “Understood,” he responded bluntly, and then rather wisely changed the subject.
A knock came at the door, and Eleanor sat upright, heart hammering. A storm raged against the window, rain clattering against the glass. The old abbey was exceptionally drafty and cold even in the midst of summer. Tonight, with ice on the windows, Eleanor had spent a full hour shivering in her too-large bed and hoping to sleep.
“Who’s there?” she called, voice quavering. She recalled the tale Timon had told her last night, about the Abbey Ghost, and prayed she would not see the lock begin to turn on its own. “The hour is late, and I should like to be left alone. The door is locked!”
“It is me, Eleanor.”
Timon. All sorts of sensations rushed through Eleanor, thrilling and tantalising. She felt her insides knot. It was wrong, of course, for him to call at such an hour. And yet she found herself rising from her bed, nightgown trailing behind her on the stone floor, and crossed to the door. She unlocked it, opened it, and there he stood.
Timon was bare-chested, the guttering light from his candle playing over the planes of his chest. Eleanor found that she could not speak.
“Forgive me,” he rasped, “but I cannot be silent any longer. I adore you, Eleanor. I cannot wait an instant longer. If you wish it, I will leave at once, but I must have you, I desire…”
Frances paused, chewing the end of her pen. No, the story was notflowingas it ought to. Was Eleanor’s reaction too bland? Was Timon’s midnight visit too out of character?
Or perhaps,she thought sourly,it’s simply too late and I’m too tired to write.
According to the clock, it was well past midnight. She had heard no sign of life anywhere else in the house, not even to indicate that Lucien had returned to his room.
Not that she had been listening, of course.
Sleep had refused to come, and so Frances was whiling away the hours with her story. The one she planned to write.
It was a complex tale, centering a young woman of mysterious birth named Eleanor Emile. At first, when she began writing, Frances had intended for Eleanor to turn out to be the daughter of some duke or prince.
The more she wrote, however, the more she felt that perhaps Eleanor deservedmore. Why should her bravery, intellect, and nobility come simply from an accident of birth? Why couldn’t those qualities behers, not inherited from some unknown father?
There would also be elements ofThe Highwayman,although Frances was not sure she could bring herself to write a scene in which her beloved characterbeddedanother. Timon might be more like Lord Malevonte than a classic hero, butstill.
Which brought her neatly to the next point—she did not know how to end the scene between Eleanor and Timon. Would she spurn him? Would she invite him in? Or would some third, equally thrilling twist take place?
Groaning aloud, Frances closed her notebook with a snap and tossed it to the bottom of the bed. It was no good. Eleanor’s adventures would remain unexplored tonight. She flopped onto her back, staring up at the canopy above her.
All in all, it had been a most unsatisfactory day. She had not seen Uncle Cassian and Aunt Emily. Mama’s advice had been crisp, concise, and entirely unhelpful. Strange guests had invaded her home, and Lucien had been… Well, he had been Lucien.
I should not have sulked in my room. I should have let him explain himself. He said that his friend had invited those women over, not him. That might well be true, but I did not want to hear it.
Come to think of it, he did look a little uncomfortable, but I suppose a gentleman can hardly turn a friend and a couple of women out of his home, can he?
She turned onto her other side, pointedly turning away from the interconnecting door between her room and Lucien’s. As her candle guttered lower, she noticed for the first time a beam of light spilling out from underneath the door.
He was awake, then, and in his room. She’d half expected him to stay up all night carousing with his friend. What was his name again? Benjamin Holton, that was it. A plain Mr., by the sounds of it.
She strained her ears to hear what Lucien might be doing. Only a single wall separated them; it was ridiculous to think that she could hearnothing.
Oh, this is ridiculous. I’ll simply go next door and tell him that I am not angry with him, not really. We can start afresh tomorrow. I am going to have tolivewith this man, for heaven’s sake, marriage of convenience or not.
Having decided, Frances swung herself off the bed, her nightgown hanging crumpled around her legs. She paused to slip on a thin robe, then strode over to the adjoining door. Sliding back the bolt, she turned the handle.
The door swung open.
Frances was not sure what had made her simply turn the handle instead of knocking and waiting. Perhaps it was her confidence that the door would still be locked onhisside.
To her surprise, the door opened immediately, and Frances, who had put her weight behind it, all but stumbled into the next room.
Buttery candlelight filled the room, casting jumping shadows over the walls. There was just one candle in the room, its light not really reaching the corners. The room was more spartan than hers, simply decorated with a large bed dominating the center of the space, along with a few pieces of furniture and various crumpled items of clothing lying here and there.
