Page 29 of His Arranged Duchess
In the middle of it all, however, stood Lucien. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of tight breeches, holding a crumpled linen shirt in his hands. His hair was untidy, as though he’d just run his fingers through it, and a glint of stubble grazed the edge of his jaw, perfectly highlighted by the candlelight.
For an instant, the two of them stared at each other.
“Don’t you knock, my dear duchess?” Lucien said, finding his voice first. For that instant beforehand, however, Frances had the joy of seeing him entirely and utterly taken by surprise.
“I thought the door would be locked,” Frances managed.
“Well, clearly not.”
She blinked, eyes widening. Despite her best efforts, Frances's eyes dipped to the planes of Lucien’s chest. It was immediately apparent that he needed no padding at all to fill out the shoulders and chest of his clothing. His skin was smooth and looked as though it would be warm to the touch.
A firm, muscled chest gave way to a tight stomach, a trail of dark hair dipping below the waistband of his trousers. When he moved, the muscles in his torso and arms shifted in places.
Stop it, you endless fool!Frances screamed at herself, hauling her eyes up with an effort to meet Lucien’s.
The surprise and self-consciousness that she’d seen in that first instant of walking into the room had entirely gone, replaced by a cool sort of amusement. He knew, of course, that she’d been staring at his bare chest. She had not been subtle.
“I do beg your pardon,” Frances managed weakly. “Oh, do get dressed, husband. How is one to have a sensible conversation under these circumstances?”
“What circumstances are these? The circumstances of me getting dressed for bed in the privacy of my own room? How audacious of me,” Lucien responded dryly.
All the fury of earlier came rushing back, and Frances found herself taking several steps forward until she was barely a forearm’s length away from Lucien.
“You are extremely irritating, do you know that?”
Lucien gave a faint smile. “I have heard it said, yes. What is this about, O’ dear wife of mine?”
Her blood boiled. “What is this about? What is itabout? Can’t you take a guess?”
“I couldn’t possibly. It could not be regarding Benjamin and his guests, as I came to your room at the time and requested to speak about it. You refused, and so the matter is closed.”
Frances blinked up at him. Had she really been intending toapologizeonly minutes ago?
“Just because our union is one of convenience and contracts does not mean that you can humiliate me in my own home,” she managed at last. “May I remind you, too, thatIam the one who must bear you an heir, not any of the women with whom you spend your time. Perhaps you might remember that in future.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You presume too much, my dear.”
She waved a finger in his face. “Do not call me yourdear. I am not your dear. I am aduchess, as you made me. My name is Frances, or else I suppose you can call meYour Grace.”
In a flash, his hand shot out, long, cool fingers wrapping around her wrist. He jerked her arm side, not roughly, but she knew without trying that she would not be easily able to wrench her wrist out of his grip.
He stepped forward, coming almost nose to nose with her.
“You might be the duchess, but I am the duke,” he breathed. “Be very careful, Frances.”
She tugged her wrist away, and he released her. Taking a step backward, Frances drew much-needed air into her lungs.
She felt as though her skin were on fire. As ifallof it were on fire, goosebumps prickling up and down her entire body. She wasbreathless, like she had just run up and down a flight of stairs in a great hurry, or as if her corset were too tight. There was an ache in the pit of her stomach. Francesdidrecognize that feeling.
She’d noticed it before, when she was reading particularly breathless romances, the ones where the author said rather too much for respectability. But this feeling, while similar, was so much more intense. And under the circumstances, considering the lack of reading material before her, she had to be honest with herself.
It was Lucien who was making her feel this way. Yes, he was attractive, to be sure, but Frances had encountered attractive men before, and they had not inspired this sharp spark of desire. She imagined it as a flame, growing inside her, licking at the underside of her heart.
Swallowing hard—and memorizing that particular description for Eleanor’s exploits—Frances took yet another step back.
Distance. Yes, that was what she needed. The more distance between them, the better. Backing away might make her look weak, so she would have to carefully gauge just how much distance to put between them.
She held Lucien’s gaze, trying to breathe evenly. The ache of desire remained in her gut, no matter how much she tried to reason it away. Well, there was no need to let him see just how much he had rattled her.
