Page 32 of His Arranged Duchess
Cool air seemed to rush in between them, making Frances stagger. She found herself reaching out for him, wanting the contact again, wanting to feel likethatagain.
A red flush had spread over Lucien’s face, climbing up from the center of his bare chest. He breathed heavily, shoulders heaving, and his hair was disarranged. Had she put her fingers in his hair? Frances could not remember; her memories already hazy. She remembered sliding her hands everywhere—over his shoulders, down his chest and the ripple of his stomach, up his sides and along the curve of his neck—so perhaps shehadput her hands into his hair. She found herself wishing she could remember the texture. Was his hair soft? It looked as though it was.
“That is enough, I think,” Lucien said at last. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting at the top of his voice, and there was a barely-there tremor in his words.
Frances blinked. “I… I don’t understand.”
He tilted his head, grinning wryly. “It’s late. I am tired. Besides, you wanted to trust me, did you not? Well, at this moment, I am not sure that I can trustmyselfwith you. Perhaps a parting would be prudent. So, off to bed, wife. Alone.”
The last word, the pointedly addedalone,made Frances shiver again. Had the room always been so cold? It seemed that just moments ago, the room was almost too hot to bear.
She opened her mouth to speak, not entirely sure what she planned to say. The fear had receded just as quickly as it had come, leaving only the persistent throb ofwant.
I do want him. More than anything, I think.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, perhaps sensing her reluctance. “Don’t let me tell you again, wife. I am the duke, after all. I’m sure you don’t want me to fling you over my shoulder and carry you to your bed, hm?”
Perhaps I do want that.
He took a step towards her, and Frances turned on her heel and fled, red-faced.
He did not pursue her, and she could not decide whether she was relieved or disappointed by this. Darting back into her own room, Frances closed the adjoining door. After a moment’s thought, she slid across the bolt.
She had left her candle burning beside her bed, and it was almost out, guttering on barely an inch of wax. It threw odd, menacing shadows over the walls. Shuddering, Frances took a flying leap into her bed, sending her poor notebook flying into the air. Itwas colder than she remembered, and she hurried to burrow herself under the covers.
It was cold in the bed now, and as Frances lay there, shivering and trying to ignore the pulse between her legs, she thought about the man next door.
I can’t make him out at all. I can’t makemyselfout at all. Why was I afraid of taking things further? Yes, once he has an heir from me, he won’t desire me anymore, but why should I care? That was always the way it was meant to be. I wish I could approach this in a calm, rational sort of way. I bet Mama could do it.
No answer presented itself, and Frances had no intention of speaking to Mama about anything that had occurred. Groaning, she rolled onto her side. Sleep seemed less likely than ever. In fact, she was more awake now than she had been when she retired to bed.
Oh, bother. Frances, you silly goose, what have you gotten yourself into?
Standing in his room, heart still pounding, Lucien listened carefully for the slide of the bolt on Frances’s side of the door. He heard it and breathed a sigh of relief.
I cannot trust myself not to unbolt the door in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with her.
Arousal continued to rush through him, but Lucien had always prided himself on his self-control and was fairly certain that with a little time and concentration, the feeling would fade.
I cannot allow myself to lose control in such a manner again. What am I thinking?
Closing his eyes, he lifted a shaking hand to his head. He had intended only to tease her, to leave her breathless and wanting more.
And instead, like a fool, I dismissed her and leftmyselfbreathless and wanting more. Such is the price for gentlemanly behavior.
In a bid to distract himself, he strode over to the washbasin in the corner, splashing cold water on his face. The drops ran down his bare chest, making him shiver, but the heat of desire did not fade.
With a growl, Lucien snatched up the candlestick, stamped over to the door, and threw it open, stepping out into the dark corridor beyond.
He did not think much about where he was going, letting his feet take him where they wished. Or perhaps he simply knew, deep down, where he was going.
As he walked, words echoed in his head. Mary-Jane’s words, mostly. Out of the three of them, she was always the most cheerful. And the kindest, although not the most realistic. Perhaps that was because she was the youngest, and the Russell pessimism was all used up on her two older brothers.
Optimism did not thrive in the Russell household.
“You must try to understand, Lucien. When Papa was young, things were different. I imagine his father was most cruel to him.”
“He is cruel tous, Mary-Jane!”
