Page 44 of His Arranged Duchess
Time was running out. If a positive breach opened between them, he would likely never get the heir he needed.
And that is all I care about. I’m fond of the girl, of course, but the arrangement has always been very clear. Too clear, perhaps.
Would it have been the worst thing in the world to leave a little ambiguity? To let their relationship develop as it would?
Giving himself a mental shake, Lucien moved over to the sideboard, where a decanter of good whiskey waited. He’d already taken one glass and liberally filled another. The clock read five minutes to midnight, and the house was silent. Doubtless, Gray was the last servant still awake, and soon only Lucien would be out of bed, going about his work with a grim determination.
Just as he lifted the glass to his lips, a tremendous crash echoed through the study. He flinched, the glass of whiskey falling from his fingers. The glass bounced on the thick carpeting, mercifully not shattering, but the whiskey spilled out and soaked away at once. Lucien stared down at the mess, then glanced over at the door. Another muffled crash echoed through the house. Cursingto himself, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the darkness beyond.
The house was entirely silent and mostly dark, with the exception of a few isolated candles set here and there. Lucien was crossing the Great Hall when he stopped dead, suddenly struck by a feeling of wrongness.
He glanced around, his mouth drying. Could it be an intruder? If so, Lucien was confident that he could find his way around his house in the dark better than any stranger. He could dispatch any unlucky would-be thief in a couple of moments.
Then he saw it, the wrongness.
The door to the East Tower was open.
Lucien felt as though his feet had been frozen to the floor beneath him. He stared at the dark, yawning opening. Ridiculous notions of ghosts and unsettled spirits fled through his head. He forced himself to take a step closer, then another, then another, until his eyes began to adjust to the darkness within. He spotted a flash of movement, a swathe of ghostly white. Lucien’s heart hammered.
Then there was a groan from within the room, followed by a muffled curse.
At once, he recognized the voice, and any residual fear fled. Clenching his teeth together, Lucien strode forward into the darkness.
“You little wretch,” he exploded. “I told you in no uncertain terms to stay out of this tower.”
Frances glanced mournfully up at him. “I didn’t know the stairs were so rotten. I thought they would be made of stone, not wood.”
She had been ascending the stairs, it was clear, and the fourth step had splintered under her weight. Her leg had gone straight through, and she appeared to be stuck.
Lucien folded his arms. “Of course they’re rotten. My father put in a wooden staircase, of all things, when he was repairing some of the old lower steps. They haven’t been maintained in about a decade, like the rest of this wretched place. I’m frankly surprised you made it this far.”
Frances, he noticed at last, was in her night things. She wore a long, billowing nightgown, which was currently mostly tucked up around her hips. She had chosen a red robe over her nightgown, but the robe was practically falling over her shoulders, and did nothing to disguise the long, pale curve of her bare leg, the one not hip-deep in the broken stair.
Lucien couldn't help it. In the darkness, her pale skin seemed to glow. He longed to put a hand to the round softness of her thighs and squeeze, ever so gently.
Swallowing hard, he realized that silence had fallen between them, and that Frances was looking up at him with a strange, unreadable expression.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I was just so curious, and I thought… Well, never mind what I thought. I should not have come here, and I’m sorry.”
He folded his arms tightly. “Breaking another rule already? My, my. It would seem that you want to get punished.”
She flinched. “Punished? Whatever do you mean? Oh, do you really intend to leave me here all night?”
Lucien shook his head, chuckling. “My dear, I’m wicked but notevil. Here, let me help you. I’d ring for the servants, but I’m not sure you’d want them to see you in such a state.”
She glanced at her own bare legs, and flushed a vivid red.
“It was research,” she murmured. “For… For a book I am writing. A story, rather. I thought I might find inspiration in the East Tower, what with it being so forbidden.”
“I see,” he responded. “And will your midnight heroine find herself in just such a position as this?”
Frances bit her lip. “N-No, I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps not. Here, let me help you.”
He crouched beside her, peering at the splintered boards. It seemed that none of the shards had pierced her skin, which was remarkably lucky. Almost without thinking, Lucien placed a palm on her bare thigh to steady himself, letting it rest on the outside of her leg.
At once, Frances’s skin shivered underneath his touch. He glanced up, meeting her wide-eyed gaze for just an instant before she averted it.
