Page 47 of His Arranged Duchess
“Goodnight, my dear duchess,” he said levelly. “Sleep well.”
“Lucien!”
He didn’t turn around when she called him. Instead, he hurried out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
“Come in,” Eleanor said, her voice hoarse and breathless. She stepped back from the door, and Timon stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached behind himself and pulled the bolt across.Click. It was a harsh, metallic sound, not suited to the quiet of her boudoir. And yet the sound made her shiver in pleasure. Why was that?Eleanor did not understand; she only knew that she was doing something very wrong.
And she did not care one bit.
Timon set down the candle, the light jumping and guttering.
“I adore you, Eleanor,” he breathed. “I love you.”
“You must not say such things to me,” Eleanor whispered breathlessly, but she knew that she did not mean it. In a rush, he came towards her, catching her up in his arms. She pressed herself against his firm, warm body, and their lips met.
Eleanor had not been kissed before, naturally. His lips were soft, but there was a firmness behind them. His skin was warm, and she could feel his fingertips burning through the thin material of her nightshirt. It was thrilling, breathtaking. Heat swept through her, making her tremble.
They broke apart, both gasping for breath. Timon did not release her, as if afraid to leave even an inch of space between them. He lifted a shaking hand, eyes wide with wonder, and touched the curve of her cheekbone.
“My own, my love,” he murmured. “I must have you, Eleanor. I want… I want…”
Frances stared down at the page, frustration welling up inside her. What did Timon want? She had no idea how to beginwriting it. She could understand the feelings that had reduced Eleanor to a trembling, gasping mess, but what came next?
Abruptly, she turned back through the pages, back to the earlier chapters where Timon—Sir Timon Addershall, who was secretly once a highwayman who had accidentally killed Eleanor’s beloved father—was described. She had written him as a fair-haired man, with long curls reaching to his shoulders like one of the knights in an old fairy tale, with impish, forest-green eyes.
Frances’s hand shook as she crossed out this description and began writing another.
Timon was a tall man,she wrote,with dark hair swept back from a high brow. There was something almost wolfish about his features: a pointed chin, a long nose, and a wide, white smile that made one think of crocodiles. He was handsome nonetheless, and rendered more handsome still by a pair of large, grey eyes, streaked with gold….
CHAPTER 17
“I… I beg your pardon, but is His Grace joining me for breakfast?” Frances ventured. Gray looked down at her in sympathy.
“I do not believe so, Your Grace. Should I carry a message to him?”
Frances flushed. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Gray.”
The butler bowed and inched out of the room, leaving Frances to her breakfast.
She had bathed that morning and had her hair done up in a new and exciting style that left copious curls falling over her neck. Frances felt clean, fresh, and new.
And guilty. She also felt guilty.
I should not have gone poking about in the Tower. I certainly should not have called Lucien a murderer.
She could still recall the start he’d given when she’d spoken that dreadful word—murderer—and the way his eyes had turned blank.
His father was said to be a vile man. No doubt he deserved to die. And Lucien is not in any trouble with the law, so there must not be any evidence against him. Oh, how can I explain?
It was only Lord Easton, after all, who’d accused Lucien of killing his own father. Perhaps it was all cruel lies. In which case, how could Frances have been so cruel as to have thrown them back in her husband’s face?
You are unworthy, Frances,she scolded herself, staring down with dislike at her breakfast. She was not hungry.
Besides the overwhelming feeling of guilt, there was another emotion nibbling at the back of her mind, one she was steadfastly trying to ignore.
The memory of those three little blows he had rained on her backside still lingered, as if she could almostfeelthem. Children were spanked as a punishment. It was a dreadful thing. Frances did not recall having ever been spanked before. One was not meant to enjoy it.
She closed her eyes tightly, recalling the way heat had rushed through her body, pulsing between her legs.
