Page 50 of His Arranged Duchess
He lifted an eyebrow. “And do you always dress according to whatMamawants?”
Frances's head snapped up, glaring at him. “No, of course I do not!”
He laughed aloud at her reaction. “What a viper! You have a spirit of your own, Your Grace. I daresay Lucien will have his hands full with you. But no matter, you must dress to please yourself, and no one else. Having said that, I must advise you to buy that particular cut, and in burgundy. It suits you famously.”
He didn’t wait for her to reply. Jamming his hat back on his head, he winked—winked at her! Frances was sure her eyes must have deceived her, and moved towards the door. He slipped out into the busy London street without a backwards glance and was soon swallowed by the crowds.
Frances stared at the closed door for a moment or two, nibbling her lower lip. He had left her unsettled, and she couldn’t say why.
He’s trying to be friends,she thought.He wants to make amends. I should make it easier for him. I daresay I’ll see him again.
This idea was not a pleasant one. To stifle the unease, Frances finally turned around to join her mother, aunt, and friend, and reluctantly began to give her opinions on the lace.
The old clock in the hall began its mournful toll. Six o’clock.
Letting out a slow, ragged breath, Frances stared at her own reflection in the polished glass opposite.
The burgundy dress suited her perfectly. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a cacophony of curls, a few ringlets draping down the back of her neck.
I look beautiful,Frances thought, faintly surprised. She knew that she had always been pretty, in a sweet, blonde, unassuming sort of way.
This was different.
The clock finished its tolling, and Frances hastily applied some rosewater scent and hurried downstairs.
Lucien was pacing like a caged lion across the foyer. He glanced up when she began to descend the stairs and stopped dead. His face was unreadable, as always, but his eyes lingered on her form, following her every move as she hurried down towards him. His stare made her shiver. Goosebumps broke over her skinand across her exposeddecolletage,hidden beneath the satin shawl she’d pulled over her shoulders.
“You look…” Lucien wavered, just a little. “You look beautiful.”
Frances held his gaze, smiling tentatively up at him. “Thank you. In truth, I… I feel beautiful.”
He smiled at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “As you should. Now, come along, Duchess. We have a party to go to.”
“It’s not Almack’s, is it?” She was dreading the exclusive social club and was hoping for something a little more intimate.
He laughed aloud. “Almack’s? Goodness, no. Nothing of the sort.”
He was right. The party wasnotAlmack’s. Any one of the staunch patrons of that respectable circle would have dropped dead at the sight of what went on before them.
Lucien had taken her to a small and unobtrusive townhouse in a middling area of London. They were greeted at the door by a young man and woman—a married couple, she guessed—who Frances did not recognize, although they greeted Lucien by name.
“Downstairs, as usual,” the man said off-handedly. Lucien nodded and did not ask for directions. He led Frances through a narrow hallway to where a door opened, revealing a set of downward-leading stairs.
“Is it a cellar?” Frances questioned, lifting her hem to follow him downstairs.
“It was once a kitchen, inhabited only by servants,” Lucien explained, his broad shoulders nearly filling the width of the staircase. “Then Mr. and Mrs. Brown decided they would rather have a little light in their kitchen and turned the old kitchen intothis.”
Abruptly, the stairs ended, and Frances found herself in a huge space.
She could not have imagined that such a cavernous room lay beneath that modest little townhouse. The ceiling was not very high, but the room was wide and long. Countless alcoves in the wall held candles and candelabras, filling the room with bouncing, buttery light. There was a raised platform at the end of the room, where musicians were playing a fast, exciting melody that she did not recognize. A dozen or so couples danced wildly in the space in front of the platform.
Wasit dancing? The only type of dancing Frances knew was the grave, stately waltzes, cotillions, and country reels allowed at Respectable Gatherings, with measured, careful steps.
This dance was something else entirely. Each couple appeared to be dancing a different reel, at a different rhythm, and half of them were missing the steps half of the time. And yet they were laughing with glee.
Frances noticed one woman in particular, with a mane of red-gold hair, swinging around hand-in-hand with a mousy, bespectacled man. She laughed far louder than would be appropriate for a woman in any genteel gathering, throwing back her head and spinning round and round. The gentleman, his face flushed and his spectacles steaming up from the exercise, looked at the woman as though she were a goddess.
Frances’s insides constricted.
