Page 51 of His Arranged Duchess
I want somebody to look at me like that. As though the moon and stars can be found in my eyes. I want to dance with that sort of wild abandon. I want to take all the pins out of my hair and let it fall over my shoulders while I spin round and round and round until the world blurs to nothing.
Fingers skimmed her elbow, making her jump. Frances glanced up at Lucien and smiled uncertainly.
“This is quite something. I don’t recognize anybody here.”
“This is not a gathering ofpolite Society,” Lucien chuckled, steering her to a bank of seats placed near the walls. “This is where the black sheep and prodigal children gather, along with the rising artists and the ones without noble blood in their veins. These parties are a great deal more exciting, I can tell you.”
“I can believe it,” she countered.
A pair of gentlemen passed by, their gazes flitting over Frances’s form and lingering on her low neckline. Their stares thrilled and horrified her. It would never happen in any of the parties she had ever attended, such blatant staring. Oh, men looked at women, of course they did, but in a careful, guarded way so as not to invite censure. These gentlemen, it seemed, did not care. If theyweregentlemen, that was.
Before Frances could say a word, a warm arm slid around her waist, pulling her close to him. She found herself nestled into Lucien’s side, tucked safe against him.
He stared over her head at the two gentlemen, his gaze cool and steady.
“Move along, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I should hate to cause a scene.”
The men glanced up at him, paled, then scurried off without another word. Frances bit back a smile.
“Nicely done,” she murmured.
“I try my best,” he countered. He did not remove his arm, leaving it, a warm, steady weight at her side. The warmth seemed to seep into her skin, circling in her gut, and forming into something stronger and steadier.
The music stopped with a flourish, and the dancers cheered and broke into wild applause.
The room was still ringing from the applause and laughter when a woman climbed onto the platform. It was the same red-haired woman from before; her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her cheeks were a mottled, rosy color.
She was breathing heavily and took a moment to square her shoulders and look about at the audience. Gradually, silence fell, and understanding dawned on Frances.
“She’s going to recite something!” she whispered. “Or will she sing?”
“It’s a poetry recitation,” Lucien admitted. “I thought you might enjoy something literary themed. Do tell me you don’t hate poetry, or this entire evening will have been wasted.”
She laughed. “I adore poetry, but I can’t write it.”
The room was entirely silent now, and the woman began to speak. Her voice was cool and clear, nothing like the melodious, genteel tones expected of a woman in polite Society.
“I met a traveller from an antique land,” she began, intoning the words like a prayer. Frances gasped.
“Oh! She’s reciting Shelley!”
The woman continued her recitation, glancing into the audience from time to time and smiling as though she were sharing a joke with the people there.
“And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name isOzymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works, ye Might, and despair!”
Frances clasped her hands under her chin, closing her eyes as the final lines were recited. She felt as though the rest of the room were holding their breath, too. When the woman—Frances, simplymustlearn her name—finished her recitation, applause thundered through the room.
The red-headed woman looked around, as if waking from a dream. She made a quick, mocking curtsey.
“Would you like a funny one next?” she called and was met with raucous cheers.
Beside Frances, Lucien chuckled. “Her name is Miss Sampson, and her limericks are exceptionallyfunny.”
The woman—Miss Sampson—cleared her throat, placed a hand on her hip, struck a pose and began to speak.
“Lady P., the model wife
Keeps herself a quiet life.
