Page 54 of His Arranged Duchess
She blinked up at him, dazed. “I… Yes.”
What should I do now? Should I touchhim? I don’t know how. Will he ask it of me, or ought I to offer? He did not askme, after all. He simply did what he knew I would like.
Frances had notknownwhat to ask for, and she found it impossible to believe that Lucien might have the same level of inexperience. He was looking down at her, breathing heavily, his face flushed, but she could not work out what was in his eyes.
Clearing her throat, Frances straightened her bodice and shook out her skirts. The insides of her thighs felt damp and a little sticky, but pleasant aftershocks still rolled lazily through her body.
No wonder some women enjoy marriage so much.
“Should we…” she began hesitantly, not sure what she wanted.
Lucien cleared his throat, glancing away. “We should leave, I think.”
“Yes, perhaps we should.”
Frances couldn’t imaginesocialisingafterthathad happened to her. Lucien stepped past her, leading the way back into the main room, and she followed, still feeling wobbly. A man was on the platform now, telling a humorous poem of his own invention. Frances was barely aware of it, concentrating on following Lucien’s broad back through the crowd.
And then she heard her own name spoken in the last lines of the poem.
“Pretensions to grandeur are tiresome indeed,
My darling, I see through your lies.
For your Social Endeavors, I wish you Godspeed.
Oh Frances, expect a surprise!”
Laughter broke out amongst the audience, and a little applause. Frances tapped the arm of a nearby gentleman.
“Forgive me, what was that poem about?”
“Hm? Oh, it was a novel composition,” the man explained, chuckling to himself. “About an uppity young woman, acting the part of a gentleman’s daughter when she is no such thing. In fact, she’s entirely a fraud. Lord, it was funny.”
The color drained from Frances’s face. She turned around to face the platform, but already knew who she would see there.
Lord Easton stood high above the rest of the audience, his face flushed with drink. His cravat was undone, hanging sloppily at his neck, and his hair was dishevelled. In short, he was a far cry from the cool, stern man she’d stood beside at the altar. He was grinning maliciously, his face turned toward her.
Can he see me? Oh, heavens, I pray he can’t see me.
Turning abruptly, Frances found Lucien standing directly behind her. He was not looking at Nicholas—although he must have seen him—and was in fact staring straight at her.
“Are you well, my dear duchess?” he said at last.
She swallowed thickly. “I would like to go home, please.”
The night sky was cloudy; not a single star could be seen. Frances climbed out of the carriage, the dark Abbey looming before her.
They hadn’t exchanged a single word on the trip home. The atmosphere was tight and cold, and Frances could not understand why. Only minutes before she’d seen wretched Nicholas on that platform, she had been positively dizzy with happiness.
Lucien had stretched out his hand wordlessly to her to help her down, and she’d taken it without thinking. However, when her feet landed on the gravel, he did not let go. In fact, his fingers tightened on hers.
“Lord Easton has never paid a visit to us, has he?”
Frances blinked up at him. “I don’t understand. Why would he visit us? I was supposed to marry him, but did not, and I daresay he blames you for it. I did not expect a visit from him.”
Lucien gave a cold smile. “Do you miss him?”
She stared at him for a long moment, sure she had misheard.
