Page 57 of His Arranged Duchess
He grinned. “My dear, I think perhaps it’syourturn to impressme.I impressed you quite sufficiently last night, I believe.”
She flushed at that—he’d never met a woman who blushed so intensely and so frequently as Frances, and it was most endearing.
“Very well. Until then, I might as well tell you, I plan to spend a day or two with my mother. I have missed her sorely, and we shall probably pay visits to the Duke and Duchess of Clapton. So, you shan’t see me for a while, but I will be sure to return in time for our excursion. Do I have your permission to go?”
He blinked, briefly taken aback. “You don’t need my permission.”
“Good. Good day to you, husband.”
She bobbed a curtsey—a curtsey, of all things!—and exited the study, closing the door behind her. Lucien was left alone, battling a growing sense of unease. At the root of this unease was a plain and undeniable fact.
I don’t want her to go.
“If this is what marriage is like, I pray to be spared from it,” Benjamin huffed, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “Your wife isn’t even here, and still you’re mooning about as morosely as ever. Can’t we just have a good time, Lucien?”
Lucien sighed. “I am notmooningover that woman. I am simply preoccupied. There is a difference.”
The two men were sitting in the drawing room, booted feet up before the fire, sipping whiskey and enjoying the silence. Or at least, Lucien hadassumedthey were enjoying the silence, but perhaps it was not as mutual as he had thought.
“I’d much rather have gone out to a club,” Benjamin muttered. “We’re inLondon. There are things to do here! To be sure, it isn’tParis, but still. And I know why you aren’t going.”
“Oh, do enlighten me.”
“It’s that wife of yours. She disapproves, and you can’t stand up to her.”
Lucien levelled a long look at his friend. “Since when have I been unable tostand upto anyone? Besides, Frances does not care if I attend clubs. I simply don’t have the taste for them that I once did.”
Benjamin rolled his eyes, clearly disbelieving, but Lucien was in no mood to argue the subject. He leaned forward, setting down his untouched glass.
“I took her to one of the Brown parties. A poetry reading.”
“Ugh. Dire. Well, I suppose you enjoyed it.”
“I did, except…” Lucien paused, running through the events in his mind. He had no intention of telling Benjamin about the incident behind the pillars. Friends should not shareeverything. However, he did want to talk about something else. “A gentleman got up to recite a poem,” he continued at last. “It was Lord Easton, the man that Frances was supposed to marry. It was a rather vengeful poem, aimed at her. She reacted badly, turning pale and fixating on him. At first, I thought she had feelings for the man, but of course, that isn’t the case. After all, I did steal her from him quite easily.”
“P’raps it was the poem,” Benjamin said, shrugging. “I’d be upset if somebody recited an unkind poem about me, too. What was it about?”
Lucien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring meditatively into the fire.
“I don’t recall much of the poem. It wasn’t verygood, to say the least, but it was about a social-climbing young woman who pretends to be something she is not. The ending was rather ambiguous, but there was a distinct hint of menace there.Oh, Frances, expect a surprise. It was unpleasant.”
“What a delightful man,” Benjamin snorted. “I suggest you simply forget about it. It’s only a poem, after all, and not one that’s likely to circulate in polite society.”
He nodded. “You’re right, of course. I am overthinking it.”
“Now,” Benjamin continued, leaning forward eagerly and grinning, “let me tellyoua story about the most delightful woman I met only last night. She was a fiery little thing, and you know how much I like that. It started with her coming over to me, bold as brass, and…”
His voice faded into a comfortable background noise. Sighing, Lucien made himself comfortable in his chair. He’d never much enjoyed listening to Benjamin’s endless stories of his conquests, but his friend enjoyed telling those tales, so he settled down to listen. It would be a welcome distraction from his thoughts of Frances, which seemed to follow him around every minute these days.
The house was particularly quiet once Benjamin had gone. The clock read a quarter to two, and yet Lucien was not tired at all.He stared into the fire as it dwindled, and then finally dragged himself out of his chair and up the stairs.
I ought to at least try to sleep,he thought. His head spun, full of the lascivious tale Benjamin had told, wrapped up in memories of Frances’s clear green eyes and the feeling of her fingertips digging into the back of his neck.
Before he knew what he was about, he was standing in front of her door.
What are you doing, fool? Respect her privacy, can’t you?
The door creaked open. The room inside was dark, of course, and cold. The bed had been tidied, the room set in order, the curtains drawn. Lucien stepped inside, breathing in deeply. There was a crisp, clean scent in the room, overlaid with the sultry smell of rosewater, which seemed to cling to Frances’s skin. He let his hand trail over the silken bedspread.
