Page 71 of His Arranged Duchess
Not only that, but he felt a deep well of fury at men like Lord Easton who wanted to hurt Frances. How could they? She was so innocent. She’d done nothing wrong. She was entirely blameless, and her ‘secret’, such as it was, could not possibly beherfault in any way.
That, of course, made no difference. Children were routinely punished for the sins of their parents in their world, and that would not change anytime soon.
One day, though,he thought idly, draining the last of the brandy from his glass.One day things will be different, and I imagine it is people like us who will make it come about.
“Well, I suppose I should think about taking myself home,” he remarked, pushing away his plate.
Benjamin forced a smile onto his downcast face. “Yes, you’re quite a homebody these days.”
Lucien paused, eyeing his friend. “I know I have changed a little since we were abroad. I know my tastes are different. But it is still me, you know. I am still Lucien. I am still your dearest friend, and you are still mine.”
Benjamin flashed a quick smile. “Yes, your dearest friend. Excepting for that wife of yours, of course.”
This took Lucien a little aback. He frowned at the other man.
“What do you mean?”
Benjamin shook his head a little too quickly. “Nothing, nothing. I’m merely thinking aloud. It’s this hangover, you know. It’s as if somebody is pounding on my head with a hammer. Off you go, then—we cannot keep the duchess waiting!”
Lucien still felt a little uneasy, but Benjamin kept a bright smile on his face, so he took his leave and left the club, leaving Benjamin behind.
“The duchess is in the library, Your Grace,” Gray said, taking Lucien’s coat and hat.
“Thank you, Gray. I’ll go to her directly.”
The house was quiet, daylight streaming in through the tall, thin windows. The place never looked quite so much like anAbbeyas it did at times like that. Lucien didn’t even feel the usual twinge of unease when he walked past the door to the East Tower.
The door to the library tower stood open. The curtains inside must be open, and golden sunlight streamed out. Motes of dust swung lazily down to the ground, illuminated by the sunbeams. Inside, there was silence, broken only by the dry rasp of pages turning.
Lucien stepped into the doorway and paused.
There were books everywhere. Piled up on the ground, stacked haphazardly on the shelves, even tumbled in rough stacks on the chairs.
In the center of it all sat Frances, perched on the edge of a stool and bent over a book. She wore an old sprigged muslin gown, with heavy walking boots underneath. She had one foot up on a box of books, the skirt crumpled around it, and he could see the boot peeking out from underneath.
On cue, she glanced up and broke into a smile.
“Hello, Lucien! Forgive the mess, I’m sorting out all the books.”
“So I see,” he remarked wryly, carefully stepping over a stack of fallen books. “Have you made any progress?”
“So far, all I’ve made is a mess,” she sighed, getting to her feet. “I brought a writing desk in here. I thought I could work on my story in the library.”
“I think that’s a marvellous idea. What better place to work than a library, surrounded by books?”
Frances’s face lit up. “Ah, let me tell you something I decided about my book. Now, I don’t intend to let you read it until it’s finished, and Idomean that, but let me tell you about the characters. Firstly, the hero is a man called Timon, with a pastof secrets—is there ever any other hero?—and the heroine is Eleanor, a woman with…”
She rattled on and on about her characters, about the plot and a few twists she intended to include near the end, until Lucien might as well have read the book in its entirety himself.
He listened with a smile, watching her face change as she spoke. She was animated and earnest, keen for him to understand her love for her characters, keen for him toimagineit.
He suspected her book—a romance, of course—would have some rather raunchy scenes in it. It would not be a story for arespectableaudience, but then, the best stories never were, were they?
When she finished at last, forced to pause for breath, Frances glanced rather guiltily over at him.
“I beg your pardon, I’ve gone on and on. You must be quite bored.”
“No, I’m not bored,” he said instantly. “I find it fascinating. I shall hold you to your promise, you know. To let me read it when you’ve finished.”
