Page 73 of His Arranged Duchess
Lucien paused, narrowing his eyes. “Have you begun to write your story again? While your husband is here to keep you company?”
Frances flushed deeply. “It’s not my fault! You said something which inspired me for the next chapter, and I’d like to write it down before I forget. You don’t mind, do you?”
He got to his feet, snorting to himself. Moving over to where Frances sat, Lucien dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
“I do not. But you’ll join me in the drawing room in exactly half an hour, for a rest and some tea, do you understand?”
Frances beamed up at him, her eyes dancing. “I understand. Thank you.”
She had turned back to her work even before he reached the door. Lucien paused then, one hand on the frame, and turned back to look at her.
Sun streamed in over Frances’s form, turning her fair hair to gold and bathing her in shimmering light. She almost appeared to be in a trance, concentrating entirely on the page. Thescritch-scritchof her pen filled the silence, and already ink smudges were forming on her fingers.
Lucien’s chest constricted with something he could not quite identify. He wanted to go to her and wrap his arms around her, but he could not do that. He couldnot.
When did my marriage of convenience become so cursedlyinconvenient?He thought in resignation.And what on earth am I going to do about it?
The answer did not immediately present itself. So, being nothing if not a practical gentleman, Lucien turned and walked off towards the drawing room, where he would soon summon a tea-tray and wait impatiently for the arrival of his wife.
CHAPTER 24
The opera wasThe Magic Flute.Frances had never heard it in person, although she had heard it mentioned very often. Occasionally, she had heard snatches of the music played by very accomplished ladies at musicales, although Mama tried to avoid musical performances almost as staunchly as she avoided the theatre houses.
Lucien led her up velvet-lined steps, high above the hustle and bustle of the stalls far below. Her heart hammered against her chest. At one point, Frances paused to peer over the banister railings at the press of people below. Chatter and laughter drifted up along with a cloud of sticky heat. Orange-sellers weaved their way through the crowd, bringing a faint scent of citrus along with them. Shifty, scruffy youths wandered here and there, almost certainly on the lookout for a good pocket to pick.
“If you want oranges,” Lucien murmured in her ear, making her flinch, “I’ll order a whole basket delivered to our box.”
Frances glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling wryly.
“I’m not sure I could eat that many oranges. I think the smell is enough for me, it’s so fresh and delicious.”
“As you like. Shall we proceed?”
He offered her his arm, and Frances took it, her heart hammering in her chest. Together, they walked up the last flight of stairs, finding themselves in a thickly carpeted hallway which rounded the upper quarters of the theatre in a wide semi-circle. There were fewer people here, but Frances guessed that even one seat in this elevated area would cost as much as ten or twenty seats down in the stalls. Maybe more.
The hallways were oddly hushed, the carpet and patterned wallpaper seeming to absorb all sounds. The atmosphere was almost ethereal, a hush falling over the audience far below.
“They’re getting ready to start,” Lucien explained, pulling back a curtain and ushering her into their box. “The curtain will go up in a moment.”
There were three or four seats in the box, all covered in plush velvet and trimmed in gilt and gold. Tasseled curtains hung here and there, and the carpet was just as thick and opulent here as in the hallways. Frances settled herself down in one of the seats, excitedly craning her neck.
After a moment, she became conscious of eyes on her. A glint in one of the opposite boxes caught her eye, and she noticed a handful of women all staring her way, their opera glasses lifted to their eyes.
“They’re… They’re watching us,” Frances said, surprised.
Lucien winced. “I’m afraid so, my dear.”
“Whatever for?”
He shifted in his seat, almost uncomfortably. “Because you are in an opera-box with a man accused of his father’s murder.”
She twisted to look at him. “Well,youare in an opera-box with a bastard girl who should never be accepted in Society, let alone a duchess. I don’t care about your secrets, any more than you care about mine.”
Lucien blinked, and she saw surprise on his face. “You truly do not care?”
Frances bit her lip. “I know that you are innocent. Whatever happened, Iknowthat you are innocent.”
He stared at her for a long moment, the atmosphere tightening between them. Frances was not entirely sure how to interpret the moment, so she contented herself with sitting quietly and waiting for him to say something, anything.
