Page 9 of His Arranged Duchess
He thinks she is his. I stole his property. Charming.
“Why did you return?” Lord Easton hissed. “You should have been hanged the day you pushed your father off the stairs.”
Beside him, Miss Knight went very still. Lucien clenched his jaw, ice-cold anger flaring up inside him.
“Enough,” he growled, seizing Lord Easton’s wrist and wrenching it away. He shoved him backwards, as powerfully as he could, and the viscount stumbled backwards into the crowd, landing on his backside.
Lucien turned to Miss Knight – he really must stop thinking of her asMiss Knight– intending to reassure her, but she hastily turned away, avoiding his eye.
Abruptly, the Duke of Clapton was in front of them, his face grim and serious.
“What has happened?” he demanded. “Margaret?”
The Baroness stepped out of the church behind them. “Frances has married this man instead of Lord Easton,” she explained bluntly, her face giving nothing away. “We’ll discuss it later, Cassian. For now, let’s get out of this crowd.”
Frances. Her name is Frances. A pretty name.
“I am taking Frances back to my estate. To Blackstone Abbey,” Lucien explained, as crisply as he could. “No time for a wedding breakfast, I’m afraid.”
The Duke of Clapton pushed forward, teeth gritted. “You expect to whisk her away without a word of explanation?”
The Baroness shot him a strange look, holding out a hand as if to restrain him.
“Frances has married him,” she said simply. “There’s nothing to be done.”
Lucien held up his hands. “I am not whisking her away. Our marriage will be all over London by tonight. She is the Duchess of Blackstone, and with her dowry, we are a remarkably wealthy couple. I imagine that you, Baroness, will visit as soon as possible to ensure that your daughter is comfortable, along with any guests you’d care to bring along.” He threw a pointed look at the Duke of Clapton to make his meaning clear. The man really was invested in Frances’s upbringing. He would think about that later. “You know where to find me, I think. Or rather, findus,” he corrected.
Taking Frances’s hand in his – she was too surprised to pull away – Lucien led her through the crowds to where his carriage waited.
It was not a warm day. It was grey and overcast, and as they reached the carriage, the first spots of rain splattered the pavement around them, moisture spreading like an ink blot. Within a moment, the rain was falling fast and heavy, darkening the pavement and dripping down the sides of the carriage.
Yanking the door open, Lucien jerked his head for Frances to climb in and hastily crawled in after her. The door slammed. The coachman snapped the reins, and they were off, leaving the chaos outside the church behind.
Silence descended.
Frances had, of course, taken the seat opposite Lucien, pressing herself into the corner as if trying to get as far away from him as she could. She was watching him now with round, wide eyes.
“It’s bad luck,” she said at last, breaking the silence. “Rain on one’s wedding day.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care much for superstitions.”
“Perhaps I should start. And how did you get a special license without my name?”
Lucien winced. “Truthfully, my butler procured it. On my behalf, I suppose.”
“Yourbutler?”
“The finest man I ever knew. I did not need your name, as it turned out. I only needed it to sayBaron’s Daughter. Apparently, that was enough.”
Frances smiled bitterly. “I’m nothing if not my father’s daughter.”
There was an edge to her voice. What did she mean by that?
“You seem preoccupied,” he said at last. “What is on your mind, I wonder?”
“What do you think?” she snapped. “I am wondering whether I have made a great mistake.”
“I should think not. Marrying that milksop, now –thatwould have been a mistake worth worrying about.”
