Page 91 of His Arranged Duchess
There was a brief, surprised pause on the other side of the door.
“Michaels, Your Grace.”
“Well, Michaels, I might as well tell you that you are an extremely bad liar. That’s no reflection on you, naturally. I would advise you to step away from the door.”
“Your Grace, I must insist that you leave now. You cannot simply… Please… Don’t…”
“Step away,” Lucien repeated, backing up a few steps and bracing himself,“from the door.”
There was a muffled shout from inside, but Lucien paid it no attention. He raced at full speed towards the door, delivering a resounding kick which half-wrenched the door away from its hinges.
There was a terrified yelp from inside, and a good deal of scuttling. Lucien smiled and backed up for another run at the door.
This time, the door came crashing off the hinges, landing with an ear-splittingcrashon the marble floor beyond.
An elderly man, presumably Michaels, scuttled backwards, eyes wide and hands held up pleadingly.
“Calm yourself, sir,” Lucien answered crisply. “I’m not here to do you any harm. Where is your master?”
The butler, to his credit, clenched his jaw and refused to answer, so Lucien gave it up. Pausing, he glanced around the cavernous foyer.
The inside of the house was no better than outside. The wallpaper peeled off the walls in chunks, revealing pitted plaster underneath. Cobwebs hung thickly from the ceiling, draping an old chandelier in such a thick layer of webbing and dust that it appeared to be shrouded. The stone floor beneath his feet had seen better days and was so dirty and dusty that he could clearly see his own footsteps trailing back towards the ruined door.
At the back of the foyer, a grand, sweeping staircase led up towards the upper floors. At one time, it would have been a beautiful sight to behold, with polished marble steps and an ornate, elegant banister running up to a mezzanine.
Now, the staircase was shabby, the steps chipped, and parts of the banister were missing altogether.
Halfway up the staircase, facing him with a look of pure, almost comical terror, stood Lord Easton.
“There you are,” Lucien said, strolling towards him. “The grand viscount himself. May I call you Nicholas?”
“You had better stay back,” Lord Easton ordered, but his voice wobbled. “Michaels, run to fetch the authorities.”
“You wanted her for her dowry, didn’t you?” Lucien murmured, glancing around the shabby house. “You never cared about Frances herself.”
Lord Easton flushed. “Well, don’t pretend that you felt any differently.”
Lucien bit his lip, shaking his head. “I care for her.”
“Well, if you say so.”
Lucien took a step closer, and Lord Easton took a careful step back.
“Michaels! The authorities!” Lord Easton ordered, his voice still trembling. The old butler jerked into action.
“I think perhaps we have a good long while before Michaels reaches his destination,” Lucien remarked, watching the elderly butler wobble towards the door. “I am glad to run into you, as we have a great deal to discuss.”
“I have nothing at all to discuss with you,” the viscount spat. “Or your whore of a wife.”
Lucien was moving before he knew it, leaping up the staircase in steps of two and three. Lord Easton gave a panicked squawk and turned to run.
He wasn’t quite fast enough.
Lucien seized him by the collar, his fist flying out.
Crack. The blow caught the viscount across the jaw, and he shrieked, clapping a hand over his mouth. Lucien released him and Lord Easton fell like a stone, landing heavily on his back.
“How dare you speak of her that way?” Lucien breathed, his chest heaving. “Who do you think you are?”
