Page 95 of His Arranged Duchess
Frances swallowed reflexively. She didn’t stop to make conversation, or even to slip on some shoes on her bare feet. Before she knew what she was doing, she was flying down thehallway, out of breath already, her robe flying out behind her like a cape.
The floor of the Great Hall was gritty and dusty, in need of a good sweep. She spotted the door to the East Tower hanging open, and a terrible silence came from within.
Why is there no doctor here? No servants around? Is… Is it already too late?
Skidding to a halt, Frances drew in a deep, ragged breath and steeled herself. Stepping into the small, round stairwell, she waited, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom.
There was no figure spread-eagled on the floor, lifeless eyes staring upwards. In fact, the broken steps where Frances’s leg had gone through had been repaired.
Frowning, she glanced upwards, noticing that the steps had all been reinforced. In places, the wooden supports had been replaced entirely. When she placed her foot on the lowest step and tested it with her weight, it didn’t even creak.
“Lucien?” she called, her voice echoing upwards.
“Up here,” came the response.
Frances had not quite realized how the prospect of never hearing that deep, amused voice again had worried her until she heard it.
Her feet moved on their own, carrying her up and up the tightly spiralled staircase.
There was a good deal of light spilling down from above, growing brighter with each step. At last, the steps gave way to an open, circular room. Tall windows let in great swathes of light, affording complete views of the surrounding landscape.
Lucien stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets. He was surprisingly grubby, she noticed. His hair was dishevelled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. A film of whitish dust clung to his breeches here and there. His Hessians were all but ruined.
He cleared his throat, smiling almost awkwardly. “Well? What do you think?”
“I don’t understand. I thought you were hurt. There was a situation…”
Lucien gave a faint smile. “Yes, well… We didn’t think you’d leave your room for anything less. But the situation is a little different than what you might have assumed at first.”
Frances stared at him. She was aware that she should feel offended and annoyed that she’d been fooled in such a way, but somehow the indignation would not come.
“I don’t understand,” she repeated.
Lucien took a careful step towards her, tentatively, as if she were a nervy deer that might spook and bolt at any moment.
“I am tired of being terrified of this place,” he said quietly. “I am tired of it being haunted by my father, by my brother. So, I decided to change things. I had the stairs repaired, removed the heavy curtains at the windows, cleaned and aired the place, and… well, now it is as you see it.”
Frances looked around the room,seeingit properly for the first time. She had not seen the upper room of the East Tower before, but had imagined it as a dark, dismal place. Haunted, as Lucien had said.
It was entirely different now. Light streamed in. There was a rug on the floor, covering the immaculately scrubbed floorboards. Chairs were set invitingly here and there, besides low coffee tables and higher writing desks. There were a pair of armchairs angled beside an empty fireplace, velvet footstools set before them. Achaise loungewas set beneath the largest window, drenched in glittering sunlight.
And the books! Frances did not immediately notice the books, because the shelves ringed the walls as if they were part of them. Shelves circled the walls, placed between and beneath the windows, and they were full of books. She inched towards the shelves, tentatively holding out a hand.
“These books… they’re familiar.”
“Well, I imagine they are,” Lucien responded with a faint grin. “They’re yours.”
She bit her lip, letting her fingertips dance over the spines. They were all here, her most risqué books. There wasValentine, a book so shocking women claimed to swoon when they read it, along withThe Monk—not one of her favourites, but still—andMysteries of Udolpho, which was a little more respectable than the others, but still considered shocking. There were other books, too.The Highwaymanwas there, and Frances was sure she hadn’t had that book in her collection yet.
And then she fell upon her favourite.
“Cecilia’s Trials,” she murmured, pulling the book in question out of the shelf. She opened it, and the pages fell open to those she had sought most often—an illustration of Lord Malevonte kneeling before thechaise loungewhere Cecilia lay in a half-swoon, pleading with her to love him.
His hand rested on the sofa beside her knee, and his other stretched suppliantly towards her. Cecilia didn’t look at him, of course. She had her back arched, her wrist lay limply on her forehead. She wore a thin, gauzy nightgown, not unlike the one Frances wore at that moment, exceptCecilia’swas torn in the front, very nearly exposing her bosom.
Lord Malevonte’s shirt was torn to the waist, too, revealing the smooth planes of his chest. The picture had made Frances feel extremely strange for a while after she first saw it.
“I moved some of your books here from the library,” Lucien murmured, appearing behind her. The sound of his voice made Frances prickle all over, heat coursing through her chest. Our library is open to visitors, but this one will not be. I thought you could write up here, and indulge your inclination for morerisquéworks.”
