Page 18 of His Arranged Duchess
In Frances’s opinion, however, this only made her more likable. It was much more pleasant to have a chatty maid who made everything seem so easy than a dour, grim-faced one. And Susandidhave a knack with hair.
Frances inspected her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was elaborately pinned and twisted up on top of her head, a few graceful ringlets allowed to fall over her neck. It wasn’t a hairstyle she’d had as a single woman, but apparently duchesseshad to dress better than everybody else. She’d already found at least a dozen new dresses waiting for her in her closet.
“I don’t really have the taste for breakfast in bed,” Frances confessed. “Mama and I always took breakfast together, even when the baron was alive. I think I prefer it.”
Susan shot her a quizzical look. “The baron? Who… oh, forgive me, Your Grace. You mean your Papa?”
Frances clenched her jaw, fighting not to react.
“Yes, of course, that is what I meant.”
She’d never known her real Papa. Mama didn’t like to talk about him. Uncle Cassian would, if Frances pushed him, but she hated to see the pain flash across his face.
“Yes,” she managed at last. “My Papa. Thank you, Susan. I am very pleased with this hair. I don’t suppose there’s anything else I need. Forgive me, I’m not entirely used to having a maid of my own.”
Susan smiled. “I shouldn’t worry about it. It’s probably just as well—I’m not used to having such a fine lady to wait upon, and I daresay I’ll make a thousand mistakes.”
“Oh, I doubtthat,” Frances laughed, getting to her feet. She’d wanted to choose one of her old gowns to wear, but somehow it seemed silly to wear a simple gown when she had such anelaborate hairstyle. She’d picked a blue gown with a ruched skirt and pearls on the bodice, instead. It complemented her fair hair, and didn’t seem to betoouncomfortable, although poor Susan had had to cinch in her corset a little tighter.
I will have my dresses adjusted,Frances thought.I’m a duchess. I daresay I can get a good deal of credit at the milliner’s.
She left her room, feeling much like a not-quite-welcome guest emerging for the day, not sure what sort of reception would be waiting for her.
“I believe His Grace is in the breakfast room,” Susan called after her.
Frances let out a deep, shuddering breath, trying her utmost to compose herself.
Well, this is it. My first day as a married woman.
Frances found the breakfast room straight away, mainly because she spotted a footman carrying a silver platter and simply followed him.
The breakfast room was a good deal smaller than the dining room, brighter and less imposing. A table was set out somewhat frugally, with a few dishes waiting—fried kippers, eggs, toast,bacon, marmalade, jam, and butter. Only two places were set, and Lucien was sitting in one.
He ate rather quickly, hunched over his food as if he were expecting somebody to take it from him. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of Frances and seemed to compose himself, straightening up and quite casually leaning back, leaving his food unguarded.
“Good morning, my dear Duchess,” he remarked, flashing a wry smile. “I trust you slept well?”
She had not. In fact, Frances had woken in the night, flushed and with a strange ache in the pit of her stomach. She’d had a shockingly vivid dream in which she found Lucien lying in bed beside her, fingertips dancing over her bare shoulder and smiling that wolfish, inscrutable smile.
She had woken properly to discover that the tickling feeling was in fact the pages ofCecilia’s Trials, the book half open and resting against Frances’s shoulder. She had fallen asleep reading it.
“Yes, quite well,” Frances responded coolly, sitting down in what she hoped was a duchess-like manner and inspecting the food. “Tell me, where did the dresses in my closet come from? You can’t possibly have had time to get them made for me.”
“They were my sister’s,” Lucien responded, something like wariness crossing his face. “I guessed that the two of you were a similar size. Her dresses have not been touched for a while,but Mrs. Gray was confident that at least some would suit your purpose. I would suggest that you commission gowns of your own soon. A duchess cannot dress badly, you know. I see that Susan has done well with your hair.”
Frances pressed her lips together peevishly. She had never considered that shedressed badlyin any way.
“Well, new dresses are expensive.”
Lucien lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps you don’t know how sizeable your dowry is. Speaking of which, you’ll need an allowance. A generous one. I might have married you for your dowry, but I shan’t have the world accusing me of being miserly. It would be unjust to keep you in poverty now.”
It had never occurred to Frances that he might do that. From what she recollected of the baron, he had always given Mama a generous stipend. Mama was not given to frivolity or overspending, managing to appear composed and well-dressed even without dripping in jewels. She saved hard, and whenever they needed money—for example, after the baron died and most of their income disappeared—Mama’s habit of frugality had saved them.
Now she thought about it, however, there were plenty ofbad marriagesin Society when a lady, although being part of a rich couple, seemed to be always scrimping and saving, darning her clothes too much and not investing in new fashions. She imagined that no matter how rich the woman was when she came to the marriage, she was a beggar afterwards. Her husbandowned it all, every penny, and if he chose not to give her anything, then he could legally do so.
What an appalling prospect.
Glancing up from her still-empty plate, Frances caught Lucien watching her, his eyes narrowed.
