Page 18 of Three Rules to Wed a Duke

“I want to know everything. Who did you dance with? Who did you see? Who else was there? Tell me at once!” she insisted, taking her daughter by the arm and leading her towards the stairs. Juliet glanced back at Frances gratefully, and Frances gave her a knowing look.

I knew what the very first question would be… and luckily, she has an answer!Frances thought as she slowly made her way up the stairs to her room.

CHAPTER 7

“Miss Turner? Miss Turner!” someone whispered in Frances’ dream. She couldn’t see who was calling her name, but it was ominous. The sound seemed to surround her, leaving her no avenue of escape. Everywhere she turned, every direction she looked in, she heard her name again and again. There was nowhere to run that the voice wouldn’t find her.

“Miss Turner?”

A hand reached out and touched her shoulder, but instead of an icy apparition, it was warm and comforting. Frances gasped in surprise when her eyelids fluttered open and she saw Sara standing by her bedside.

“I’m sorry to wake ya, Miss Turner! But Her Ladyship sent me to fetch ya. Ya have a caller,” Sara said, her usual helpful expression and eager tone gone this morning.

Frances threw an arm over her eyes. It had to be the Duke of Preston.This is what I get for agreeing to dance with him again, she thought bitterly.When will he understand that I have given my answer!

Frances started to stretch and roll out of bed, but then she thought better of it. She didn’t owe him anything, least of all the honor of receiving him when she’d been out so late the night before. Without even knowing the hour, she knew that he had no right to intrude by coming here after she had told him firmly that she had no wish to marry him.

“Ya must hurry and dress, miss,” Sara said, prodding her impatiently as she glanced towards the door several times.

“What’s wrong, Sara?” Frances asked when she finally sat up.

“Nothin’.”

That’s not like her to reply that way, Frances thought as she watched the maid lay out a gown and some garments. She stood up to take the clothing behind her dressing screen, but she stopped when she looked down at the items.

“This? I have a caller and—though I have no wish to receive him—he is a duke, after all. I should think I must wear something a little finer than this coarse gown, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s not the duke,” Sara said plainly, though she didn’t say anything about the person’s identity. “And I’m not to sayanythin’, so if ya please, don’t ask me to. You must only trust me, though. Ya should wear this one.”

“All right,” Frances answered warily, picking up the old woolen gown she’d worn so often at school.

When she was dressed, she sat down on the stool and let Sara brush out her hair. Instead of styling it or adding any adornments, Sara simply pinned the sides away from Frances’ face then declared her finished.

“Are you sure?” Frances asked, frowning at her reflection.

“Yes, miss. Ya must trust me.” And with that, she left the room in a hurry.

Frances could only shrug off the unsettling feeling that something was terribly amiss. She left her room quietly, as though instinct told her to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She made her way down the stairs and stopped when she heard voices in the drawing room, voices that she didn’t recognize.

Well, that certainly isn’t the duke, she thought as she came nearer.I’ve never heard him speak so many words. And Aunt Bridget sounds far too pleasant for it to be him, especially if he’s here to call on me.

Frances fixed a pleasant look on her face and entered the drawing room. At once, she noticed her aunt seemed far tooexcited to see her. Near her, sprawled on the sofa like a cat stretched along a stone wall in the sun, was an old man she had never seen before. Frances assumed it was some elderly relation and she did her best to appear happy to see him.

“Ah yes, here is my niece. Lord Rowland, may I introduce Miss Frances Turner,” Lady Hutchings said cheerfully.

I cannot recall the last time she’s been so happy to see me, Frances thought, bewildered.

Frances curtseyed, but the older man did not rise to his feet. Instead, he stayed in his seat, his fingers interlaced in front of his ample midsection. His gaze traveled slowly up and down Frances’ body, making her feel like a prized ham on display in the butcher’s window. His leer of satisfaction sent a shiver of disgust through her, and she felt his attention on her like an icy hand clawing at her garments.

“Yes, Bridget. I do see what you mean. She’s quite the specimen of a girl!” he said, addressing the viscountess instead of Frances. “Overly tall for a girl, but very pretty, I suppose, though I can’t help but think you might have been telling me a tale about her face. She doesn’t look all that special to me.”

“It’s only due to the early hour. Her gown and her hair aren’t styled in their usual way as it is only morning. I’m not sure why she thought a caller wouldn’t require something morespecial, though,” Lady Hutchings replied through clenched teeth, glaring at Frances.

“Hmm, perhaps. But are you certain she can breed? She’s awfully thin, if you ask me. I’m seeking to have as many heirs as a wife can drop. Not like my last two who were worthless in that regard, though I did greatly enjoy all the attempts, I should say!”

Lady Hutchings didn’t respond to the man’s awful remarks, though she laughed merrily as though he’d made some hilarious jest. Frances felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame at the remark.

“Does she smile?” Lord Rowland grunted, growing serious again. “I need to see those teeth to know if she’s in good health or not. Won’t be taking a wife who’s just going to die in a faint in a year’s time.”

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