A Most Improper Duchess, page 10
Arley sat at his desk and pulled a sheet of paper before him. As he reached for his pen, a thin manilla folder slapped onto the desk before him. He startled, then looked up. ‘Do you have to be so dramatic?’
Phineas shrugged. ‘If one can be, then why not?’
As far as everyone knew, Phineas worked as a bank clerk. An occupation so pedestrian that no one even bothered to ask which bank he was employed at. And everything about the man screamed mediocrity—his dress, his hair, his looks, his conversation.
Phineas did not work at a bank.
Phineas was a spy.
Arley had never asked what branch or department he answered to. He doubted Phineas would have told him anyway. The man was inscrutable. His defences tumbled only once a year, around Christmas, when he would become thoroughly soused, make nonsensical statements about life and love, and then collapse into his chair and sleep through until Boxing Day. Then, he would emerge from his townhouse, pick a fight with Lawrence Hempel, and the rhythm of life would return.
Phineas fell into the chair on the other side of the desk and stretched a foot over his knee. ‘I put this together after I got your telegram about the banns. Did you know she’s a—’
‘Ballet dancer. Yes, I’m aware.’
A half smile tugged at Phineas’s mouth. ‘Likely nothing more problematic in there than what you already know, then.’
Arley flipped the folder open and scanned the page. A line of dates ran down one side, and beside them was a list of disjointed names, places and events, but with the web of Vivianne’s conversations, he strung them together. Her arrival in the capital from the countryside. The outbreak of the war. The siege. The Commune. After. Arley flipped the cover over and pushed it across the table in disgust. ‘I know what she was, and I don’t care. When did you become a moral crusader? Been attending meetings at Number 5 in my absence, have you?’
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ Phineas sniped. ‘And not from some misguided sense of morality. You might not give a damn, but investors and potential clients won’t have the same outlook as you. And your contribution to this business might be pocket change and a trip abroad, but it means more to others. What do you think would happen to Iris if this company failed because of your bad press? Hasn’t Elise lost enough?’
Arley sunk into his chair with a huff. ‘Are you getting soft?’
‘There’s a difference between being soft and being an inconsiderate arsehole.’
An uncomfortable pang of guilt stuck in Arley’s chest. Phineas was one of the few, possibly the only man in London, who didn’t care for his friendship or seek his favour. That’s what he liked about the man. Mostly.
Arley crossed his arms. ‘I’m not the first peer to marry below his station. What about Hamish?’
‘Iris exceeds him in wealth and wits. And this has nothing to do with station. She’s a ballerina. There’s not a nobleman or wealthy merchant in England who doesn’t appreciate the implications of the word.’
Arley took up his pen and scratched out the first line of his note to his mother.
‘I’m happy for you,’ Phineas continued, although his tone held no hint of joy, and his mouth didn’t turn up a smidge. ‘But you know how this city works. And how it works for you. You’ve been the most sought after bachelor for more than a decade, you turned your nose up at every debutante, and now you’re getting married, to a French commoner no less. The society mothers and fathers will have opinions. If they can’t get to you, they’ll get the company, and then the press will maul what’s left. You can’t just ignore public opinion. You’ll have to give them what they want.’
‘And what will they want?’ He slammed his pen onto the desk, then huffed as a spurt of ink splattered across his note. ‘Why must they want, what do they possibly need from me?’
‘To be entranced, of course. To fall in love. To have hope that even though it wasn’t them this time, maybe the next time, it will be. But also, you need to make them accept why you chose her. Show them she is from them, but above them. Special. A woman born into ordinariness, but somehow, still destined to be a duchess.’
‘A common duchess? This is worse than the mini grand tour. The world is untethered.’ Arley ran his hand down his face. Annoyingly, Phineas was right. ‘What do I need to do?’
‘She can’t stay here. Not until you’re married. And she can’t live with just anyone. She needs to stay somewhere appropriate, with someone who has an unblemished reputation. And she’ll need to be presented, at court. And taken out. Show her off a little. Let everyone see what you see.’
‘I’m not showing them that.’
Phineas rolled his eyes. ‘No need to brag.’
Arley chuckled, then choked off his mirth. He’d been so caught up in his own escape from society, from London, enjoying his happiness, that he hadn’t considered how things might play out when they got home. So fixated on their future, he’d neglected to consider the path to it. London had gossiped like a hencoop after his mother remarried and he knew the criticism she’d worn, but her and Tillman had been independent, happy to leave the city and able to weather the loss of society’s approval. The clients Iris was hoping to win over to the business, with the promise of education, and sophistication… he was part of that promise. And no self-respecting, aspirational merchant with dreams of marrying their child up the social ladder was going to send their offspring off to the continent with a company whose board member had come home engaged to a French courtesan. Rather than reassure them, he would represent every terrible fear they held.
‘She’ll need a back story. A cover. Want me to put something believable together?’
‘Nothing too elaborate. Just simple.’ Hands clasped behind his back, Arley wandered to the window, only half registering Phineas as he spoke of possible histories for Vivianne.
Outside, the weather had cleared a little. The trees filtered the sun as it shone onto the road and sidewalk. Who might be appropriate for Vivianne to stay with? Benton, directly opposite, was still abroad, and no. Far from appropriate. Odette? While she managed her own reputation with care, it was too big a risk. Iris had enough to deal with, and while she had steadfastly navigated her own scandal, she’d really only been accepted back into society because Hamish had drawn on his limited senses and married her. The Hartright kerfuffle was a memory, but still one muttered about in drawing rooms when the conversation lulled. Vivianne needed more than just acceptable, and a nice place to stay. She needed to be linked to the right type of someone.
Across the road, Spencer ascended a stair case. Scratched at the black door. Waited. After a long minute, he slipped through the wrought iron fence and scampered away. The door opened, and a stiff butler huffed, then closed the door again.
Someone respectable.
Someone believable.
And completely beyond reproach.
Chapter fourteen
A duchess.
She was going to be a duchess.
Not a duke’s short-term lover while he was visiting Paris. Not a duke’s mistress. But a proper,
titled,
married to a duke,
duchess.
Vivianne shook off the idealistic complaint of her younger self. Of the woman who had run the barricades and had tended the wounded during the siege. That woman had known hunger, but also had no idea how much worse was to come. And just imagine the good she could do. She could sponsor artists. She could commission plays. She could invest in the theatre. She could do so much.
And not be hungry.
‘Do you have a preference, my lady?’
Vivianne looked at Cecil. He’d been speaking for so long, she couldn’t even remember at what point her thoughts had trailed off. ‘I do not,’ she said, drawing on her memories of all the pomp she had seen at Garnier.
‘No thought at all?’ he asked.
Vivianne shook her head. ‘I trust your opinion. Like Arley does.’
‘Very good. I shall fill the ballroom with octopi and order you a bed made of cheese.’
Vivianne startled. ‘Pardon!’
Cecil gave a low chuckle. ‘Just testing, my lady. I could tell you were distracted and could not resist a little joke. I was asking if you would be redecorating your rooms before you are married, or would you like to address that after.’
Vivianne eyed the man. Dressed in a butler’s livery, he presented himself with exactitude. His greying hair had been combed to obedience, and not even a button on his waistcoat dared to sit askew. Despite his officiousness, a hint of warmth underlay each word, and there was a kindness to his smile. She decided she liked him.
‘You know, I am not a lady,’ she said, her voice low even though it was only the two of them in the parlour. ‘All of this is very unexpected.’
‘I gathered,’ he said drily.
‘Monsieur West did not—’
‘His grace is not one for theatrics. Or flamboyance.’ He took a step closer, his voice also lowering. ‘Forgive my lack of propriety, but it is refreshing to see him so taken with another. I have known him all his life. You must be something.’ Cecil stepped away and stiffened back into formality. ‘Now. Should I arrange a decorator for your rooms?’
‘Rooms? There’s more than one?’ Her entire apartment in Paris was only one room. Her house growing up had only been one room. What might a person do with more than one room? ‘Can I see them?’
Cecil bowed. ‘Follow me.’
The sitting room where Cecil had led her for tea had not been far from the villa’s entrance. He led her back through the foyer, along a wide hallway with vaulted ceilings and portraits hung frame to frame. Stern men, slightly less stern ladies, men in military uniform. Vivianne scanned their faces for a hint of Arley. Maybe, his eyes in this one. Maybe, a hint of his chin. She hadn’t ever seen pictures of her own family. She had only known her forebears through stories told by the hearth. His ancestry looked down on her as they passed. What would they think of her? That one, with an extra pronounced frown, probably not much. Another looked as if he’d thoroughly approve—but in a way that made her skin crawl.
She raised her chin against their stares. She did not care for their opinion. All that mattered was what Arley thought. And he loved her.
They ascended a staircase, its walnut brown steps covered in carpet that sunk beneath her street boots. The smooth balustrade ran sleek under her hands. She’d taken off her gloves in the sitting room, but now tapped her pockets to find them and slipped them back on. Her hands were too rough, too unrefined to touch wood so luxurious. Her hems were thick with dust and grime, and as they hushed over the carpet, she could almost hear every loop scream in offence. She patted down a ruffle on her blouse. She should have asked to change.
At the end of a long hallway, Cecil paused before two tall white doors. Vivianne craned her neck. They must have been twice her size. Each panel was carved and decorated with delicate mouldings that were edged in gilt trim. He took each long gold plate handle in hand and pulled the doors wide.
Slips of light sliced between the curtains. Vivianne waited for her vision to adjust to the murky grey. A dresser. A mirror. Doors. Curtains. Immaculately clean to the point of sterility, the air in the room swirled not with dust, but with inactivity.
‘Can I have some time alone to look? To think?’ she asked Cecil.
Cecil gave his already familiar bow. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Vivianne held her breath until the door snipped closed, and then she had to stuff a knuckle into her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Hers. A room as big as her apartment in the Latin Quarter, just for sleeping. She dashed across and flung the curtains open. The window behind was twice her height, made of small squares of glass and each one was held in place by a wooden frame coated thick with cream paint. Outside, a small courtyard garden with a large oak tree and winding paths shivered with early spring. Sunlight cascaded in, and the wallpaper, dressed in gold leaf, winked with life. A dresser, a mirror, some chairs… where would she sleep?
Two sets of doors—not as tall as the main one that led into the hallway, but of the same white and gold style—filled the wall. Vivianne opened one. Shelves, rails, hangers, drawers, all empty. A wardrobe. She smothered a giggle. Her one spare dress would look utterly bereft in here.
Heart thumping, Vivianne opened the other door and stepped inside.
Her little bed in Paris had one purpose—sleeping. Almost as narrow as her body, made from curved steel, its mattress stuffed with horse hair, it, like sleep, had been purely functional. Other beds—in hotels or rented apartments—had other purposes. Like the bed in Arley’s hotel, this one had four tall posts, and the drapes were all tied back at the corners. As wide as three of her beds placed side by side, piled with pillows, covered with a rich red brocade coverlet with gold trim that skimmed the floor, it sat squat in the room, placed central against a wall. The same wallpaper as the other room gleamed. There were no paintings in this room, no photographs on the walls. Like it had been wiped clean, and the previous occupant had been erased.
What colour curtains? What paintings might she hang? Who, in this room, would she be?
A squeal snuck out, then morphed into a scream, and her feet tapped out a frantic release against the floor, and she grasped her skirts and ran across the room, one, two, three, four, five entire strides needed to cover its length, then she launched, spun and landed on her back into the mattresses gentle embrace. A room of her own. A soft bed of her own. A man who loved her, who she loved in return.
She propped herself onto her elbow to survey it all. Directly opposite her bed was another door, although she did not need to open it to know where it led. That would be the door to Arley’s rooms. Before, she had imagined the two of them sharing, as they had on the journey, not living separate sleeping lives. But what did that door mean?
Would he come in each night to claim her?
Or would she be expected to broach the barrier herself?
Would she use the lock when she wanted to be alone?
Would she ever want to be alone?
Vivianne hugged her arms across her chest and fell back, giggling like a maid and giddy with excitement.
‘I gather I am forgiven?’
Vivianne rolled onto her side. Arley pushed himself off the door frame and, hands in his pockets, swaggered across the room.
‘You must beg my forgiveness,’ she said.
‘And what is the price of your forgiveness?’ He stood before her, all tall confidence and ruffled edges, caressed by the golden light.
‘I want my kiss. The one that you stole at Luxembourg.’
‘You stole from me first,’ he countered, mocking, then launched himself onto the bed beside her with a low growl. With a bubble of explicit joy, Vivianne shrieked with laughter as he clambered over her, kissing, nipping and caressing. ‘Where can I return this most expensive kiss? Here?’ He nuzzled into her neck. ‘Or here?’ Moving lower, he trailed his lips across her chest. ‘Or perhaps, much lower?’
Anticipation spread as Arley shuffled himself down the bed as he pushed her skirts up. With a slightly rough desperation, he brushed a crooked finger between her legs. ‘Will you still shave for me even though you no longer dance?’
‘Pardon?’ Her sharp tone cut the air. She pushed her skirts down. ‘I cannot dance?’
‘You can dance. Just not ballet. Not forever. Just until things settle.’ Arley rolled onto his back. ‘It’s not my choice. But reputation means so much in this city. It’s for the company. If our competitors learned that you were a dancer, they might leverage it against us. They could suggest we would not provide the right type of enlightenment. And that would hurt us.’
‘But you don’t need the company or the money. You said as much.’
‘I don’t. But Iris, my neighbour… It was her idea. The last year has been a trial for her. This business was her dream. If she lost this, she’d be heart broken.’
Arley spoke with such care and quiet admiration. How could she refuse his request to help a friend, when she herself had had so few of them, but relied on them so completely?
‘I cannot stay here, can I?’ she said.
Arley took up her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘I’ve asked a neighbour if you can stay with her. She’s a little moralistic, but that will help. She’s only across the road, so you’ll still be close. It’s not forever. It’s just for a few weeks. Then, we’ll be married, and things will go back to how they were before.’
The cold flush of reality filled her stomach. She’d known her life here would be different. They’d talked marriage, family, a little cottage, but somewhere inside she had never quite pulled together the thread that she would no longer dance. She knew the English were uptight—it was why so many of them came to Paris, to indulge in the freedom.
Vivianne pushed a curl from his forehead. ‘I will do this for you, and your friend, mon amour. Soon, things will go back to how they were, yes?’
Vivianne slid to the edge of the bed. Arley caught her by the waist. ‘You don’t have to go immediately,’ he cooed in her ear. He dropped to the floor, knelt at her feet, folded back her skirts and eased her knees apart. ‘I cannot let you leave until I return your kiss.’
‘Disgraceful.’ Vivianne forced the word out between pursed lips, drawing on all her experience of the stage to keep from smiling. ‘And then what happened?’
‘It’s really not polite to discuss in front of a future duchess,’ Lady Tatton said. ‘But rumour has it, she dropped her handkerchief on purpose. Thoroughly scandalous.’
The Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values met in the front sitting rooms of Mrs Crofts home every Friday, and as fiancé to the society’s patron, Vivianne was a particularly honoured guest this morning.
I didn’t mean to agree. And it was so long ago, I don’t know how to back out. But it’s finally useful. It will help with your reputation.
