A Most Improper Duchess, page 16
‘If I send her money for her ticket, Nicole will come. She will be here for our wedding!’ Vivianne clutched the letter to her chest. ‘I am so happy. I have missed her so much.’
‘Nicole? From the ballet?’ He leaned in closer and lowered his tone. ‘The one who was in the wine bar the night we met? Who left with Algernon?’
‘Oui,’ Vivianne said as her eyes scanned the page again. ‘I was so worried about her when her duke is not a duke at all. But she is well. She has a small part in the next opera. And not a duke, but an earl enjoys her company.’ Vivianne giggled, then pressed her gloved hand to her lips. ‘Désolée, Nicole is so funny about these things. She likes the attention. How do I send her money for a ticket? Can your travel company arrange her voyage?’
‘She can’t come. Not for the wedding.’ Arley shot a look over his shoulder. The archway was empty, but that didn’t mean no one lingered in the hallway. ‘And not after either. Her friendship is not appropriate.’
‘But she is Nicole…’ Vivianne folded the vellum over onto itself and slid it into her pocket. She placed a protective hand over her skirt. ‘After the wedding, maybe we can also go to Paris?’
His head was starting to throb, and he still had a mass of reports to read through. ‘I thought you hated it there. Why would we go back?’ he snapped.
‘To see Nicole, of course.’ She tapped her fingertips together in an off-beat tempo. ‘She is my only friend for so long.’
Agitation gnawed at him. It had been too long a day. At one moment Winton seemed about to unravel everything from beneath him, the next, Vivianne acted like she was in collusion with him. She met his gaze, pinned him in it, and just as he was about to break away, she half closed her eyes and focused on the floor.
‘The next few weeks are so important,’ he said with a wash of guilt. ‘Maybe after we can arrange something discrete.’
Fire flashed in her eyes, and her jaw clenched. He braced himself for her fury, or even a squall. She took a slow breath, swallowed hard, then nodded. ‘Yes, your grace.’ She bobbed a short curtsy and went to brush past him.
‘No dancing, Vivianne. Not today.’
‘Not even with the doors closed?’ She smiled coyly. ‘You could join me?’
‘You can dance tomorrow, after the launch.’
‘With you?’ She smiled, and a little of her light returned.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t dance at balls, remember? I will make my speech, then retire, as I have too much work to do.’ He planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and she swayed with the pressure like a leaf. ‘But you will be there to represent me. And I know that you will shine.’
Chapter twenty
The woman reflected in the small glass squares of the ballroom window was a delightful stranger. Vivianne’s hair had been styled with more finesse than she could manage herself, and the tips of it glinted with crystal beads that the maid had threaded through her strands. A light powder over her nose to try and conceal a few light childhood freckles made her skin glow. She’d decided on the yellow gown, with a modest neckline, short sleeves and a full, but not too ostentatious skirt. The silk shimmered bright as sunshine. But would the pink have been a better choice? Was yellow too brazen?
People, presence, persuasion.
It was too late to change now, as the first guests were already filing into the ballroom. Vivianne held a breath, closed her eyes, and tried to draw in the memory of standing in the foyer de la danse, and to feel the freedom of that moment after the patrons had gone, and to remember the contentment of her fellow dancers as they settled into one another’s presence, no longer competitors vying for a new sponsor, but sisters of the stage.
She opened her eyes and caught her lone reflection in the glass. Her heart lurched into its hasty rhythm again.
Little prisms of crystalised light, some flecked with rainbows, speckled the walls and blended into the dull gleam of the polished wooden floor. On the stage at the far end of the hall, a quartet played, the music humming between the odd moments of silence. A long line of trestle tables had been set up along one end of the room. Bright white cloths draped each one, and coloured ribbons had been pinned to each corner. Blue, orange, green, lavender, Vivianne had tried to select a palette of joy and adventure. Attendants wearing a simple uniform of white pants and blue coats stood by each table, nervously holding out brochures to those who passed. Nobles, merchants, business owners, some lecturers from the university and even young students filled the room. What a strange metamorphosis this city was, where the old world mixed with the new, even though they detested it. Money changed so many things about people.
Young Elise, Iris’s assistant who lived with her aunt in Number 7, greeted the guests. She handed each group a small booklet that summarised each tour, as an introduction to the company’s offerings.
‘May I see?’ Vivianne asked. Elise passed her one. ‘I like this picture of a cat riding in the balloon on the cover. This is everybody’s Spencer, yes?’
‘I drew him,’ she said, beaming.
Vivianne opened the book. ‘So people book these tours? And someone takes them on a holiday? Why do they not go by themselves?’
‘Because a guide can help them find all the best places to go and helps them if they get into trouble or aren’t sure what to do. And people might make friends along the way. Iris is always talking about the people she met when she travelled with her father. I’m hoping to lead a tour myself one day, when I’m older.’
Vivianne flipped through the pages in the booklet. Explore Edinburgh. Venetian Vacation. Sicilian Sampler. The Mini-Grand Tour.
‘This is ours! With my list, that I helped Arley write. Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe…’ Vivianne ran her finger down the itinerary. No painter. No gardens. None of her restaurants.
‘Iris changed some things,’ Elise said. ‘She was worried what people might think, especially if they haven’t been abroad before.’
‘What would people think that would be so terrible? About my painters, and the gardens?’
‘The Mini Grand Tour is for students and young people, but it is their parents who will pay. They will want to know where their children are going. It just needed to be more specific, is all. And what people think can be terribly important, especially in London.’ Elise spoke the last sentence with so much sadness that Vivianne felt the pain of her words. She coughed, then shifted her attention back to the door. ‘Mr Worthington. Would you like a brochure?’
Arley had said it might be a challenge to convince them how to include her suggestions. But he had promised her he would. They had walked the city, talking and falling in love as she shared her thoughts with him. The food and wine in the Quartier Latin was as good as on the right bank, if you knew where to go, and the gardens so beautiful, and the labyrinth beneath the city a powerful reminder of the darkness they had endured, only to be reborn the city of light. They were the stories young people needed to hear.
Vivianne scanned the crowd for Arley, and when she spotted him, she made a direct line for him. He was speaking to an older man, both of them in almost identical evening dress and nodding enthusiastically. ‘My father always wanted to hold the office, and I have always wanted to continue his legacy—’
‘Arley, this is not my Paris.’ She held out the booklet, open at the offending page. ‘This is a list.’
Frustration creased his brow as he made his apologies, and the man left. ‘Do you know who that was? You can’t just interrupt me. I’m trying to garner support.’
‘But you promised me my painter. You wanted my Paris.’ She pushed the booklet against his chest. ‘This is not it.’
He looked down but made no move to take the guide from her. ‘I know what I said, but that was before. Things are different now. With the house sitting and the company launching, there are other points to consider. People are relying on us. We can’t take any risks that might damage our reputation.’
‘But—’
‘We will talk later. I need to give my speech.’ He leaned forward, as if about to kiss her cheek, then caught himself and pulled back. He weaved through the crowd as he made his way onto the stage at the far end of the room. He put on his glasses and shook out a sheet of paper. The gathering settled and quietened, and when he spoke, it was with his lion’s voice, all stiff and commanding.
Vivianne pinned a smile as the words washed over her. That was one skill from Paris that was of some use—smiling—because so little of what she did and who she was seemed to have any place here. She could not dance. Could not bargain. Could not even sew as a duchess should. Applause filled the hall. Arley gave a short wave to the crowd, then moved behind the curtains as the quartet began to play. Couples moved onto the dance floor. She made a half turn for the door, meaning to follow Arley, but a man, tall, dark haired and full of charm, barred her way.
‘May I have this dance?’ He held out an expectant hand.
Something about the man’s face, his eyes, and his easy smile rang familiar, but she could not quite place the memory of where she had seen him. She knew his type of charisma though. It presented with a veneer of kindness but hid something more unpredictable beneath.
But she could not refuse a request to dance. Lorelei had warned her. He led her onto the floor, and together, they moved into a waltz.
‘You are an excellent dancer, Miss Chevalier. I feel like I am flying.’
‘Merci, sir. I did not catch your name?’
‘Winton. Winton West.’
‘West. Like Arley. Are you from his family?’
‘I’m his brother.’ Winton’s hand clasped Vivianne’s tight as she stumbled over her feet, and he slowed until together, they found the rhythm again. ‘I gather he hasn’t mentioned me.’
A little in the jawline, and maybe, the set of his eyes resembled Arley’s, but more than that, he bore the most striking resemblance to the portraits in the hall. Thin lines curved his set mouth, and he had creases around his eyes that Arley didn’t have, and just a few flecks of grey through his dark hair.
‘You are his older brother? But how is he the du—’
‘Bastard. Me, that is. Not Arley. My mother was our father’s mistress. He married Lorelei for her breeding. Nothing less than a duke’s daughter for a duke’s wife. But Arley has definitely stepped away from expectation with you, hasn’t he?’ His hand shifted a little lower down her back as they moved through the triangle of steps.
Vivianne tried to pull her hand from his, but his fingers squeezed so tight that her bones pinched together. ‘I am not that woman anymore, and you are not treating me as a lady should be treated. You will not even think of propositioning me.’
He laughed, his tone dark and malicious. ‘Not a lady, though, are you? And save your flattery of yourself. After Arley and heavens knows who else in this hall has had you, I am not interested.’ He pulled her a little closer to his chest, and his hand returned to her waist.
Fury burned in her, hot and raw, the sort that made her slap cheeks or throw perfume bottles at the heads of archdukes. Fury at this man for wielding her as a weapon, and for Arley who had not told her about his own brother, and whatever threat he had made. But then, glimpsed Lorelei as she danced. She chatted with the man she spun the circle with, but Vivianne followed her stiff body and read the lies it told. She was trying to help, even though she did not want to be here. And Iris, with unmistakable dark pockets under her eyes, smiled proudly at her husband. Tonight was her triumph, although she could not claim it. Her own version of a spotlight on the stage. Vivianne could not deny another woman such a moment.
With a leaden breath, Vivianne pushed down her anger. Too many people relied on her now, and while she wanted to rage at Arley, and his secret half-brother, and shake Iris until she understood what she was missing, she couldn’t. Not in a room full of people. Right now, the only thing she could do was dance.
People, presence, persuasion.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want my share. I want what's fair. And if I don’t get it, I will shatter your lie. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Through payment or the press, I am going to set things right.’
The song ended. Winton abandoned her on the dancefloor, and she slightly swayed with the rush of his departure. Vivianne pushed her way through the crowd.
Lorelei stepped in front of her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I must speak with Arley. His brother—’
‘Hush!’ Lorelei looked over her shoulder. ‘You cannot mention Winton. And you cannot leave a ball you are hosting. Everyone is watching.’
Vivianne was about to argue, when the man who had been speaking earlier with Arley addressed them both, introduced himself as Viscount Pemberton, then asked her to dance.
Why had Arley not told her about his brother, and his threat? How many watched her as she went about her day, also waiting for her to make some error? Not only Arley and Lorelei, or Mrs Crofts.
How many watched her, even now?
Her next dance was with a man named Jonah, then some earl, or was it a baron? She could not remember, but she smiled and stepped and held her stance through it all. Merchant, investor, politician. She held her pose. She smiled, and chatted. She danced until her feet ached as much as her heart, until she did not want to dance another step. Not just that evening, but ever again in her life.
‘Would you like the carriage, my lady?’ Cecil asked as the last guest left.
Vivianne pushed past him and moved down the hallway. ‘I am going to see Arley.’
‘I think he has retired,’ Cecil called.
‘Then I shall wake him.’
Vivianne trudged past the line of disapproving portraits. Up the staircase with its polished handrail and along the hallway papered with flowers and gold leaf. She pushed open the door to the duchess’s suite, crossed to the door that led into the bedchamber then shoved open the interconnecting door to the duke’s room.
‘You demanded my honesty. But you live on lies. Since we have met, it is all you have done.’
He sat hunched over a desk by the window, and as she spoke, he half rose from his seat. He removed his glasses and laid them aside. ‘That was only because I had to know I could trust you—’
‘Liar!’ She sounded hoarse and shrill, old and angry. ‘You cover me with lies. You cover your life with lies.’
‘Is this the tour? I meant to tell you, but the session has been so busy—’
‘I met your brother.’
Arley half choked on his next word before his expression turned from conciliation to anger. ‘Half-brother, and he is not welcome in my house. I will not be dictated to by a man who is lazy, and irresponsible. Phineas has a tip off.’
‘Your banker friend? Oh, but of course, he is not a banker.’ Vivianne wrestled with her gloves and slapped them to the floor. ‘More lies!’
‘What did Winton say to you?’ Arley demanded.
Vivianne bottled her rage with a held breath until it tempered into crisp, cold clarity. ‘He called me a whore.’
‘I will have him shipped off to finish his service with—’
‘Arretez, Arley! I am a whore! I sold my body. On stage, and between sheets. Even now, I sell myself to you. I sell my history, my friendships, my dance, for food and a bed and a duke’s company. Nothing has changed.’
‘Everything has changed. I am going to marry you.’
‘Send me back to Paris, or to your estate. Or even here in London, set me up in a small apartment. I can live quietly, and my terrible reputation will not hurt anyone.’
‘You bloody will not!’ He slammed his fist into the table. ‘I don’t care who you were. I only care who I am when I am with you. How you have given me the world simply by showing me how to see it. Everything, from a drop of rain to a dance step, is more radiant and dazzling because I share its miracle with you. You have worked so hard, and I will not have anyone tell me I cannot have you as my wife!’
‘Free me from this insanity. Let me be who I am.’
Arley shoved his chair back so hard it toppled, and he crossed the short distance to her. She stepped back but did not lower her eyes from his outrage.
‘Get into my bed,’ he ordered.
‘Make me your mistress.’
‘No. I will not do what he did. I will not be a man of shadows and absences.’ Arley raked his fingers through his hair, clenched his hands into fists, then shook himself free. He pressed his palm against his forehead, and when he spoke his voice was again that of a mouse, weighted with apprehension and heartbreak. ‘Have I ever treated you as a courtesan?’
‘The night we met,’ she said, her voice hoarse from shouting.
He swore under his breath. ‘After that. Have I ever tried to buy your body? To take anything from you that you did not want to give?’
Vivianne shook her head. Her anger shattered into fragments and anchored hard in her chest with a painful realisation. He was the only man she had ever given herself to. The only, only one. Even when she had tried to seduce him and place him in her debt, he had evened the balance between them.
‘And I never will. I should have told you about Winton. I am still learning how to shoulder this weight with another and how to be a part of something beyond myself.’ He gripped her chin, and brought his lips to hers, his kiss all force and eloquence. Even now, in his anger, he was roses and sunshine, softness and light. His fingers gripped as hard as steel while his tongue and lips were silk ribbons of desire. ‘I will never treat you like that. Never.’ Arley bent and scooped her up. Vivianne flung her arms around his neck, not sure if she sought respite from his ferocity or wanted to dive deeper into his torrent, his possession, and his certainty. His love, so jagged and untethered, promised to be terrifyingly constant. She clutched at his familiarity.
What else could she do? She could not return to Paris unless she wished to starve, and she did not dare go home. And even through his lies, when she pictured Arley’s face, his smile, his half-bent form as they emerged from les catacombs, as they tumbled in his bed while he made his promise of love, she knew she could not leave. His heart, his hearth and the safety he offered her were everything. She needed him.
