A Most Improper Duchess, page 18
Arley pulled at his cravat. His finger snagged on his pin, the same topaz gem he’d used to bargain for her time.
He twisted his signet on his finger.
She had become the perfect duchess. Completely proper.
And for the first time in his life, he wished that he was not a duke.
‘I think you’re being overly dramatic,’ Phineas said. ‘You could just buy a chateau over the Channel and have another holiday. Say you don’t want the appointment. Retire.’
Arley flicked through a few of the neglected envelopes on his desk. ‘Winton will never stop holding her past over us, and over Spencer and Co. The requests for favours won’t end, here or in the country. Every day, every season, there will be more letters, more demands. Vivianne will be lost in them.’
‘Have you asked her what she wants?’
Arley shook his head. ‘That’s the problem, I never did. I just assumed. And now, she’s already bent. Because of me.’ His mother had been a demure violet for so much of her life, and it had frustrated him that she’d taken so long to stand up for herself, and for him. But how could she be anything else when her husband was a pompous duke? How could Vivianne be authentic to who she was, when he relied on her to bolster his reputation, and to stretch the distance between his shortcomings and his dreams?
He’d worked so hard to be like his father. And now he was. Winton had not gotten everything. The old duke had left him this legacy too, and the realisation curled coldly in his gut. ‘I’ll ask her, but not here. It will have to be away from all this.’
‘I still think—’
‘My father was thirty-seven when he became duke.’ Arley raised his voice a little. He was tired of arguing with the only man in London who was prepared to argue with him. ‘He held the title for nine years before he passed. His uncle held it for twelve. Before him, my great great grandfather, had it for just three. Do you know how long I’ve had this privilege?’
Phineas didn’t react. He knew everything.
‘Twenty-seven years. From three weeks before my sixth birthday until today.’ He twisted the ring on his finger in a full circle. ‘I think I’ve been a duke for long enough.’
Chapter twenty-two
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more lovely bride. As fresh and sweet as a lily.’ Mrs Crofts preened to Vivianne’s reflection in the mirror. ‘The society pages will love describing the detail of your gown. It really is beautiful.’
It was a little more ruffled than Vivianne would have liked. She had taken Mrs Crofts to her dress fitting and followed her advice for making choices on colour and cut. Since hosting her society meeting in the sitting room of Number 10, Mrs Crofts accompanied her most places. Lorelei had decided that after Vivianne's success at the company launch, she was no longer in need of lessons, and with Arley so preoccupied with parliament, she’d been lost in what to do with herself.
In the whirlwind of preparations over the past week, she had barely seen her future husband. But then, with his pending appointment to his new position, that was the type of life she needed to prepare herself for.
Mrs Crofts stroked Vivianne’s veil. ‘I do not have daughters of my own, and as your own mother is…’ She paused, presumably to allow Vivianne time to fill in the missing information.
‘Absent,’ Vivianne said, ignoring the pang of not knowing.
Mrs Crofts simpered, then took a hard breath. ‘In the absence of your mother, I feel it is my duty to inform you about life after you are married. What will happen and such.’
Vivianne frowned. ‘After the ceremony? There is breakfast, and a celebration, in the ballroom at Number 10.’
‘After that.’
‘Speeches?’ Vivianne asked.
‘After that,’ Mrs Crofts said between tight teeth.
‘Oh. Do you mean in the bed chamber? Once Arley is my husband, he will expect me to…’ Vivianne swallowed down a small bubble of laughter. ‘Do things, perhaps?’
‘Do nothing,’ Mrs Crofts said with a confiding confidence. ‘My advice is always to just lie there and pray he is efficient. Wiggle a little if you’d like him to hurry things along. But not too much. You don’t want to encourage any more visits than necessary.’
‘Wiggle. I will remember that.’ Vivianne tried not to smile, before a sadness settled in her. Was this her future? Discussing prim and proper behaviour with Mrs Crofts?
No, Arley was her future.
His Grace, Arley West, Duke Osborne, future Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Who was already too busy to see her.
Vivianne jumped as a knock at the front door bounded through the quiet townhouse. She rose and made her way down the layers of stairs to the front door, then climbed into the carriage. The maid fussed to drape her train across the floor so that it didn't crush. When the footmen slammed the door shut, a little of the hem snagged.
She should feel joy, or lightness or even fear and trepidation. She stared down the door.
She felt nothing.
‘My niece is coming to town, and I was so hoping you might meet with her,' Mrs Crofts said from the opposite side of the carriage. 'And would you perhaps sponsor her, to debut at court next season?’
‘I would be delighted,’ Vivianne said with a fixed smile.
That was six requests this week.
Heavy droplets of rain flecked the window. Vivianne pressed her forehead to the cool glass as they rattled through the street. Mrs Crofts babbled and gushed as they drove past a park. Vivianne scanned the lawn, but saw no hint of an easel, or lumbering swans, or couples diving for protection. Did the English ever dance in the rain? Or were they all too proper?
‘It’s a lovely drive to the church. I can’t believe that so many people are watching.’ Mrs Crofts looked out at the people moving about the streets as they went about their day. Workers paused to adjust hessian sacks on their back, while a woman leant over to scrub at a young girls face with the gentle, guiding touch of a mother. Even though the girl flinched, the mother persisted. A boy shouted the day’s headlines, and the now familiar tension clenched Vivianne's muscles. Was she reported on today? If so, what did they think? What did they say? The articles felt so different from a review of the ballet, when the journalist made comment on the scenery, the singers and the conductor. Now, it was just her alone in the spotlight.
‘There’s quite a crowd outside the church. Surely they aren’t all invited? Some of them look a little… rough.’
‘They look like people. They are just doing their best.’ Vivianne clasped her hand to her mouth. Mon Dieu how had she let her anger slip? No doubt she would now be discussed amongst the members of the society.
A jumble of conversation from outside distracted Mrs Crofts from her disapproval. The door opened. Not people, or guests—they were journalists, with notepads clasped in their hands as they pressed forward in a bunch.
‘What will you do now?’
‘What was your last conversation?’
‘Why have you still come to the church?’
‘Where is Arley?’ Vivianne pushed open the carriage door and leaned out, one hand resting on the ledge. ‘He said he would walk me down the aisle.’
‘You haven’t heard?’ one man called. ‘There’s been a terrible accident, on the river. His grace was rowing when a storm rolled in as the tide changed. The police think his boat tipped. All they found was his oar.’
‘Non, non, non,’ she cried. Vivianne grasped at the air. ‘Not Arley. No!’ She wanted to sink to the ground and sob, but what thrummed in her ears was not Arley, but Lorelei’s last lesson. Hold everything inside. If you show emotion, they will not sympathise. You will only give them more to feast on. Let them peck. Give them nothing.
Arley’s friend, the banker who wasn’t, caught her hand. ‘Breathe, Vivianne,’ he rasped in her ear. ‘Send Mrs Crofts away. I’ll take you to the river. You need to see what has happened for yourself.’
Vivianne lurched from the carriage before it had stopped moving. Thunder cracked overhead, and heavy pellets of rain slashed her face and thwacked loud against her satin ruffles. She rushed to the side of London Bridge and leaned over the balustrade, scanning the murky grey green swirling water for a hint of his hand, his coat, anything. ‘Arley!’ she screamed into the torrent. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t—’
‘Vivianne,’ a low gruff voice came from the dark beside her. A slip of a finger, a pinkie, hooked around her own. ‘Say nothing. Just look at the river.’
Vivianne stared into the water, then tilted her head and took a slow, steady breath. Roses, lilies, snowbells. The unmistakable scent of an English garden.
‘Your banker friend said you were gone,’ she said, scarce believing he was beside her. She was mad, beyond mad, full of grief and confusion. ‘He said—’
‘People believe what they will if you lead them on enough,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Phineas would know. I don’t have long. Vivianne, I am dead.’
Her heart snagged. ‘I have lost my mind. I am speaking with a dead man.’
‘It’s a pretence. Catch the lie, Vivianne, you are smarter than this!’
‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Like a farce or a—’
‘Rambunctious opera? Yes, it is. It had to be. I knew you would not have agreed if I asked you. You would have given me the world and denied yourself everything.’ He squeezed her little finger then drew it against his side. ‘You are not the woman I fell in love with. You have become the type of woman that drove me into your arms.’ Vivianne gasped as his words cut like a dagger. ‘That’s my fault,’ he said in a rush. ‘I demanded so much of you. Demanded you change. But you should laugh. Dance. Be free to be yourself. But you never will be, as long as you are married to a duke. You will always be in the spotlight, and under more observation than even I can imagine.’
She chanced a look. He wore his flat cap from Paris, an old coat she hadn’t seen before, and his bright blue eyes were wide with fear and worry and love.
‘You are pretending to die?’ she asked. ‘Why?’
‘There’s only one way to stop being a duke,’ he explained. ‘It is a job one can never resign from. Right now, Duke Osborne is dead. But so is Monsieur West. Only one of them can be revived. The duke could slip down to the river bank and make a miraculous return. We can go to the church and make our vows. Or I can slip away and resurface somewhere else as Monsieur West. Vivianne Chevalier…’ He turned towards her, just a little. ‘Who do you want to spend the rest of your days with?’
One body held two men, as different as stone and lime.
His Grace, the duke.
Monsieur West, the poor man.
The gowns, the stability, warm beds, soft mattresses. Oh, they were so luscious. Hot tea and someone to fix her hair and press her frills. The help was so nice.
But the eyes, the whispers, the constant stab of anxiety about being watched and on display tore at her sanity. And forever living in the public eye, with no curtain to drop and give any peace. Not even trusting the members of one’s own household. Keeping everyone at arm’s length. Not being able to see Nicole.
Wearing gloves all the time.
She would have dealt with it all if he asked her. She would grit, and suffer, and his happiness would be hers, and the snatched moments with him would be her delight, because even now, her heart threatened to explode with her love for him. But this man, this man of Londres was a facsimile of the man who had danced in the rain and charged her for kisses.
‘I miss Monsieur West so very much,’ she whispered, her voice catching.
She wanted to draw his body against hers. To place her hand on his cheek, to fold him against her and to kiss his lips. But she couldn’t, because all the world was already watching. She squeezed his pinkie. He squeezed back.
He gave a smile that even in the uneven light sent her heart into an allegro. ‘It will be a trial. In every way. Listen to Phineas. You are so strong. And never, ever doubt me. I will find you.’
He freed his grip from hers, and the shadow that he had cast was replaced with the bright lights from a passing ferry. She shielded her eyes, blinking, but did not catch a flash of his retreating form.
‘I never have,’ she whispered.
Chapter twenty-three
‘Blast and sod it,’ Arley mumbled under his breath as he slipped into the study. It would take some time to get used to this coat. Fumbling in the dark, he found a drawer in the armoire, and dropped the embossed ducal ring inside. He’d meant to leave it before the day’s escapade but had forgotten. It had been affixed to him for so long, he barely registered its weight on his finger. And while he could have tossed it into the Thames, the final shred of his sense of duty would not allow him to be so careless. He rubbed at the dint it left on his finger.
‘You could have killed your mother with a stunt like that.’
A lamp flared into life as Arley spun. ‘I was going to tell you. Phineas has a letter.’
She raised a brow. ‘I do not want a letter. I want to hear the words from my son.’
Eyes puffed, but not red. She’d ceased crying some time ago, then. Slumped in his father’s chair, wearing her nightclothes and a thick dressing gown, she looked as fierce as the day she’d found her voice, all those years before.
‘How did you guess?’ he asked. He and Phineas had been so careful, their plan so meticulous. Had they made some mistake that would see the entire thing come undone?
‘There is no way my son would have made such a mistake. You are too cautious. Too much like your father.’
‘Perhaps I am really impetuous. Perhaps I am more like you.’
Her jaw tightened and her lips pressed. Dampness glinted in her eyes. ‘I suppose you are.’
Arley dropped the ring into the drawer and moved away from the cabinet. He clutched at the sleeves of his slightly ill-fitting coat. In his mind, he’d prepared himself for her absence from his life, but now the separation loomed, he felt as torn as when he’d seen Vivianne as the perfect duchess.
‘It’s a little melodramatic,’ she said finally. ‘People might miss you.’
‘Those who might miss me will be told the truth. Any others will miss the connection to the title. They will not miss me.’
She pushed herself from her chair and stood before him. Barely reaching his collarbone, her eyes weighed full of her incredible sharpness, and wit. ‘She’s lovely Arley, but are you certain she’s worth it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, and his uncertainty sunk in him. It hadn’t been that long, not really, and here he was, turning his back on the only life he had known. But he also knew that to say it was all for Vivianne would be a lie, because he also wanted the escape for himself. Wanted to be free of expectation, to walk in the sun without the trim of his hat being reported on, to be invisible. For that scarce week where he had been a nobody of Paris, how he had loved it. He wanted to meet this man he could have been, and there was only one way to be truly free. ‘I hope so. But if not, well… at least I will have tried. I wish it didn’t have to be so final, but there’s no other way to stop being a duke.’
She grasped him so tight, his chest hurt, and choking down a half cry, he gripped her in return. ‘Your father would be terribly disappointed in you,’ she said.
‘Probably about time he was, isn’t it?’
One last embrace, and Arley left, not turning back as he reached the study door and not pausing as he slunk through his house like the stranger he longed to be. He moved through the kitchen and to the side door where Phineas was waiting with a carriage borrowed from Dalton, its crest faded from storage and neglect. So focused on the door, he didn’t notice the shadowy form by the carriage house until he was almost on top of it.
‘Cecil. What in heavens?’
He wore a dark travelling suit, and half bent to pick up a case by his feet. ‘I heard you and Mr Babbage the other night. Ready when you are, your grace,’ he whispered.
‘You can’t come. It’s risky enough that Mother and Tillman guessed before I am even out of the drive, let alone London.’
‘Please, your grace. I serve the duke. I cannot in good conscious serve a man I know isn’t. The line going back is so vague, it could be anyone.’ He leaned forward, his voice low and full of consternation. ‘What if it’s an American?’
‘You can’t just leave,’ Arley hissed. ‘People will miss you.’
‘I told the staff I was retiring, on the wishes of the future duchess. A terrible lie, but it raised barely a peep.’ Cecil gave him a sad smile. ‘No one will miss me.’
‘I would have.’ The admission rolled off his tongue with dangerous speed yet was propelled by truth. Beyond his mother, Cecil had been the one constant in his life. Perhaps, he didn’t need to leave every thread of himself behind. ‘Get in then. But you can’t keep calling me your grace.’
Arley hauled himself into the carriage, then held out his hand to help Cecil climb in after him. He pulled the door shut.
‘What do I call you then? You can’t be Mr West. People may figure it out.’
The carriage bumped as Phineas climbed onto the driver’s seat. A click of his tongue, and they moved forward with a jolt. Arley picked up a folder that had been left on the seat beside him and flicked it open, his eyes squinting in the faint glow of the street lamps. He shook his head and gave a half laugh. ‘It seems Phineas has already picked a name for me. For both of us.’
Chapter twenty-four
In the days that followed, Vivianne remained a fussed over, if slightly diminished, guest of Mrs Crofts. A week after the wedding that wasn’t, the investigative officers declared that her beloved’s body had likely been dragged under a passing boat, been caught up in the currents, and taken to sea with the retreating tide. Witnesses were found who gave jumbled accounts of a man in a skiff rowing easily along the river, and how they had lost sight of him as a storm rolled in. The discovery of a shoe, and a torn bit of cravat, seemed to settle the whole thing.
