A Most Improper Duchess, page 5
He tapped the coins in his pocket. Maybe there were easier ways to impress her. He’d made his deal the night before only thinking of how to keep her in his reach. He could suggest they skip her tour completely, and he could take her back to his rooms, turf Algernon out, before satiating the hungry fantasies that had plagued him all night.
Tourists and gawkers milled outside the opera house, but there was no sign of Vivianne. Impatient, he stalked the laneway, searching each feminine face for her. At the back of the building, a plaque set in a sandstone archway read Theatre de l’Opera – Administration. The stage door. Maybe she meant for him to wait for her here.
Arley leaned against the block stone column. Its ridges rubbed at his shoulder blades, and here in the buildings shadow, the cool March air pinched his skin. A man wearing a black coat and swinging a solid cane entered the building. A few light-footed girls followed. Another man. Arley scratched his temple, then coughed against the city dust. He went to the door and tapped. It opened a crack. A grubby ear emerged, and against the dark it appeared disjointed, like it was hovering in the shadows.
‘I, errr… I have a meeting with Miss Chevalier,’ he said.
The ear disappeared. In its place, a hand, palm up, fingers rubbing together, emerged.
‘She’s expecting me,’ Arley growled. He only had 5-franc coins, and he wasn’t handing one of them over to a doorman.
Thick lips with a hint of stubble moved into the gap. ‘Subscriber number?’
‘Subscriber? I’m just visiting.’
A tongue flicked out, and the mouth chuckled. Arley straightened and prepared himself to finally be given admittance, when all body parts disappeared, and the door slammed closed.
He knocked. No reply.
He thumped. Silence.
‘I will have you know,’ he began, inhaling his self-aggrandisement, ‘I could have you—’
He caught himself in time. Duke Osborne could make such complaints and be heard. Arley West could not.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, kicked a stone, then leaned back against the pillar. He scrunched into his coat, searching for some protection against the cold.
A few more men passed. Women. Girls.
Arley had never had to wait on anyone before.
Waiting was tiresome.
‘Monsieur?’ A bright, peaked face angled itself into his line of vision. The woman from the brasserie, who had been there with Vivianne and left with Algernon, smiled at him. ‘You are the duke’s friend, yes? Are you cold?’
‘A little,’ he grumbled. ‘I have a meeting with Miss Chevalier.’
‘Lucky her,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘Follow me, I’ll take you to the foyer de la danse. You can wait for her there.’
Vivianne’s friend introduced herself as Nicole, and with a light tap and a word, secured his entrance into the opera house. He trotted behind her as she wove through the slightly darkened staircases and hallways as they moved both deeper and higher into the building. He’d never been backstage at the theatre before, and as he warmed, his annoyance melted, and he could not turn his head fast enough to follow the maze of movement and noise. Lights fluttered, doors opened, giggles erupted, and deep voices bounded. Sweat and heat mingled with urgency. Every breath smelt like lust.
‘There are more men here than I expected,’ Arley said as they moved to one side of the hallway to allow a line of dancers to pass, their muslin skirts brushing against his knees. ‘Are they teachers? Do they work here?’
‘Subscribers,’ Nicole called over one shoulder. ‘Patrons of the theatre. Their membership gives them special access to watch rehearsals and meet with the dancers after a performance.’
‘What stops them from going into the dressing rooms?’ he asked.
Nicole laughed. ‘Nothing.’ She led him around another corner. ‘Here is the foyer. This is where the dancers stretch before and after they go on stage.’
He hadn’t expected so much opulence for a backstage space, but the gleaming gold, brass and marble room was like the building’s façade had been inverted and pressed against the walls. An enormous, multi-layered crystal chandelier caught the light and dispersed dazzling fragments of light over the ceiling. Marble columns framed tall mirrors, and brass bars had been fixed at set intervals around the edge of the room. Before one mirror, with her hand on the bar, stood Vivianne.
She hadn’t seen him, or if she had, she made no acknowledgement. Wearing the same light, diaphanous muslin skirt, fitted bodice and white stockings as the dancers in the hallway, with a bright blue ribbon tied at her waist, Vivianne stretched and placed her ankle against the bar. Arm extended, she curved over, until her fingers first brushed, then reached past the tip of her ballet slipper. Arley followed the delicate sweep of her muscles as they tensed. She twisted her body and moved deeper into the stretch.
Shrouded in white innocence, she looked all at once feminine, graceful, and terribly exposed. A flick of her skirt, and he caught a flash of the back of her thigh. Arms raised above her head, she moved like a lily caught in a breeze, petals flinching, her stalk wavering, yet fixed firm. Every gentle movement, every delicate gesture seemed a lie, as clearly every inch of her body was composed of sinew and strength.
She held her ankle in one hand and stretched it over her head. Heavens. He could suffocate right there and not care.
In a weak attempt to compose himself, Arley dragged his gaze from Vivianne, searching, clutching for any small thing to hold his attention. On the far side of the room, a man dressed in black filled a corner like a shadow. Straddling a simple wooden chair, he rested his elbows along its back and leaned forward. Arley didn’t recognise him, although he knew the cut of his clothes, and the arrogance of his pose. Another noble, or if not titled, someone of wealth, who was used to getting what they wanted.
He made no charade at other business. Just sat. Ogling.
The crystalised extravagance of glass and brass moved from lyrical to disjointed. An uncomfortable burst of shame shot through him. While the room was designated for the dancers and set aside as a place for them as they moved between the stage and the dressing rooms, in reality, it was not their space at all. It was an extension of the performance, and today the sole audience was the man in black. And Arley.
The long black ribbon tied at Vivianne’s neck flittered as she bounced onto her heels, its tips kissing the air as she spun. When she spotted him, her lightness fled. A protective scowl turned her lips as she rolled her shoulders back. Arley shot a look at the man seated in the chair, who now turned to watch a group of dancers who skipped in, chattering as they took up their places along the bar. He wanted to despise the man for his lasciviousness, but how could he? Hadn’t he rushed to become flush with coin? Hadn’t he thought to pay his way to her bed, and as she strolled across the room toward him, he still wanted her so very badly. Her expression had softened, but it was now a mask. Something deeper in him, more aching, wanted her to look at him like she had the night before when she had offered him a kiss. He wanted her to like him.
‘You are ready for your tour?’ she asked as she pulled a blue, fitted jacket over her arms and tied it at the waist. ‘Five places—’
‘Seven!’ he cut her off, then shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘The deal was for seven. Seven places to broaden a young person’s mind. To introduce them to artistic culture. But not impoverish their family. And not create any scandal.’
‘And here is your first stop. They must come to the ballet. Voilà!’ She spun and followed a line of dancers who had disappeared down a flight of stairs. ‘I will meet you outside once I am dressed. Six to go!’
Chapter six
Garnier, Colonne Vendôme, Tuileries, Louvre, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame, and then she’d bid him au revoir at the grand department store Le Bon Marchè. The night before, Vivianne had mapped the route in her mind. She’d seen this city torn apart and rebuilt more than once and knew every path and alley. The perfect list, it covered everything any English person visiting Paris wanted to see, or some version of it. She could have taken him to the Arc de Triomphe—the English always liked to see it, because then they could talk about their victory over Bonaparte like it mattered to her—but it was too far out of the way. And that would be eight places, and Monsieur West had only negotiated seven. By nightfall, she’d have that pin, then she’d sell it and keep her cupboards full as she figured out what she would do once she no longer danced at Garnier.
She had changed into a burgundy walking dress of a shade that hid the muck and dust from the street, and it swished against her walking boots. The uneven stone pushed hard against the thinning soles, the discomfort serving as a reminder that she could not afford to be distracted by handsome men with shallow pockets. She needed to rid Monsieur West from her life, and with the itinerary she had chosen, she could do that in one afternoon.
‘Steady on,’ he puffed as she headed toward the rue de la Paix. ‘It’s a tour, not a race.’
Vivianne strode on. It wasn’t her fault he wasn’t used to traversing the streets. He probably went everywhere with his duke in a carriage.
‘Colonne Vendôme.’ She gestured at the large bronze column as they passed. ‘Now you have two.’
A bell rang, and the door to a bakery opened. Vivianne’s stomach protested at her pace, and her mouth watered at the crisp smell of fresh bread. Maybe after she sold that pin, she’d go to a tavern, and buy bouillon, bread, and ale. She could fill her stomach properly and not just tease its edges.
At rue de Rivoli, she made a sharp turn. ‘The Tuilleries Gardens makes three. Up ahead, is the Louvre, and then you will have four.’
‘Now just wait.’ He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. The combination of cold air and warm exertion made his skin flush. His cheeks were full with health, and his blue eyes ignorant of hunger. ‘You can’t just point at places. I have a guide book that does as much. There has to be a reason somewhere is included, remember?’
‘These are all beautiful sites in Paris. Is that not reason enough?’
‘Better than that. More specific. I need a story, not just a dot on a map. You can’t just point at the Louvre and say “There’s some art.” It has to mean something. There must be a painting or sculpture in there that you love. If you could show a visitor just one artwork in all of Paris, which one would it be?’
Vivianne tapped her foot. ‘One artwork?’
‘One. The sort to inflame a ready mind. To capture the heart of the city.’
Inflame a ready mind? Nothing inside the Louvre would do that. The directors who controlled access to the salons ensured that nothing in there ever changed, even as the city bucked against stagnation. They had developed their taste decades ago, and sought to inflict it on everyone, driving artists with any shred of vision to hunger and compliance.
She should drag him into the museum, point at any oil in the Grand Gallery, and then be back on their way. But the sincerity of his request unsettled something in her chest. He did not want to see Paris. He wanted to see her Paris.
‘If you don’t like the painting, it still counts,’ she said.
His mouth twitched. ‘Naturellement.’
‘Follow me. I will show you my favourite picture in all of Paris.’
As they strolled along the promenade above the river, unease and hesitation pushed out Vivianne’s self-righteousness. She should have just taken him to the Louvre and told him what he wanted to hear. Even for a Frenchwoman, her passion pulsed too strong. Yesterday, it had seen her lose her position. Today, she might lose the small salvation fate had offered her.
Watching from her periphery, Vivianne tried to take the measure of the man who trailed beside her. She knew men: her life, her career, her existence depended on reading them faster than their eyes could wander her body and assess her face. While they undressed her in their mind, she stripped them bare in other ways. Would they be cruel? Have proclivities she was not willing to indulge? Did they have funds? Would they be generous?
But this man was a jumble. His clothes screamed poor taste, but his stance was confident, almost arrogant. He wore only one piece of jewellery of any value yet gave it up like it were a button. He wanted to kiss her, and more—all men did—but had instead sought her company, and her knowledge. A concierge could have given him a list of places to visit and left him free to enjoy his time abroad, but he was determined to undertake his mission himself, and to do it well.
‘You take your work seriously,’ she said as they settled in beside one another.
‘I take everything seriously,’ he replied. ‘Last night was the first time in a very long time where I haven’t been serious.’
‘I think you were not very serious when you bought that waistcoat.’
He laughed. ‘No, I suppose I was not.’ He plucked at a button. ‘It was Algernon’s idea.’
‘The duke?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are an odd friendship.’
‘We are.’
The river carried the cries of the traders and merchants, and applause from the floating theatres rolled across the water. A tourist boat chugged past. Vivianne walked into a pocket of sun and paused. The wind could grow cold here, and without a coat, she shivered. Not wanting to leave the sunshine, she gestured at a man standing before them. Arley leaned against a post and followed her gaze.
Almost always there was someone painting on this stretch of the Seine. Today, it was a man in navy pants and a green coat and wearing a flat cap to contain his black curls. He had worn cuffs, dirty shoes and a sublime, lost expression. He sucked the nub of his brush, then dabbed at the palette held aloft in one hand, his focus on the canvas as intense as any master.
‘This painting?’ Arley pointed at the man and his easel.
She nodded. ‘It is my favourite.’
‘But it’s not finished.’
‘You didn’t say it had to be finished. You said a painting to inflame a ready mind. Voilà.’
He crossed his arms. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone paint outdoors before.’ A slight frown furrowed his brow as his lips thinned in concentration. ‘What’s so special about it?’
Vivianne searched his expectant face. She had dragged him down here at his prompting, and now he wanted an explanation. Would he understand? Or would he, and his pin, storm off? She had no stories of symbolism or teachings from art schools to offer. She could only try and explain how the painters made her feel.
‘It’s not that he paints outdoors that makes him special, although that is something, yes? Look closer. He does not paint kings, or myths or gods or grand stories. He paints the people. This one, the customers at the café. Others sketch in the brasseries, or in the gardens, and watch the city as it goes about its day. Some go into the fields outside the gates and paint the peasants as they work. There is no lesson on religion, or history, or nationalism. It is just… life. Life after sadness. Life after the war. You wanted me to show you my Paris. This is it.’
Vivianne waited for him to argue. And maybe he should, because it wasn’t as if he could go back and report to his company that this painting, this corner, should go on the itinerary. But he was trying to turn the city into a checklist, and that was not how Paris worked. One immersed themselves, inhaled it, let it seep into their veins. It was an experience, not a list of things to do.
At the café, a man with a monkey perched on his shoulder played an accordion. The strained melody held the familiar mix of sadness and hope that every song seemed to have in it these days. The monkey’s tail curled around the musician’s nose. The man sneezed, and a discordant, compressed jumble of notes filled the air. The café patrons laughed, and the musician chuckled, then scratched his pet’s head. Arley laughed, and when he turned to her to share the joke, his eyes sparkled.
‘I’m not one for people. Mostly I find them… problematic.’ He shuffled and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘However, you have me. I don’t know how, but I will put your outdoor painter on my list. We have three places left. What is next in your Paris?’
She had been going to take him across the new bridge, and from there, onto Notre Dame. Ever since Hugo published his book, everyone was obsessed with the place.
‘My Paris?’
He nodded. Vivianne scanned the city skyline of the south bank, with its old, haphazard lines and the flat black tiles of the new buildings. And while she could not see them from here, in her mind she ran the alleys and haunts, saw the people, their joy and their misery. There was no way to just show him that.
‘My Paris takes time.’ She threaded her hand around his arm. He crooked his elbow in response and tucked her against his side. ‘And after all morning at rehearsals, I am as hungry as a wolf. We will have our next stop tomorrow. Right now, you can buy me a drink at the café. Let us sit, and talk, while we watch the man paint.’
Chapter seven
Arley flexed his hand against the stone wall. Taking a slow breath, he descended a few feet more, before pausing to recalibrate in the darkness. A soft glow extended up the narrow, spiral stairs, but the candle, and Vivianne who had hold of it, were already on the lower level and out of his sight.
‘Plus vite, Arley. Faster.’
‘How on earth,’ he said as he inched his way down the last few stairs, ‘Can you manage that descent in all those skirts?’
‘I am a ballerina. I have excellent balance.’ She pushed herself to her toes in demonstration and swept an elegant hand before her. ‘Take a moment and let your eyesight fully accept the darkness. You will need your senses for this.’
