A Most Improper Duchess, page 9
‘I have spent so much of my life trying not to be one.’ The warmth in his eyes didn’t fade, but it turned sad, and disappointed. ‘You want to make a family? With me?’
While she had heard his words marry me clear enough, the exact window they would open for her hadn’t fully bloomed in her mind. But now, chugging through the countryside, Paris behind her back, the vision of a new life cleared in her mind. A little house, with a garden, and now, the picture he painted included small pieces of her heart, playing, calling her by a new name. Mother. No. They would not call her Mother. They would call her Maman, and she would teach them her tongue. Nerves, hope, fear, excitement, all of it rose and while she could have screamed, she instead let out a nervous giggle. ‘Oui,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I do.’
Arley raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. ‘I knew. As soon as I saw you, I knew.’ He twisted his hold, then kissed her wrist. A flutter ran through her. ‘We could start trying now?’
He folded her collar back, revealing a little more skin, and teased his tongue over the exposure.
‘You want a bride with a swollen belly?’ Even as she spoke of reservation, her body keened.
‘I have already sent word ahead by telegram. The first reading of the banns will be this Sunday. We’ll be married in less than a month. No one would know.’ He scraped his teeth, then nipped her skin. ‘Do you know how hard it has been to sit here and read the paper and not throw your skirts over your head?’
He planted kisses behind her ear and nipped at her earlobe. It all felt too good, too perfect, and the pleasure he ignited began to clang like warning bells.
‘This is rash. You are infatuated. It happens to the dancers all the time.’
Arley sat back and studied her face. ‘I am not infatuated. When we reach London, you will understand my haste, but trust me, I’ve never been more certain of anything. I know love from having lived so long with its absence. From watching, but never feeling. And I know it hasn’t been long, but there is a pull between us. A thread.’ He tucked a finger under her chin and drew her closer. ‘And if I marry you, I can kiss you all I want and not have to pay.’
She tried to resist, but it was incomprehensibly true. She did feel alive in his arms, she did feel a magic in his touch. He spoke of love so casually, and why not? Why not rush into its arms? Why not surrender?
Why not, indeed, fall?
Arley tugged down the blind and checked the brass bolt. He leaned back against the door and pressed his hands flat against the wood. ‘It scares me too. I came to Paris to write a list, and now I am bringing home a bride.’ He swallowed hard, and his bravado flickered, then faded. ‘The more I have you, the more I want you. You are a shining light. An extravagance. But will I be enough for you? Just as I am?’
Confidence and hesitation, bravado and uncertainty, his fingers trembled as he raised them to his throat and tugged at his collar. He fumbled with the first button and exposed a small triangle of chest.
In a mirror to his movement, Vivianne unfastened her own top button. Then the next. Eyes locked on hers, he continued to work at his shirt, tugged off his waistcoat, then stripped off his top layers in one movement. But with the sweep of his arm, he banged his knuckles against the roof of the carriage, and with a twist, and a squawk, he stood, half bent, with his undershirt tight caught at his chin.
‘Dash and sod it,’ he mumbled into the layers of clothing bunched around his ears, then twisted and knocked into the door. The blind rattled against the glass, and he gave a pitiful yelp.
Vivianne stifled her giggles as she jumped from the seat. When she found the tangle of caught clothing, she slipped it free. Still laughing, she kissed his neck, and cheek, and when she found it, his mouth, nose and eyelids.
Arley shook his clothes from his wrist. ‘I was trying to seduce you. I just look like a fool.’
‘I am not difficult to seduce,’ she said, still laughing, then caught herself. And she saw, reflected in his eyes that would not meet hers, his vulnerability.
She traced a line from the dip at the base of his neck, between the firmness of his chest, and over the tautness of his torso. ‘For a man who spends his days at a desk, you are very impressive.’
‘I row. On the Thames.’ He found the buttons of her bodice and slipped them free. The slow seduction altered its pace and shifted to fast and haphazard. Together they grappled, wrenched, fumbled and freed, kissed and gasped and drank each other. Bumped teeth and noses and laughed like youths fumbling behind a hay shed. There was nothing delicate about it, no seduction, no performance or pretence. Just raw and needy, and as Arley sank back against the seat and unbuttoned his trousers, and she dropped her skirts to straddle his thighs, her body thumped with that same yearning that had made her bend before him and demand he conquer her. He pushed the last layer of cotton from her body.
His expression took on that sweet awe, like in the wine bar when he had made his plea for a walk with his pin. ‘You are so delicate. I am worried I might break you.’ He ran his palms along the length of her torso, over her ribs, brushed her nipples and took one in his mouth. Vivianne arched into the attention, moaning with bliss. ‘And then you spin on your heel, or laugh, and catch me unawares, and all I see is strength. And I just hope you don’t break me.’
Suspended over his body, her sex pressed against the tip of his cock, Vivianne paused. A soft curl fell over his face, and she pushed it back, searched his eyes and kissed him, slow and deep. Her tongue searched his, teased at his tip, tasted his earnestness and breathed his love. She drew it into her body and let it wash through her, affection and desire meeting as strangers before melding into a shuddering embrace. When they separated, she had to blink fast to hide her tumult, but a tear spilled free and ran cool down her cheek.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked as he wiped it away with his thumb. ‘Do you want to stop?’
How to explain? Sex, fucking, bodies rutting, desire, none of it held any mystery for her. She was no maid. It was far from her first time. It wasn’t even her first time with Arley. But never before had she felt so stretched and exposed, so completely vulnerable, her heart ripping itself from her body as if magnetised to him. She’d never loved, truly loved, in a way that might destroy her.
‘Je t'aime.’ It came out hoarse, her voice as rough as the meaning soft. ‘Je t'aime.’
Arley took a slow breath, then stole her promise with his lips. ‘Je t'aime ,’ he whispered. ‘From the moment I saw you.’
As she lowered herself onto his shaft and welcomed him into her body, Arley gritted out a clenched groan. He held her tight against him, his heavy sigh coursing and melding them. Thighs tightening, she rose along his length, then lowered herself, enjoying his deepness, the sensation of his hardness in her, but most of all, the flutter of his eyelids as he tipped his head back and grunted to the ceiling.
‘Do you ever fake your pleasure?’ he asked, then nipped her lips.
Vivianne rolled her hips, then settled lower. Her bottom rested against his thighs. ‘Fake?’
‘Pretend. Make the right noises.’ As if embarrassed, he hid his mouth close to her ear. ‘Do you pretend to orgasm?’
‘You are as fragile as a petal.’ Vivianne rose again, and this time, thumped down hard against him. He shuddered as he dug his fingers into her hips. ‘Not with you. Not yet.’
She had meant it as a deflection, a jest, but Arley tensed. He grasped her chin and drew her face close. ‘Never with me. Never. Compris?’
For a moment, she wanted to shrink. To roll her body from him, to bend from his intensity and hide. But he held her chin tight, his blue eyes searching, pleading.
She nodded. ‘Never, my love. Never.’
No caring, no performance, only jolts and thrusts, they bucked and swayed with the train’s momentum. Arley braced her as they slowed to cross a bridge, and he guided her to closeness as they arced into a sweeping bend. Vivianne rested her arms on his shoulders and teased her fingers through his hair, drank his lips, all while riding him hard as she chased her own pleasure and release. Even his grunts fell away, and when he pinched her nipple, and bit her ear, she thrummed against him, faster, until she tipped her head back and howled at the ceiling.
‘Shhh,’ he half laughed as he smothered her cry with a kiss. ‘People will hear.’
‘I don’t care.’ The last of her own perfect storm eased, and spent of her own energy, she sought him, kissed him and held her thighs taunt as he thrust into her. ‘Again. Make me come again. Finish with me.’
Arley pushed his hand between them, stroked her clitoris, moving his hand deftly in time with her body’s movements. As they knocked against each other, he groaned her name and gripped her body to hold it in one place before pummelling into her with unrestrained abandon. She cried out as another wave rose and washed over her, and releasing her hold on him, she surrendered into his hold as he gripped her. Vivianne arched back, presented her body for his feasting, and let her arms hang limp by her side as he sunk into her with a few heavy, concentrated thrusts.
How could such pleasure come from one man? Mon dieu, he was exquisite.
The air in the carriage cloyed, and as she blinked herself into awareness, all she could smell was humid muskiness. The windows perspired as thin snaking beads trailed lines down the glass. She kissed a matching droplet from his forehead.
A faint tap came at the door. ‘Is something wrong in there?’
Vivianne snuffled a cry of surprise, and hunched against Arley, who wrapped his arms around her.
‘Nothing is amiss. On your way,’ he said.
He sounded so bold, so authoritative, that she had to lean back and take him in again.
‘What is that voice?’ she asked with half a grin. ‘One minute you are a mouse, and now, a lion.’
‘Just my voice.’ He tugged her close against him and stroked her hair. ‘Oh, Vivianne. I can’t wait to bring you home.’
Chapter thirteen
Not yet. Just not quite yet.
Vivianne sat perched on the edge of the seat as she peered out the window. She rocked easily with the hackney’s roll, even though Arley felt every bump.
The last two days had been exquisite torture. They’d travelled by train to the coast, then caught the steamer from Calais to Dover, before catching another train to St Pancras. Amid the bustle, he’d found a cab, and hauled Vivianne and her small bag inside. The entire time, he expected someone to recognise him and spoil his surprise, but somehow, they’d managed the entire trip.
It had likely helped that they barely left the cabin on the steamer. The more he had her, the more times he lost himself in her body or held her against him as she slept, the more of her he wanted. A lifetime would not be enough. Her light, her laughter, her playfulness. Her everything.
Should he tell her now, by the park? No, not just yet. When Number 10 came into view. Then, he’d tell her.
Vivianne sat composed, her head occasionally turning as they passed a tall building, or a gathering on the street. Her fingers tangled into each other, and occasionally bunched her burgundy skirt. It was the nicer of the two dresses she’d brought with her. Soon, he’d give her a whole wardrobe. Jewellery, gloves, hats. Anything she wanted.
With a light shiver, she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. They’d left a Paris with blue spring skies, but arrived in a darkly clouded London, heavy with rain and gloom.
‘It’s not always like this,’ he said. Vivianne looked across at him with a frown. ‘The weather. Some days are sunny. And then it’s just as pretty as Paris.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Oh dear?’
‘Already you are speaking to me of the weather. I really am to marry an Englishman, aren’t I?’ A playful glint lit her eye, and she turned back to the window. The cab took a sharp turn, and Vivianne twisted as she turned to follow the sign that read Honeysuckle Street. Miss Delaney’s villa passed by his window, while opposite, they began to pass the townhouses. Babbage, Hempels, Mrs Crofts.
‘These houses are so beautiful. Much grander than I expected. This is your street?’ she asked.
‘It is.’ He tried to conceal his excitement, but a smile tugged at his cheeks.
She slid across the squabs and leaned over him to peer out the window. Under her breath, she counted. ‘Numero quatre. Numero huit… dix?’
The cab slowed as it approached the gates. Arley leaned out and gave a wave. The gates opened and the hack continued up the short drive. Slips of sandstone and slate roof flashed between the trees.
‘I don’t understand.’ Vivianne moved back across the seat and pressed herself into the corner on the far side of the cab. ‘You said you had a cottage, with a garden. Do you live in an apartment?’
‘I have not been entirely truthful with you. About my house. And my occupation.’ He shuffled in his seat to face her. He reached out for her hand, but she did not take hold. Instead, her gaze flicked between him, to the window, then back to him. ‘I haven’t lied about Spencer and Co, and why I was in Paris. That is true. But I’m not a clerk for the company. I’m an investor. I have a seat on the board.’
Vivianne’s mouth opened. Closed.
‘My name is Arley West, but not mister, or monsieur. And no one ever calls me Arley. Most of the time, people call me “your grace.”’
Her eyes widened. Why was she not speaking? Surely, she had deduced what he was trying to tell her.
‘Vivianne, I’m a duke.’
Slap.
Her hand cut across his cheek just as the carriage came to a halt before the door.
‘Steady on!’ He touched the spot where her palm had connected, stinging from indignation more than pain. ‘I didn’t plan on meeting you, and I had to be sure I could trust you. I thought you’d be excited.’
‘You’re a duke?’ She started at a timbre he knew, but at duke, her voice went up an octave.
‘Yes,’ he squeaked. Where was his duke tone? He dug, scrambled, searched for it.
‘A royal one?’ she asked.
‘No. Thank heavens no. Just a regular duke.’
‘A regular duke.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Riddled with debts? You had no money. I am no heiress. I have no inheritance.’
‘I have no debts and I don’t need to marry an heiress. I have investments beside the company, and the estate. I pay my accounts.’
The driver gave a low, meandering whistle. Vivianne stayed bunched on the far side of the cab. She crossed her arms across her chest, and her lovely little breasts rose and fell fast as she took small gasps of air. ‘Will you keep a mistress?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
‘No, heavens no. I love you.’ He slid across the seat and pulled her tight body against him. He rubbed at her back and tried to coax some relaxation into her muscles. ‘Vivianne…’ He tipped her chin up and looked into her clear eyes, the same colour as a stormy Parisian day. ‘Are you scared that because you are not noble born, you will find it hard to be a duchess?’
Vivianne pushed herself from him and straightened in her seat. Forget about the anger of before, this was pure, blind fury. Dear lord. French fury.
‘How dare you.’ A squall edged each word, slowly building to a tempest. ‘I am a dancer of the Palais Garnier. I have been tiptoeing around nobility for years. I will not just be a duchess, I will be the best duchess London has ever seen.’
She was fire, passion and abandon, the most beautiful composite of everything lacking in his life. ‘You’ll be my duchess?’ He tried to match her fire with seriousness but failed, and instead of stifling his smile, it spread. ‘Instead of Monsieur West, you’ll settle for Arley the Duke?’
She huffed. ‘Of course, I will, you stupid man.’ And before he could offer her his hand, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his lips, his nose, his chin. She gripped his cheeks in her hands, then pulled back. ‘You lied to me?’
He nodded. ‘I didn’t set out to. I needed to know you loved me for me.’
She prodded him in the chest. ‘Don’t do it again.’
They tumbled out of the carriage, and finally on solid stone at the entrance of his home, he pulled her tight. He lifted her toes from the ground before spinning them both in a short half circle. She gave a short squeal, then kissed him again. She was the air in his lungs, the bright sun he had craved and already he knew she would make his dreary days light. She would be the companion to his loneliness. She had seen him with nothing and loved him anyway. With everything, they would be so happy.
A short, sharp cough came from the doorway.
Arley placed Vivianne on her feet. ‘Cecil. This is Miss Chevalier. We’re engaged.’
Cecil visibly drew on all his years of experience to not let the surprise in his eyes reach his voice. ‘Very good, your grace.’
Arley grasped Vivianne’s hands in his own. ‘This is Cecil. He runs Number 10. Anything you need, anything, ask him, and he’ll help you.’ He held out his elbow. ‘Care to see your new home?’
Cecil coughed again. ‘Given that a hackney has just driven through the gates after witnessing your jubilant homecoming, and is now circling London, do you think it might be prudent to pen a message to your mother, your grace?’
Cecil’s words sent a jolt of reality through him. He wasn’t an invisible clerk visiting Paris anymore. He was a duke. And telling his mother about his engagement by telegram, followed by a letter, was better than her hearing from a speculative report in The Tattler.
‘You’re right.’ He pressed Vivianne’s hands to his lips, kissed them briefly, then released her. ‘Cecil, take Miss Chevalier to the front room. Tea, coffee, food—are you hungry?’
She shook her head.
‘I won’t be long, then I’ll give you a tour.’ And with a final kiss, he parted from her, and made his way to his study.
In his short absence, the mass of letters had multiplied. They may as well have been rabbits for their prolificacy.
Diligent, dutiful Cecil had separated his correspondence into two piles. One, the towering mountain of inane invitations, the other, just two letters—one from Winton, the other from Tillman, likely a quarterly report.
