Page 11 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘Is that all you think about?’ His lips twitched, as if suppressing a laugh. ‘I have a confession. I am not here just as a friend of the dukes. I am here for my employer. I work for a travel company. I need a guide. Someone to show me Paris. A Parisian to show me Paris.’
‘There are books at everymagasin. Surely there is a guide book in your hotel.’
He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘I only have a few days. Certainly not time to visit every location listed in a book.’
‘I do not have time to be your tour-guide,’ she snapped, his rejection still smarting.
‘Then you do not want this.’ He plucked the pin from her hand and spun it between his fingers. It caught a slip of moonlight, and instead of absorbing the glow, it glimmered. Real? A stone that size would be worth more than just a few francs. It would be enough to keep her in bread and wine for months. ‘I want you to show me ten must see sites in Paris.’
‘Five,’ she shot back. Her pride refused to let him dictate terms, no matter how good they were.
‘Seven.’ He held out his palm.
She matched his posture, and he gave her hand a firm shake. ‘I have rehearsals in the morning,’ she said as she released his hand. ‘Meet me at the Palais Garnier tomorrow afternoon.’
He removed his hat and spun it through the air, then bowed low. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Vivianne. I look forward to more of your company.’
As he walked away, a moonbeam chased his heels as they rippled a puddle, like he drew the light of the universe into himself. And even though her hunger ached, a small part of her thrilled at the thought of seeing him again.
Vivianne shook her head, chiding herself for becoming caught up in his charm. He would have some intention, would make some demand of her body. Men were like that. It was just how they treated women like her.
Seven places. Vivianne made a mental map of her city and picked the fastest route that she could draw. He was far too dangerous. Lingering in the company of Monsieur West would not do her any favours.
Chapter Five
Arleyleanedbackasthe man pressed the razor against his throat. He tried to relax against an unfamiliar hand. The man scraped the blade against his neck, not as delicate as his valet, but twice as steady. When he paused to wipe whiskers and soap on his cloth, Arley swallowed, trying to moisten his parched throat. Tonight, no Absinthe. No anything.
He could dress himself—he had travelled, before, after all—it was the shaving that worried him. And after the journey across the Channel, his stubble was coarse, and after all night visiting brasseries, taverns and wine bars, he did not trust his hand.
At least the apartment at the Hotel du Louvre had been comfortable, with thick drapes that kept daylight at bay, allowing him to sleep through the morning. Only a dull ache at the base of his skull remained, and the fresh coffee that had been sent up was already banishing the dredges of the night before from his body.
How deeply he’d slept. Enveloped in the soft bedding, and with no thoughts riffling through his mind, stirring up unease, squeezing his chest, he had slumbered through the night. Was that how most men slept? Without worrying about conduct, or proper behaviour? Without replaying conversations in their mind, wondering if they had made some encouragement they shouldn’t have and if they were going to be bound to some promise they didn’t intend to make?
Or was it that the only thought his incessant mind wanted to play on loop was the memory of the captivating Vivianne Chevalier? She had drenched his thoughts, and there was no room for anything else.
A woman he couldn’t have, even though he wanted her desperately. Had such a thing occurred before?
The genuine transparency of the entire situation was beyond refreshing. An honest lie. He liked how she turned down Monsieur West. How she laughed with him when he was amusing and didn’t when he missed the mark. How she treated him as an equal. No, as less than an equal. As beneath her.
She had a price, which he could not pay, and there was no debating on the issue. No manipulations. And for the first time, he felt like he might pass time in the company of someone who saw him as he was.
His name was Arley West, instead ofyour grace.
A thump sounded at the door, followed by some muffled complaints, before it swung open. A bleary-eyed Algernon stumbled through. He steadied his hand on a settee.
‘Where’s my coat?’ Arley snapped.
Algernon raised his hand, frowned, and half closed his eyes, his finger moving as if sliding through memories in his mind. ‘Absolutely no idea,’ he said, then flopped onto the settee. ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t these the duke’s rooms?’
‘Don’t push it, Pascoe.’
Algernon smirked, mumbled something that could have beentouché, then half rolled to rest his elbows on the side of the lounge. ‘How was your courtesan?’
‘A fabulous conversationalist,’ Arley replied, still curt. Algernon closed one eyelid, as if processing. ‘You took my purse. And my means to pay.’ He tried to draw anger, but the emotion was unwilling. ‘How was yours?’ he asked, not really interested.
Algernon’s mouth broke into a wicked grin, and he leaned back on the settee and swung his feet over its cushions, before tipping back his head. ‘Magnificent,’ he said, then closed his eyes and began to snore.
Arley shrugged on his coat, then gave Algernon a firm shake. ‘Money,’ he demanded.
