Page 13 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘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.
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 crystal 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 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 likehim.
‘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,ColonneVendôme,Tuileries,Louvre, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame, and then she’d bid himau revoirat 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 Tuileries 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 seeherParis.
‘If you don’t like the painting, it still counts,’ she said.
