Page 14 of A Most Improper Duchess
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 to 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. He 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 justshowhim 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
