Page 21 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘Get off the floor.’ She couldn’t help but laugh as she pulled him back into the bed. He claimed her mouth, and she welcomed his stealing of her kisses. She splayed her hands over his back and felt him growing hard again against her thigh. ‘It’s been days. You cannot marry someone you’ve known so short a time.’
‘People marry after knowing each other less. My mother had one conversation with my father before they were promised.’
‘And were they happy?’
‘Completely miserable. But we will be different. We have some energy between us, a connection. Surely that is something worth building on.’
In less than a week, he had taken everything. He had her power. Her heart. And yet as he watched her, waiting for her answer, he looked as fragile as a taut length of thread against a blade.
‘You will tire of me. Men always do,’ she said.
‘And you may tire of me. And maybe we will be old and tired and cranky together. But at least we will have tried.’ His joviality faded. She ran a shaking finger over his lips, still disbelieving the words spilling from them. ‘I feel it,’ he whispered. ‘In your touch. In your kiss. In your body,’ he growled in her ear, and a warm shiver skated from where he kissed her to her toes. ‘This is right. Let me give you more than rent on an apartment. Take my name. Marry me.’
He asked her like she had a choice. Like her response mattered.
‘Oui,’ she said, at first uncertain, then as the awareness blossomed in her, she had to snuffle her surprise, her delight, until it burst out as laughter and joy. ‘I will. I will marry you, Arley West. I will be your wife.’
Chapter Eleven
Arleypushedtheslipof paper across the counter, along with a 5-franc coin.
‘For Mr Phineas Babbage, Number 1 Honeysuckle Street, London.’ He tapped the note. ‘Urgent.’
The man rolled his eyes, and muttered what might have beenAnglaisunder his breath.
Likely everything sent by telegram was urgent.
Despite the man’s condescension, Arley grinned like a lovesick schoolboy. The most miraculous thing to happen in his life had been condensed to dots and dashes. He’d thought about messaging Cecil and asking him to arrange the first reading of the banns, but if a message was delivered to Number 10, who knew who else would see it. He didn’t want to be greeted at the train station by a hoard of reporters.
Arley stepped out of the telegraph office and into the place du Théâtre Français. It writhed with early morning energy and anticipation. Carriages, omnibuses, people on horseback and those travelling on foot filled the wide boulevard of the Avenue de l’Opéra. In the distance, spring sunshine reflected off the roof of Palais Garnier.
He’d wanted to tell Vivianne who he was as soon as she’d agreed to marry him, but something had held him back. He’d spent his whole life as Arley the duke, and a morning as just Arley, stretched out in bed with the first blossom of love still unfurling in his chest, had been too rare and too beautiful to taint. And her slight hesitation as she asked for small luxuries, negotiating their future as she negotiated everything, had been so endearing, he couldn’t bring himself to break the intimacy.
All he had promised her was himself, his heart, and a future without hunger. She shone so vivacious and brilliant, he felt a grey shadow beside her. She’d been lied to so much, broken and manipulated. And he’d lied to her, too. He hadn’t meant it. Somehow, it had all snowballed.
But his truth would change her. It would give her the world. The moment he disclosed himself should be special, more than a casual conversation where he slipped in,oh, and I forgot to mention, I’m a duke.
His revelation should be magical. Memorable.
On the train, maybe? Too boring. On the steamer? At short notice, as Monsieur West and lacking connections and influence, he’d only been able to secure a second-class ticket. She’d think him insane if he took her to their berth and then announced himself.
When they arrived at Number 10. That would be the perfect moment. When she could see the street, the villa and their future for herself.
Why just tell her who he was when he could show her?
Chapter Twelve
‘Parisneverforgets,Vivianne.’
Nicole spoke her warning into the mirror, meeting Vivianne’s eyes in her duplication.
‘I don’t care what Paris does,’ Vivianne snapped back. ‘I am leaving.’
‘You think you will be happy in his little English world? You will not fit. He will grow bored. He will keep a mistress.’
Over the morning, between rolling, laughing, and kissing, Arley had described his home and his life, and to every request she made, he agreed. A new dress every birthday. A garden where she supposed she would learn how to grow vegetables for their kitchen, as her mother had done. Someone to help with the laundry. But over and over, his love.
In the light of the rehearsal room, Nicole spoke the deepest fears that Vivianne had buried. But her friend was young and had opportunity before her. Dukes sent her roses. She had the luxury of hesitation. Of waiting for a better offer. His promise carried more than a glint of happiness. It contained days of food, and comfort, and warmth.
