Page 22 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘What do you want of me? I will never be the prima ballerina. I will have successful auditions less and less. I am tired of being hungry, of groping dukes, of princes without courts and the shredded nobility who come here to pretend the old days remain. I am going to be a wife. Why can’t you be happy for me?’
‘Because this is not an opera, where a boy falls in love with a girl he just met. This is life. He will have some secret.’
‘I cannot go back to thegrisettes. And if I am wrong, he will not be the first man to have lied. To have filled me with false promises then ran as they shattered. And if that happens, I will find a way. But maybe, I might be happy.’ Vivianne choked back tears, imploring her friend to understand. ‘Perhaps your duke will bring you to London one day, and I will see you again?’
They stood, eyes on one another in the mirror, as they had stood for so many years. With a turn, and a swish of muslin, Nicole spun and launched herself at Vivianne and wrapped her arms around her neck in a tight embrace.
‘Remember me? In your boring little cottage?’
‘I will never forget you,’ Vivianne said as she pulled her friend tighter. ‘Never.’
As Vivianne walked from the opera house, her heart thrummed as fast as an allegro. She carried a small bag of her few possessions. A spare dress. Her ballet slippers. Any jewellery she’d been given was long sold. Maybe Arley would buy her something special for their engagement.
Maybe he would be all the terrible things Nicole had said he might be.
She caught sight of him first, standing, awkward and alone outside Gare du Nord. He stared at his pocket watch while tugging at his coat sleeves, then scanned the crowd with a slight agitation.
What of her dreams?
What of dance?
What ofMaman?
All of her life would rest with him.
Arley spotted her through the crowds, his expression shifting from concern to relief.
He had a garden. He hated parties. He liked simplicity.
She skipped across the street and took his arm, and he tucked her hand into the crook made by his elbow.
‘Miss Chevalier, may I escort you to England?’
She gave one last look at the Paris sky and the roofline she had seen pulled apart and rebuilt so much she barely recognised it from how it had been when she’d arrived.
‘Monsieur West, I would be so delighted if you would.’
Like the last note from a soprano, the train whistle rent the air. The rhythmic chug of the pistons formed a humming beat beneath Vivianne’s feet, and her toes tapped the carpeted floor of the train carriage. Across from her, leaning back against the plush red seat, Arley sat with a copy ofLe Figarohalf concealing his face. His glasses—just for reading, he had assured her—perched on his nose, and the paper rustled as he turned the page.
Vivianne touched her fingers to the window. Paddocks, stone walls, stone cottages and people hewn just as rough stared up at them. The occasional dirt lane, a church on a hill, a graveyard, they all flashed in and out of view as the train sped through the countryside, hurtling them west, away from Paris and toward her future across the Channel. In all the years since she’d been gone, so little had changed. A cloud of black smoke from the train engine obscured the view, before clearing again.
Arley stretched his back then turned another page. She hadn’t thought he’d wear glasses. Nicole’s words teased at her again. Was this his only secret?
‘When were you born?’ she demanded.
He peered over the top of his paper. ‘Pardon?’
‘How old are you? How many years?’
He half smiled. ‘I am thirty-three.’
That made sense. Young enough to be agile, old enough to be bored with novelty. ‘And you work at a company for travel?’
‘Something like that.’
He watched her over the top of his paper, then slightly raised his brows in expectation. Vivianne swayed as the train slowed a little at a crossing.
‘Where is your duke?’ she asked.
