Page 25 of A Most Improper Duchess
With a light shiver, she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. They’d left a Paris with blue spring skies, but arrived in a darkly clouded London, heavy with rain and gloom.
‘It’s not always like this,’ he said. Vivianne looked across at him with a frown. ‘The weather. Some days are sunny. And then it’s just as pretty as Paris.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Oh dear?’
‘Already you are speaking to me of the weather. I really am to marry an Englishman, aren’t I?’ A playful glint lit her eye, and she turned back to the window. The cab took a sharp turn, and Vivianne twisted as she turned to follow the sign that readHoneysuckle Street. Miss Delaney’s villa passed by his window, while opposite, they passed the townhouses. Babbage, Hempels, Mrs Crofts.
‘These houses are so beautiful. Much grander than I expected. This is your street?’ she asked.
‘It is.’ He tried to conceal his excitement, but a smile tugged at his cheeks.
She slid across the squabs and leaned over him to peer out the window. Under her breath, she counted. ‘Numero quatre. Numero huit… dix?’
The cab slowed as it approached the gates. Arley leaned out and gave a wave. The gates opened, and the hack continued up the short drive. Slips of sandstone and slate roof flashed between the trees.
‘I don’t understand.’ Vivianne moved back across the seat and pressed herself into the corner on the far side of the cab. ‘You said you had a cottage, with a garden. Do you live in an apartment?’
‘I have not been entirely truthful with you. About my house. And my occupation.’ He shuffled in his seat to face her. He reached out for her hand, but she did not take hold. Instead, her gaze flicked between him, to the window, then back to him. ‘I haven’t lied about Spencer and Co, and why I was in Paris. That is true. But I’m not a clerk for the company. I’m an investor. I have a seat on the board.’
Vivianne’s mouth opened. Closed.
‘My nameisArley West, but not mister, or monsieur. And no one ever calls me Arley. Most of the time, people call me “Your Grace.”’
Her eyes widened. Why was she not speaking? Surely, she had deduced what he was trying to tell her.
‘Vivianne, I’m a duke.’
Slap.
Her hand cut across his cheek just as the carriage came to a halt before the door.
‘Steady on!’ He touched the spot where her palm had connected, stinging from indignation more than pain. ‘I didn’t plan on meeting you, and I had to be sure I could trust you. I thought you’d be excited.’
‘You’re a duke?’ She started at a timbre he knew, but atduke, her voice went up an octave.
‘Yes,’ he squeaked. Where was his duke tone? He dug, scrambled, searched for it.
‘A royal one?’ she asked.
‘No. Thank heavens no. Just a regular duke.’
‘A regular duke.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Riddled with debts? You had no money. I am no heiress. I have no inheritance.’
‘I have no debts and I don’t need to marry an heiress. I have investments beside the company, and the estate. I pay my accounts.’
The driver gave a low, meandering whistle. Vivianne stayed bunched on the far side of the cab. She crossed her arms across her chest, and her lovely little breasts rose and fell fast as she took small gasps of air. ‘Will you keep a mistress?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
‘No, heavens no. I love you.’ He slid across the seat and pulled her tight body against him. He rubbed at her back and tried to coax some relaxation into her muscles. ‘Vivianne…’ He tipped her chin up and looked into her clear eyes, the same colour as a stormy Parisian day. ‘Are you scared that because you are not noble born, you will find it hard to be a duchess?’
Vivianne pushed herself from him and straightened in her seat. Forget about the anger of before, this was pure, blind fury. Dear lord.Frenchfury.
‘How dare you?’ A squall edged each word, slowly building to a tempest. ‘I am a dancer of the Palais Garnier. I have been tiptoeing around nobility for years. I will not just be a duchess, I will be the best duchess London has ever seen.’
She was fire, passion and abandon, the most beautiful composite of everything lacking in his life. ‘You’ll be my duchess?’ He tried to match her fire with seriousness but failed, and instead of stifling his smile, it spread. ‘Instead of Monsieur West, you’ll settle for Arley the Duke?’
She huffed. ‘Of course, I will, you stupid man.’ And before he could offer her his hand, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his lips, his nose, his chin. She gripped his cheeks in her hands, then pulled back. ‘You lied to me?’
