Page 27 of A Most Improper Duchess
Arley took up his pen and scratched out the first line of his note to his mother.
‘I’m happy for you,’ Phineas continued, although his tone held no hint of joy, and his mouth didn’t turn up a smidge. ‘But you know how this city works. And how it works for you. You’ve been the most sought after bachelor for more than a decade, you turned your nose up at every debutante, and now you’re getting married, to a French commoner no less. The society mothers and fathers will have opinions. If they can’t get to you, they’ll get the company, and then the press will maul what’s left. You can’t just ignore public opinion. You’ll have to give them what they want.’
‘And what will they want?’ He slammed his pen onto the desk, then huffed as a spurt of ink splattered across his note. ‘Why must they want, what do they possibly need from me?’
‘To be entranced, of course. To fall in love. To have hope that even though it wasn’t them this time, maybe the next time, it will be. But also, you need to make them accept why you chose her. Show them she is from them, but above them. Special. A woman born into ordinariness, but somehow, still destined to be a duchess.’
‘A common duchess? This is worse than the mini grand tour. The world is untethered.’ Arley ran his hand down his face. Annoyingly, Phineas was right. ‘What do I need to do?’
‘She can’t stay here. Not until you’re married. And she can’t live with just anyone. She needs to stay somewhere appropriate, with someone who has an unblemished reputation. And she’ll need to be presented, at court. And taken out. Show her off a little. Let everyone see what you see.’
‘I’m not showing them that.’
Phineas rolled his eyes. ‘No need to brag.’
Arley chuckled, then choked off his mirth. He’d been so caught up in his own escape from society, from London, enjoying his happiness, that he hadn’t considered how things might play out when they got home. So fixated on their future, he’d neglected to consider the path to it. London had gossiped like a hencoop after his mother remarried and he knew the criticism she’d worn, but her and Tillman had been independent, happy to leave the city and able to weather the loss of society’s approval. The clients Iris was hoping to win over to the business, with the promise of education, and sophistication… he was part of that promise. And no self-respecting, aspirational merchant with dreams of marrying their child up the social ladder was going to send their offspring off to the continent with a company whose board member had come home engaged to a French courtesan. Rather than reassure them, he would represent every terrible fear they held.
‘She’ll need a back story. A cover. Want me to put something believable together?’
‘Nothing too elaborate. Just simple.’ Hands clasped behind his back, Arley wandered to the window, only half registering Phineas as he spoke of possible histories for Vivianne.
Outside, the weather had cleared a little. The trees filtered the sun as it shone onto the road and sidewalk. Who might be appropriate for Vivianne to stay with? Benton, directly opposite, was still abroad, andno. Far from appropriate. Odette? While she managed her own reputation with care, it was too big a risk. Iris had enough to deal with, and while she had steadfastly navigated her own scandal, she’d really only been accepted back into society because Hamish had drawn on his limited senses and married her. The Hartright kerfuffle was a memory, but still one muttered about in drawing rooms when the conversation lulled. Vivianne needed more than just acceptable, and a nice place to stay. She needed to be linked to therighttype of someone.
Across the road, Spencer ascended a staircase. Scratched at the black door. Waited. After a long minute, he slipped through the wrought-iron fence and scampered away. The door opened, and a stiff butler huffed, then closed the door again.
Someone respectable.
Someone believable.
And completely beyond reproach.
Chapter Fourteen
Aduchess.
She was going to be a duchess.
Not a duke’s short-term lover while he was visiting Paris. Not a duke’s mistress. But a proper,
titled,
married to a duke,
duchess.
Vivianne shook off the idealistic complaint of her younger self. Of the woman who had run the barricades and had tended the wounded during the siege. That woman had known hunger, but also did not know how much worse was to come. And just imagine the good she could do. She could sponsor artists. She could commission plays. She could invest in the theatre. She could do so much.
And not be hungry.
‘Do you have a preference, my lady?’
Vivianne looked at Cecil. He’d been speaking for so long, she couldn’t even remember at what point her thoughts had trailed off. ‘I do not,’ she said, drawing on her memories of all the pomp she had seen at Garnier.
‘No thought at all?’ he asked.
Vivianne shook her head. ‘I trust your opinion. Like Arley does.’
‘Very good. I shall fill the ballroom with octopi and order you a bed made of cheese.’
