Page 28 of A Most Improper Duchess
Vivianne startled. ‘Pardon!’
Cecil gave a low chuckle. ‘Just testing, my lady. I could tell you were distracted and could not resist a little joke. I was asking if you would redecorate your rooms before you are married, or would you like to address that after?’
Vivianne eyed the man. Dressed in a butler’s livery, he presented himself with exactitude. His greying hair had been combed to obedience, and not even a button on his waistcoat dared to sit askew. Despite his officiousness, a hint of warmth underlay each word, and there was a kindness to his smile. She decided she liked him.
‘You know, I am not a lady,’ she said, her voice low even though it was only the two of them in the parlour. ‘All of this is very unexpected.’
‘I gathered,’ he said drily.
‘Monsieur West did not—’
‘His Grace is not one for theatrics. Or flamboyance.’ He took a step closer, his voice also lowering. ‘Forgive my lack of propriety, but it is refreshing to see him so taken with another. I have known him all his life. You must be something.’ Cecil stepped away and stiffened back into formality. ‘Now. Should I arrange a decorator for your rooms?’
‘Rooms? There’s more than one?’ Her entire apartment in Paris was only one room. Her house growing up had only been one room. What might a person do with more thanoneroom? ‘Can I see them?’
Cecil bowed. ‘Follow me.’
The sitting room where Cecil had led her for tea had not been far from the villa’s entrance. He led her back through the foyer, along a wide hallway with vaulted ceilings and portraits hung frame to frame. Stern men, slightly less stern ladies, men in military uniform. Vivianne scanned their faces for a hint of Arley. Maybe, his eyes in this one. Maybe, a hint of his chin. She hadn’t ever seen pictures of her own family. She had only known her forebears through stories told by the hearth. His ancestry looked down on her as they passed. What would they think of her? That one, with an extra pronounced frown, probably not much. Another looked as if he’d thoroughly approve—but in a way that made her skin crawl.
She raised her chin against their stares. She did not care for their opinion. All that mattered was what Arley thought. And he loved her.
They ascended a staircase, its walnut brown steps covered in carpet that sunk beneath her street boots. The smooth balustrade ran sleek under her hands. She’d taken off her gloves in the sitting room, but now tapped her pockets to find them and slipped them back on. Her hands were too rough, too unrefined to touch wood so luxurious. Her hems were thick with dust and grime, and as they hushed over the carpet, she could almost hear every loop scream in offence. She patted down a ruffle on her blouse. She should have asked to change.
At the end of a long hallway, Cecil paused before two tall white doors. Vivianne craned her neck. They must have been twice her size. Each panel had been carved and decorated with delicate mouldings and edged in gilt trim. He took each long gold plate handle in hand and pulled the doors wide.
Slips of light sliced between the curtains. Vivianne waited for her vision to adjust to the murky grey. A dresser. A mirror. Doors. Curtains. Immaculately clean to the point of sterility, the air in the room swirled not with dust, but with inactivity.
‘Can I have some time alone to look? To think?’ she asked Cecil.
Cecil gave his already familiar bow. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Vivianne held her breath until the door snipped closed, and then she had to stuff a knuckle into her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Hers. A room as big as her apartment in the Quartier Latin, just for sleeping. She dashed across and flung the curtains open. The window behind was twice her height, made of small squares of glass and a wooden frame coated thick with cream paint held each one in place. Outside, a small courtyard garden with a large oak tree and winding paths shivered with early spring. Sunlight cascaded in, and the wallpaper, dressed in gold leaf, winked with life. A dresser, a mirror, some chairs… where would she sleep?
Two sets of doors—not as tall as the main one that led into the hallway, but of the same white and gold style—filled the wall. Vivianne opened one. Shelves, rails, hangers, drawers, all empty. A wardrobe. She smothered a giggle. Her one spare dress would look utterly bereft in here.
Heart thumping, Vivianne opened the other door and stepped inside.
Her little bed in Paris had one purpose—sleeping. Almost as narrow as her body, made from curved steel, its mattress stuffed with horse hair, it, like sleep, had been purely functional. Other beds—in hotels or rented apartments—had other purposes. Like the bed in Arley’s hotel, this one had four tall posts, and the drapes were all tied back at the corners. As wide as three of her beds placed side by side, piled with pillows, covered with a rich red brocade coverlet with gold trim that skimmed the floor, it sat squat in the room, placed central against a wall. The same wallpaper as the other room gleamed. There were no paintings in this room, no photographs on the walls. Like it had been wiped clean, and the previous occupant erased.
What colour curtains? What paintings might she hang? Who, in this room, would she be?
A squeal snuck out, then morphed into a scream, and her feet tapped out a frantic release against the floor, and she grasped her skirts and ran across the room,one, two, three,four, fiveentire strides needed to cover its length, then she launched, spun and landed on her back into the mattresses gentle embrace. A room of her own. A soft bed of her own. A man who loved her, who she loved in return.
She propped herself onto her elbow to survey it all. Directly opposite her bed was another door, although she did not need to open it to know where it led. That would be the door to Arley’s rooms. Before, she had imagined the two of them sharing, as they had on the journey, not living separate sleeping lives. But what did that door mean?
Would he come in each night to claim her?
Or would she be expected to broach the barrier herself?
Would she use the lock when she wanted to be alone?
Would she ever want to be alone?
Vivianne hugged her arms across her chest and fell back, giggling like a maid and giddy with excitement.
‘I gather I am forgiven?’
Vivianne rolled onto her side. Arley pushed himself off the door frame and, hands in his pockets, swaggered across the room.
