Page 39 of A Most Improper Duchess
The skiff wobbled as he balanced one foot on the edge. ‘Then help her,’ he pleaded.
Arley settled into his little boat and clapped his oar on the deck to hold it steady.
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But remember, your father led two lives for a reason. Love and legacy are rarely companions.’
‘They will be for me,’ he called as he pushed off. ‘Persist. I know she can learn. I believe in her.’
Chapter Eighteen
Cecilopenedthetallwhite and gold doors of the ballroom with the same pomp and flourish that Vivianne would expect for a queen. He crossed to the closest set of curtains, and with a hefty tug, pulled the heavy navy fabric open to let in a small wash of afternoon light.
Lorelei had tasked Vivianne with deciding on table arrangements, seating and decorations. She was to present a sketch for discussion tomorrow.
‘Would you like me to light the lamps, my lady?’ Cecil asked.
‘I am not a lady.’ Vivianne linked her fingers and stretched her arms above her head. Against the new corset and tight bodice, her spine cracked relief into the movement. ‘Will it be a bother to light just some?’
Cecil gave a slight bow. ‘Not at all.’ He returned to the doorway, then twisted a knob beside it. All the sconces lining the walls blazed to life. ‘His Grace had the lights switched from candles to gas some years ago. The glow is not as nice, but I don’t miss the wax, or the ladders. Do you need chandeliers?’ His hand hovered. She didn’t, but Vivianne gave a conspiratorial nod. Cecil beamed, and turned another knob, and the chandeliers blazed into being, casting shards of light onto the floor and setting the crystal sparkling. ‘I do not get to do that often these days. Lovely, isn’t it?’
While not as beautiful as the foyer de la danse, the ballroom had been created with a peculiar mix of refinement and extravagance, a melding of a lost age of excess and a quiet temperament. The frescoes that graced the ceiling looked down with quiet contemplation, while gilt trim on the wallpaper and mouldings sparkled and reached, seeking ascension. Heavy drapes shielded four sets of evenly spaced windows. But of all the beauty of the space, what Vivianne took in most was the floor. Aged, polished wood gleamed in the lamplight. A delicate parquetry border of roses and leaves circled the room, the variegations of tone created by the wood type as brilliant as a bunch of fresh flowers. It was a floor created for one purpose. Dancing.
Vivianne’s waistband cinched, and when she inhaled, her corset seemed tighter than before.
‘Could I perhaps have some time alone to…’ She gave a noncommittal shrug.
Cecil nodded. ‘Of course, my lady. I will be a bell ring away if you need anything.’
Vivianne bounced on her heels as Cecil left the room. Once the door clicked shut, she turned her slipper clad feet into a line, heels together, toes out. First position. She slid one foot wider. Her bodice stretched tight over her back as she extended her arms to match her feet. Second. She stretched one hand forward, her body itching to move into third, but her bodice resisted and the bustle shifted her centre of gravity. She wobbled.
Vivianne had trained herself to the regime of the ballet, and now, the new order of elegant yet heavy dresses buffed and rubbed. The layers of gingham and cotton petticoats weighed heavier than they had all day and sent an ache through her shoulders and neck. When she couldn’t move into fourth, she unbuttoned her jacket, and for good measure, removed her blouse. She tugged loose the pointless corset, as she had almost no breasts to support or restrain, leaving only her chemise, then unfastened her skirt and loosened her bustle. As each layer fell, lightness eased into her limbs. With a final shake, she kicked off her slippers, removed her stockings, then rolled her remaining petticoat waistband over onto itself. Its hem swung against her bare thighs, simulating her muslin skirts that she had left behind in Paris. They had probably been sold or turned into rags by now.
Vivianne splayed her stance.First. Stretched.Second. Extended an arm.Third. Raised it above her head.Fourth. Married the movement with her other arm.Fifth.
No music, no stage, no audience—none of it mattered as she leapt across the ballroom, spun, pushed herself to her toes before swaying into her own momentum. It was not a dance from Garnier, but a dance from before. A dance she had mastered while leaping in fields with her friends or spinning on her toes in the kitchen as butter and crepes sizzled on the stove, or by the road when she would move to a crowd’s clapping rhythm hoping to earn a few coins to add to her family’s meagre purse. The ball of her foot stuck firm to the wood as she elongated, then clasping her ankle, she raised a leg above her head. The bundle of tension that had gripped her muscles jerked free as she stuck a landing, was flung loose from her fingertips and rippled out into the still air as she thrust her arms into a new step.
Broad chest, wide arms, spinning body, the music of the village rang in her ears. She spun and inhaled, imagining a lungful of wheat, cut chaff, apple orchards, all of it combining into the scent of the last breath she took as she turned and screamed at her parents that they were wrong, that she would be a star, before she climbed into the carriage with a man who set her on the stage in the next town, and before the curtains had fallen, had sold her to the highest bidder.
Were her parents even alive? Was her mother still cooking in her kitchen with its dirt floor, did her father still cut chaff and pick apples with his neighbours in the lean times? Vivianne spun, her thighs tensing and relaxing. Against her closed eyes, the cacophony of her life pounded.
You will return dishonoured, Vivianne. You will put this family to shame.
Too broken-hearted to go home when abandoned on the streets of Paris, too embarrassed as a dressmaker, too self-righteous as a ballerina, would they accept her as a duchess? If she walked up the simple dirt path to the stone cottage and tapped on their door, would they wrap their arms around her and call her notre fille once more?
Or would they turn their backs?
Straighter shoulders, softer lips, a graceful pose, wider thighs, Vivianne spun until the heavy meat and potatoes from lunch churned in her stomach. Her ankle buckled as she swayed with fatigue. Without daily practice, she was already losing her skill, and she tumbled toward the floor. Readying herself for the familiar smack of wood against the straight line of her body, she tensed, waiting for the pain that had filled so many of her early days in the ballet corps, when Nicole had first shown her how to not just dance, but to dance like a Parisian ballerina. But before the wood slapped against her ribs and her cheek, firm hands caught her, and lifted her to her feet.
‘You shouldn’t be like this,’ Arley chided. His hands lingered on her hips and stroked, his bodily warmth heating the skin beneath her thin chemise. ‘Someone will see. Not all the staff are as loyal as Cecil.’
‘I miss you.’ Vivianne pulled him to her chest, but he remained stiff. She took hold of his arms and raised them into place to hold her like she had in the gardens. He resisted, but she pressed harder and forced his posture into compliance. She moved silently through the starting positions of dance. Waltz. Polka. Quadrille. ‘Dance with me, Arley. Or has Monsieur West forgotten the steps he learnt in Paris?’
‘We really shouldn’t. We can’t…’
Vivianne swept a foot behind her, then held her stance, waiting. Arley took a laboured breath, which turned into a conspiratorial smile, then he swooped to follow her lead, his feet as light as her own. She stretched, and he met her, she leapt, and he caught, she slowed, and he prowled. He kicked off his shoes and socks, then flung his coat and waistcoat aside before rolling up his sleeves.
‘You cannot catch me, monsieur,’ Vivianne teased, then fled, her arms flung behind as her legs spliced the air until she landed on her heel with a thump. She spun, beckoned, and teased into the movement.
‘Just because I do not attend balls does not mean I cannot dance.’ And with a leap that would have made Sarcay gasp, he vaulted into the air then scooped her into his arms, dragged her down his length, brushed a kiss over her lips, then stepped forward with an animalistic grace to counter her own. Hand braced in the small of her back, he craned her backwards. Vivianne surrendered into his possession. She brushed his hands from her waist and placed a lyrical distance between them. Arley grinned, then moved in his own musical pursuit.
