Page 52 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘Why have you still come to the church?’
‘Where is Arley?’ Vivianne pushed open the carriage door and leaned out, one hand resting on the ledge. ‘He said he would walk me down the aisle.’
‘You haven’t heard?’ one man called. ‘There’s been a terrible accident, on the river. His Grace was rowing when a storm rolled in as the tide changed. The police think his boat tipped. All they found was his oar.’
‘Non, non, non,’ she cried. Vivianne grasped at the air. ‘Not Arley. No!’ She wanted to sink to the ground and sob, but what thrummed in her ears was not Arley, but Lorelei’s last lesson.Hold everything inside. If you show emotion, they will not sympathise. You will only give them more to feast on. Let them peck. Give them nothing.
Arley’s friend, the banker who wasn’t, caught her hand. ‘Breathe, Vivianne,’ he rasped in her ear. ‘Send Mrs Crofts away. I’ll take you to the river. You need to see what has happened for yourself.’
Vivianne lurched from the carriage before it had stopped moving. Thunder cracked overhead, and heavy pellets of rain slashed her face and thwacked loud against her satin ruffles. She rushed to the side of London Bridge and leaned over the balustrade, scanning the murky grey green swirling water for a hint of his hand, his coat, anything. ‘Arley!’ she screamed into the torrent. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t—’
‘Vivianne,’ a low gruff voice came from the dark beside her. A slip of a finger, a pinkie, hooked around her own. ‘Say nothing. Just look at the river.’
Vivianne stared into the water, then tilted her head and took a slow, steady breath. Roses, lilies, snowbells. The unmistakable scent of an English garden.
‘Your banker friend said you were gone,’ she said, scarce believing he was beside her. She was mad, beyond mad, full of grief and confusion. ‘He said—’
‘People believe what they will if you lead them on enough,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Phineas would know. I don’t have long. Vivianne, I am dead.’
Her heart snagged. ‘I have lost my mind. I am speaking with a dead man.’
‘It’s a pretence. Catch the lie, Vivianne, you are smarter than this!’
‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Like a farce or a—’
‘Rambunctious opera? Yes, it is. It had to be. I knew you would not have agreed if I asked you. You would have given me the world and denied yourself everything.’ He squeezed her little finger then drew it against his side. ‘You are not the woman I fell in love with. You have become the type of woman that drove me into your arms.’ Vivianne gasped as his words cut like a dagger. ‘That’s my fault,’ he said in a rush. ‘I demanded so much of you. Demanded you change. But you should laugh. Dance. Be free to be yourself. But you never will be, as long as you are married to a duke. You will always be in the spotlight, and under more observation than even I can imagine.’
She chanced a look. He wore his flat cap from Paris, an old coat she hadn’t seen before, and his bright blue eyes were wide with fear and worry and love.
‘You are pretending to die?’ she asked. ‘Why?’
‘There’s only one way to stop being a duke,’ he explained. ‘It is a job one can never resign from. Right now, Duke Osborne is dead. But so is Monsieur West. Only one of them can be revived. The duke could slip down to the river bank and make a miraculous return. We can go to the church and make our vows. Or I can slip away and resurface somewhere else as Monsieur West. Vivianne Chevalier…’ He turned towards her, just a little. ‘Who do you want to spend the rest of your days with?’
One body held two men, as different as stone and lime.
His Grace, the duke.
Monsieur West, the poor man.
The gowns, the stability, warm beds, soft mattresses. Oh, they were so luscious. Hot tea and someone to fix her hair and press her frills. The help was so nice.
But the eyes, the whispers, the constant stab of anxiety about being watched and on display tore at her sanity. And forever living in the public eye, with no curtain to drop and give any peace. Not even trusting the members of one’s own household. Keeping everyone at arm’s length. Not being able to see Nicole.
Wearing gloves all the time.
She would have dealt with it all if he asked her. She would grit, and suffer, and his happiness would be hers, and the snatched moments with him would be her delight, because even now, her heart threatened to explode with her love for him. But this man, this man ofLondreswas a facsimile of the man who had danced in the rain and charged her for kisses.
‘I miss Monsieur West so very much,’ she whispered, her voice catching.
She wanted to draw his body against hers. To place her hand on his cheek, to fold him against her and to kiss his lips. But she couldn’t, because all the world was already watching. She squeezed his pinkie. He squeezed back.
He gave a smile that even in the uneven light sent her heart into an allegro. ‘It will be a trial. In every way. Listen to Phineas. You are so strong. And never, ever doubt me. I will find you.’
He freed his grip from hers, and the shadow that he had cast was replaced with the bright lights from a passing ferry. She shielded her eyes, blinking, but did not catch a flash of his retreating form.
‘I never have,’ she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-three
