Page 6 of A Most Improper Duchess
A hand thrust a small bread roll wrapped in brown paper before her.
‘Sarcay says you don’t deserve it, but you can stay in the ballet corps for the next show.’ Nicole sat down beside her on the wall, her pointed toes just skimming the path.
‘I don’t want to go back,’ Vivianne said, her voice sad and sullen.
‘What do you want, then?’ Nicole said with her steady pragmatism. ‘To starve? You want to sew again, with thegrisettes? Because that is the choice, and you know it. You cannot eat your pride. We cannot all be the prima ballerina.’
A cool breeze, still laced with winter ice, gusted and Vivianne crouched into her pelisse, thin from too many winters. The water rippled, and the woman looking up from the crenelations sat hunched, her skin wrinkled. If she had still been young, a fresh ballerina with a temper and a jealous streak, her tantrum would have made her desirable.
‘The war, the siege, the communards… they took my best years.’ Vivianne let her voice drop to a whisper. ‘And now I am old. And Paris dances like she was never on fire and like the streets never ran with blood.’
‘Old. Pfft! You are being melodramatic again.’ Nicole stood. ‘Come back to rehearsal. Tonight, we’ll go to the brasseries. And depending on who is there, maybe dancing. Vertical or horizontal.’ Nicole wiggled her hips with her sensual, suggestive charm, the movement that sent so many men wild.
Vivianne huffed. ‘I do not feel like dancing. Either type.’
‘There is a rumour that a duke is coming to town, from London. Richer than your archduke. And you know what the English are like.’
‘Stiff and uptight?’
‘Obsessed with duty, but also with what others think. They like a sophisticated woman they can pet and preen, even for affairs. They have entire books written about it, you know.’
‘I don’t think they have books on how to manage an indiscretion,’ Vivianne said.
‘Maybe he is looking for a mistress,’ Nicole continued, unperturbed. ‘Maybe you will charm him.’
‘And maybe I will return to Garnier and Sarcay will make me the director.’ Despite the shadow on her heart, Vivianne laughed. ‘D’accord, d’accord, I will come to the brasserie with you. But I do not want to even think about another nobleman. I am done with dukes.’
Chapter Three
Algernonleaptfromthetrain carriage and onto the platform with the grace of a tiger. He strode through the steam, swinging his cane and clipping it against the stone with each step. He emerged from the fog like an unholy spectre rising from the brimstone of hell—cock-sure and with a wicked glint in his eye.
Along the platform of Gare du Nord station, all heads turned as he passed. Hands raised to cover whispers and eyes widened, all of them firmly focused on Algernon.
‘C’est ce duc,’ someone whispered. Arley failed to suppress a smile.It’s that duke.
How simple it had been. On the overnight passage from Dover to Calais, they’d talked phrasing, family, and ducal behaviours. Algernon was extraordinarily well versed in the manners and ways of the aristocracy already, and while not fluent like Arley, his French was passable. An exchange of jackets, waistcoats and a flat cap purchased from a store in Calais, and the illusion was complete.
Anyone in Paris who had heard news that a duke was arriving would surely be fooled. And while it was possible that the society hopefuls and their parents would follow, and know immediately that the much older, moustached man wasn’t himself, he would, at least, have had a few days. He would have a small window of time to undertake the research for Iris and the others without having to fend off requests for introductions and favours. He inhaled a lungful of steam tainted, coal stained, congestion-streaked air. It was the most suffocatingly convoluted breath he had ever taken in his life. A city had never smelt so free.
Arley adjusted his coat cuffs. He wasn’t used to tailoring that didn’t mould to his body, and the puce and gold trimmed waistcoat sat a little snug across his chest, broad from rowing on the Thames, even over winter. He’d kept his own shirt and trousers, of course. No need to be too intimate with the man. He fingers rubbed at his signet ring, and he slipped it off and tucked it inside his coat. He'd need to hide it too.
Heads turned, ladies raised fans, scamps raced, no doubt off to inform whatever reporter or fortune seeker had paid for eyes and information. Arley tugged down his cap and watched the rumour mill leak and spread. After a few more steps, he dispensed with concealment. Not a person in all the station, possibly not in all Paris, bothered with him. He stretched into the commonness of his clothes, and despite their gaudiness, he felt absolutely, completely, invisible.
Algernon swung his cane in a full circle, then doffed his hat at a beautiful young woman, immediately causing her to flush, then winked at the much older man she was draped over. He growled at a lady’s companion. ‘Bonjour, bonsoir, ca va?’ he crooned. All the ladies tittered.
Arley increased his step to match Algernon’s pace. He leaned in a little as they walked.
‘Remember the rules,’ Arley said in his duke tone. ‘No running up bad debts. You will sign nothing, not a receipt, not a bill, not even a scrap of paper in my name. And you will do nothing—and I mean,nothing—that is likely to make its way back to England and cause my mother to give me grief.’
Algernon laughed. ‘You dukes and your mothers. Browbeaten the lot of you.’
‘Have you met her?’
Algernon frowned in thought. ‘Duchess Osborne… I believe not. Although, I have met Dowager Outbridge, and my goodness…’ A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, and his eyes creased with mischief. ‘I understand why her poor husband’s heart failed.Ferocious.’
Arley stifled an unwelcome image of the woman he had occasionally met at political dinners and lectures.
‘Rooms at the Hotel du Louvre, yes? And surely a duke needs a little coin to grease his way through a city?’
