Page 8 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘Then why do I feel as if I am seeing an angel?’
Like a portrait, his vision had a slightly green vignette to its edges, honing his focus on a woman on the opposite side of the room. A wisp of a beauty—delicate, thin, with barely any breast to alter the line of her body, she was dressed in bottle green, with ribbons the same shade as the winter mist on the river wound through her golden hair. The candles and gas lamps sent a slightly luminescent glow over her, and Arley had a sudden flash of her looking over her shoulder as she ran from him, laughing, with the long rays of afternoon sunset caressing her skin. The lights loved her. She could have been a thread of spun sugar, the last petal of a rose, a fragile plate of crackled glass that could shatter with barely a breath, but for the defined lines of her exposed arms. Strong, lean muscle showed beneath her tight dress sleeves, and when she half turned, her posture was steady and poised. A contradiction of delicateness and strength. He couldn’t tell if his heart had stopped beating or if it moved so fast, he could no longer feel its reverberations against his chest. Everything in the room softened, but she remained as crisp as an autumn leaf.
Algernon leaned in close. ‘A lady like that does not come cheap.’
‘Cheap?’ The splendid vision greyed. Arley looked to his companion in confusion.
‘Look at her frame, her stance, her beauty. She is a woman of the stage. An actress, or maybe, a ballerina. And everyone knows how the ballerinas make their way in the world.’
‘She’s a prostitute?’ Arley asked. A kind of possessive anger growled in him.
‘Don’t be so uptight, or so quick to slander. Labels are different here. Paris is more pragmatic than London when it comes to these arrangements, and there is a hierarchy to everything, even in this newest of people’s parliaments. Yes, there are the prostitutes of the streets. But above them are thegrisettes,or the dress makers. They work for the tailors and couturiers, sewing the best of Parisian fashion. They spend all their coin on frippery and lace, hoping to attract a man who would like to see them regularly and will pay for the privilege, maybe give them a life away from their sewing. Above them, are thelorettes. These women have found a man who will provide her with an apartment, and a small allowance, on the understanding that she keeps his company exclusively. Then, there are thecourtesans.’
‘A courtesan?’ Arley knew what the word meant, but Algernon had spoken it with a curl of pleasure to his tone, suggesting more than the base translation to the Englishmistress.
‘A courtesan is the epitome of her trade. She does not seek companions; they beg of her. She does not select the highest price; she sets her worth and then lets the men scramble to try to find the funds. Princes have gone bankrupt trying to win the affections of a Parisian courtesan.’ Algernon tapped at the counter. The barman placed down two more glasses of green. Arley squinted, then winced. ‘So, what say you?’ Algernon’s voice dropped low, his tone confiding. Arley had to close his eyes to make out his words. ‘Because Monsieur West is unlikely to have the funds required to entertain such a lady and her companion, but a duke has coffers far more accommodating and may be willing to help a friend.’
Arley once again found the slender beauty across from him. Buying a woman’stimewasn’t unknown to him. Love affairs were messy, pointless things, and he preferred to keep his mistresses on short contracts, when he bothered with them at all. And was there much difference between the men who paraded their daughters before him, hopeful for a match, only seeking their own gain, and a woman who charged a price? At least his paid company had some kind of say.
Every previous arrangement fell away, dissolving into his past like smoke. He wanted to possess her, wholly. He wanted no other man to touch her, ever. And his coffers were deep, far deeper than even Algernon could imagine. Could he have her, for a night? For always? A ringlet rested on her bare shoulder, and the most violent flush of envy tore through him, because he wanted that patch of skin for himself, wanted to stroke it and kiss it.
‘Do it.’ He pushed the glass away, no longer wanting to be addled. ‘Call her over. I will pay any price.’
Chapter Four
Viviannedidn’tneedtoscan a crowd to know that she was being watched. It was part of her profession to know when she still held an audience’s attention, whether on stage or in a brasserie or dance hall. She held her pose. Rolled her shoulders back a little and raised her chin, all to accentuate her best features. She went through the motions almost without thinking, for even though she had said she did not want to solicit company this evening, the more pragmatic, hungrier part of her knew she could not be so recalcitrant. She tilted her head a little and discretely scanned the room to locate whoever was watching.
Nicole tugged on Vivianne’s arm. ‘It’s that duke! And he’s looking at you!’
While Nicole had taught her so much about the stage, Vivianne feared she would never teach Nicole about discretion. She followed her friends poor attempt at a subtle gesture and found the man that had sent Paris chattering.
Like a carbon copy of an illustration from a book, like every noble she had entertained in the foyer de la danse of the Palais Garnier, the duke was... a duke. He had a thin twisted moustache and wore an immaculate black suit with a beautiful but understated waistcoat. He watched with the arrogant smugness of a man who took what he wanted from the world, but something in his gaze differed from the usual observations. Probing, but with no desire. He leaned over and spoke in another man’s ear. Vivianne followed the action.
They often had sycophants following them, the dukes and wealthy men, but usually they were not so young. Not so well made. And not so raw in their stare. He wore the ugliest waistcoat she had ever seen. The salmon pink and navy collided to make his skin a little sallow. Half lidded eyes spoke of fatigue, and a slight intoxication, but still they flamed with desire. More than desire. Rampaging, unashamed lust.
It was the honesty of it that caught her. No games, no pretence of power. He wanted her, and in the grim set of his jaw, she could tell he meant to have her. She’d seen it over and again when a man took a liking to a dancer. His face spoke a language she understood to fluency. A prickle ran through her that started in her stomach and radiated through her chest. He was so different from the subscribers who filled the foyer, without hairs in his ears or a beard to scrape her chin.
‘Come, Vivianne. You may be done with dukes, but I am not.’ Nicole grabbed Vivianne’s arm and hefted her to her side. The two of them bumped through the crowd until they pulled up just close to the duke, where Nicole released Vivianne, then stumbled forward and crushed against him. He caught Nicole in his arms, and with a sly smile, helped steady her.
‘Pardon, monsieur.’ Nicole’s eyes fluttered as she traced a finger down his sleeve. ‘I tripped on my skirts. I did not mean to bother you.’
He swooped, draped an arm over her shoulder and drew her against him. ‘Not monsieur. Your grace.’
Nicole should have joined the melodrama and not the ballet, because her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect circle of surprise. ‘You are a duke?’
‘A burden, carrying so much expectation, but yes. I am.’
As predictable as a farce, Nicole flattered as the duke prompted, his self-aggrandisement as grand as his title. Vivianne slid onto a seat at the bar. The man who had been watching her slid a glass of Absinthe before her.
Vivianne hadn’t drunk all night, as she hadn’t the coin to spend on liquor. And despite every effort from Nicole, she had been a reluctant companion, unwilling to flirt and have her drinks for free. She picked up the glass. ‘You were watching me.’
‘You are beautiful. Even more so up close.’ Apart from a slight stiffness, he spoke flawless French, much better than his friend. Perhaps that was his place in the entourage. Translator.
She spun the glass between her fingers, watching the light change its hue from illuminated to dull, then back to brilliance. ‘They call Absinthe the scourge of Paris. Did you know? Some doctors say it is poisonous.’
‘Poison? Algernon said nothing about poison, you should not drink that. I’ll get you something else. Garçon!’
He leaned across the counter. Vivianne threw back the glass and embraced the bitter burn. He paused, frowning.
