Page 9 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘This is Paris, monsieur. We play with death every day.’ She dropped the glass to the counter and spun in her chair to face him. ‘What do you want, and how much will you pay?’ She should not have been so crass. But her toes ached for a place on the stage, thumping hard against the boards, not suspended in the air so she could eat.
But she needed to eat.
He tugged at his cravat. ‘I expected a courtesan to be a little less direct.’
Vivianne kept her expression neutral, even as inside, she wanted to explode with laughter. He thought her a courtesan?
‘I, ummm… I would like a little of your company,’ he stammered. ‘If you would consider it. If you would accept my gift of…’ He looked over her shoulder, before his awkwardness dissolved into confusion and panic. ‘Algernon? Your grace? Where did he go?’ He looked from her to the barkeep, then half stood to scan the room.
Even Vivianne was impressed at her friend’s speed in separating the duke from competition. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Nicole will look after him. Your friend is safe.’
‘Safe? I don’t bloody care if he’s safe, he’s got my…’ Still frowning, he gave her a sheepish smile, and fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves. ‘It’s hot in here.’ He tugged at his collar. ‘Would you care to join me for a walk?’
When she first came to Paris, Vivianne had the luxury of choice. Of flitting from opportunity to offer, of laughing and flirting and indulging herself. But then the war had come, and the siege, and the revolution, and her choices had evaporated like a summer puddle. He was handsome, yes, and had the potential to be charming. And she could not lie to herself—his slight worship flattered the memory of the woman she had been. But flattery would not fill her belly, and nor would it give her a roof, or a bed.
‘Monsieur, I gather you are new to the brasseries. Perhaps to Paris. The women here are only interested in your company if you attach a coin to it. And as your friend has been buying your drinks, I have my doubts that you have sufficient to hold my attention.’ She pushed herself from the chair and braced herself for the chill walk back to her small apartment.
‘Wait!’ There was something sweet in his tone that made her pause. Something fresh, and genuine. He clapped at his trousers, his coat, until finally landing on his cravat. His fingers tickled the folds of silk until he found his pin. He struggled with the fastening, before freeing it and holding it out to her, like he was presenting a blossom he’d plucked from a bush. ‘I have this. Perhaps it is worth a little of your time?’
She took the pin from his hand. The stone was substantial enough. Likely imitation topaz in a brass setting. Possibly worth a few francs. Enough to feed her for a day or two, maybe give her time to gather the stamina she would need to face the uncertainty before her. ‘This will grant you…’ She twisted it playfully, like the courtesan he thought she was. ‘A walk to the river. Nothing more.’
‘Just a… just a walk?’
‘Oui. A walk.’ She took hold of his arm and pulled his ear close to her mouth. He smelt of dust and travel and faded cologne, and his casualness cast an intoxicating contrast to the regular suffocation of rosewater and snuff. But a friendly smile and a pleasant scent could hide devious plans. It never hurt to be certain. ‘And only a walk. If you attempt more, I will slit your throat.’
He gave a slow nod, then with an exaggerated gallantry like she was a lady, and not a woman who had just threatened his life, he patted her hand until she relaxed her grip. ‘A walk in the moonlight with the most beautiful woman in Paris sounds like the perfect way to begin my stay. Shall we?’
It was only the city of light on the north bank, where the lamps glowed steady and the candles lit the windows of the wealthier homes as they embraced the night-time passions of the rich. On the south bank, and especially in the Quartier Latin where they walked, shadows chased after one another and layers and layers of darkness dappled the haphazard stone streets.
Away from the heady, pulsing noise of the wine sellers, Vivianne’s companion seemed to fold into himself. He flicked a nail against his thumb.
‘Monsieur, so anxious. Why?’
‘Well, I… I normally meet women in different social circumstances. I’m not quite sure what to say.’
‘You could start with your name.’
He laughed, low and self-deprecating. ‘I suppose I could. Arley. Arley West.’
‘Vivianne Chevalier.’
‘Does anyone call you Vi?’
‘Non.’ He tightened at her abruptness. She leaned into him. ‘I have always been Vivianne, even as a child.’ She’d given this city enough. The thought of sacrificing half her name for its convenience was too much.
‘No one ever calls me Arley,’ he said, his words running into one another in a rush. ‘I sometimes wonder if my parents agonised over my name, only to have everyone call me West, or…’ Their heels clicked the stones as his words trailed. ‘Algernon thought you might be an actress. Or a dancer.’
‘A ballerina,’ she said. Although who knew for how much longer.
‘I’ve never understood the theatre. To get all dressed up to sit in the dark, watching people talk or listen to music. It always seemed pointless to me.’
‘Thatisits purpose. Men of means, they can flaunt their wealth. For those who cannot afford an actress’s favours, it allows them to dream. The theatre is built on lies, but at least it is honest about it.’
‘Honest lies?’ He chuckled. ‘I can see the appeal. A man may be fooled, but—’
‘At least he knows he is being fooled.’
Their next few steps settled into a comfortable silence. Normally, men talked. Normally, women like her listened. It was what they wanted—flattering conversation that convinced them of their uniqueness before the inevitable power play and manipulations began. She settled into his slightly slower rhythm and eased into his ambling step.
