Marena marched up the stairs, clutching her handbag so tightly she feared she might snap it in two. She was barely at the door when it opened to reveal a tall and handsome man dressed in uniform.
“Miss Baine-Torres,” he said in the accent she’d learned to connect to Jamaica. Every Caribbean island had its unique blend of West African, native, and colonizer languages. It was comforting to find a familiar sound in this house where she was about to do something that would surely be unpleasant.
Just speak, Marena. “I’m here to see His Grace.”
“Certainly. He’s in his study.” He lifted a hand to gesture beyond the foyer toward a pair of massive wood doors. “Please,” the man said, and Marena began to walk. Her heart was beating fast. She needed to get herself under control. Meeting a man who was used to getting his way while feeling peevish could only lead to trouble.
The butler walked and talked as they made their way through the house. “It’s through here,” he explained as they passed a large round malachite tabletop with a crystal vase full of hothouse roses.
He came to a stop when they arrived at the double doors, and promptly knocked as Marena held her breath.
Her hair was up. The mass of curls he had not been able to stop thinking about was now coiled into a crown of braids. A damned travesty.
Still, his skin prickled from the sight of her. Open your mouth, Arlo. Speak.
“Miss Baine-Torres,” he finally said with a terse nod, moving aside for her to pass. She gave him a look he could not quite decipher and stepped in. “Cyrus, would you be so kind to bring us a tray of tea?”
She raised an eyebrow at that, her shoulders straightening as if she expected to carry out this conversation while standing in the doorway of his study.
“Your Grace. I don’t mean to stay long.” She followed that with the most insouciant curtsy he had ever seen. He had to press his lips together to keep from laughing because the woman was truly irreverent and, blast it all, that only made her more appealing.
“Miss Baine-Torres, p—”
She held up a hand at him. “Please, call me Marena.” She shook her head, something resembling humor pulling at her lips. “I commend you for trying, but you butcher the Torres.”
His face heated and a sensation he could not quite identify pulsed in his chest, making him want to scold and ravish her all at once. But then she smiled, and the pulsing transformed into a different thing altogether. “Don’t fret, Your Grace. It was a valiant attempt. I find the Scots are the only ones who can do the Castilian rolled r’s any justice. Marena will do.”
Arlo could only be grateful she was the sole witness to the way his voice shook when he finally said her name. “Marena, please come in.”
He’d been expecting her, but he’d not expected her effect on him. No. That was a lie. He had not stopped thinking about that yellow dress or her brown eyes. And her mouth…the mouth was the biggest obstacle when it came to behaving like a human being when it came to this woman. As they made their way into the room, he noticed how the sage green dress she wore contrasted with her gold and brown hair. He was riveted by a few curls that had come loose from her braid to frame her face. He’d never been a gawker, but he could see now how people could fall into the habit. Life in the nobility oscillated between stodgy to maddeningly boring, and for Arlo, the only thing that seemed to provide any excitement was finding ways to scandalize his peers. He’d spent years wondering if anyone could spark a fire within him again. And here she was, glaring at him like he was a sodding fool.
She stood in the middle of the room, he supposed, waiting for him to tell her where to sit. There was his desk, but it seemed impersonal to sit with about a meter of solid oak between them. Usually that type of advantage appealed to him, but once again this woman’s presence was wreaking havoc on his instincts. He looked to the small settee, decided so much proximity would be ill-advised given the situation, and finally settled on the two armchairs on either side of the hearth.
“Please.” He extended his hand and bowed his head, and after a moment of observing him and probably surmising—accurately—that there was something seriously wrong with him, Marena took a seat.
As he sank into the dark blue velvet cushions, he heard Cyrus’s light footsteps as he wheeled in a tea cart. The next few minutes were consumed with cream and sugar specifications, and debates between scones and slices of ginger cake. But Cyrus was exceptionally efficient at his job, and soon they were alone again, with their teacups acting as shields between them.
He considered what to say for a moment, then another, and decided to go with what had always worked for him in business: bluntness. “I’d like to pay you for your assistance in finding my sister.” She widened those bewitching brown eyes and gave a miniscule shake of her head.
“No.” It wasn’t even a protest, just a statement of fact.
“Yes.” He could issue edicts too.
She shook her head again, eyes on him. “This is important to me, to my family. Delfine is like a sister. More than that.” She lowered her eyes so that her eyelashes seemed to kiss her cheekbones.
He was a fervent admirer of every part of a woman. Over the years, he’d taken pains to learn the best places to make them fall apart with pleasure. Yet he’d never noticed eyelashes. How they curved into a cheek, fluttering over the skin...
For fuck’s sake, Arlo. Focus.
“We want her back safely. She should not be hiding like a common criminal when all she did was save that girl’s life.” Her voice hardened. “All Delfine has ever wanted was to heal people.”
From what he’d seen yesterday, he knew Marena would defend Delfine, would be a true friend, and yet the barely restrained anger in her words cracked something in him. This kind of loyalty was not something he came across often in his world. He looked at her for a moment, sitting tall, her head high. A queen, not because of the finery in the room, or the luxury surrounding her. But because she had the heart of one.
“We can discuss money later,” he said roughly, eliciting an unfriendly look. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he offered coolly, suddenly self-conscious of what she might think of him. “I also know I have a certain reputation of being irreverent within the peerage, but I assure you my intention is to see…Delfine back home safely.” He almost said my sister, but something held him back. The way she was looking at him made Arlo feel like he had not earned that right yet.
“I don’t care what people think,” Marena responded with a shake of her head. “and I don’t usually take the nobility’s word on anyone’s character, especially someone who challenges their hold on power. If I heeded what society said about my own right to exist…” She scoffed. “Well, let’s just say I would not be running my shop. I don’t pay attention to any of it.” Her tone was impatient, like she had no time for such nonsense as societal norms.
“Then why won’t you let me compensate you for the help you’re providing?” She pursed her lips—clearly irritated he’d used her own words to get one over her—and bloody hell, he wanted to kiss her. More than that. He was becoming increasingly fixated on finding out how she tasted right at the juncture where her neck and shoulder met.
“I don’t want your money.” She paused, as if realizing her tone had been more than a little pointed. “Your Grace.” He smothered the laugh bubbling up his throat at the grumbling deference.
“Arlo,” he said. “It’s only fair.”
She harrumphed and shifted in her seat, her eyes everywhere but him. Marena Baine-Torres had opinions on the nobility. And that thought brought an image of her hissing her less-than-favorable assessment at him while he made his way down her body, kissing and licking every inch of that flawless skin.
“Arlo,” she said, bringing him back from his lustful thoughts. “If you insist on me calling you by your name, the least you can do is respond when I do,” she griped. His cock pulsed in his trousers.
“I find myself distracted today,” he said, looking
at her mouth again. That red tinge from yesterday appeared on her cheeks. He put down his teacup, just to have something to do. The air practically crackled between them, and he lost the thread of the conversation altogether.
“She’s in Paris,” she offered jolting him back to the matter at hand.
He considered the answer for a moment. France. “She must’ve been fearful if she’d fled the British Isles entirely,” he said, and Marena quickly nodded in agreement.
“Things were grim, and it seemed like the best option.”
“I need you to accompany me to Paris.”
She looked at him, unblinking. “I can’t do that.”
“Delfine has no reason to trust me, but if you are there with me, it may be easier,” he reasoned, but Marena’s expression was completely shuttered.
“I don’t have any reason to trust you.”
He pressed his lips shut to keep from growling the command on the tip of his tongue. “I will make sure your business suffers no loss. If you know where she is, we should not be gone more than a week. It’s—”
“No. And my business is none of your concern,” she informed him, outrage coming through in her voice. “I can’t travel on my own with you. What will people think, I—”
“I thought you didn’t care what people thought.”
“I don’t,” she snapped, her eyes focused on his face. “But I do care about aristos hearing I’m letting noblemen take me on holidays to Paris, and then having them in my shop thinking they can take liberties. I deal with enough already.” He didn’t miss the barely repressed shudder that coursed through her, and fury ignited in his chest.
“Liberties,” he ground out, barely able to keep himself from demanding she tell him the names of every bastard who had harassed her. He felt bloodthirsty, reckless with the need to hurt anyone who had pestered her. Then he remembered he belonged to the very class of people who’d done that to her. He felt shame settle in his gut like sludge. He needed to stop wasting this woman’s time.
“Delfine needs to know I am who I say I am. I can bring them home, Marena.”
He could see the moment she relented. Her shoulders drooped and she closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. When she opened them, they were flinty. “Four days. Two for travel, two in Paris. And you can keep your money.” She stood then, and ran a hand over the skirt of her dress, her gaze everywhere but on him. “I’ll need the next two days to arrange some things.”
“Do you have a passport? We will need it at Calais.”
She gave a sharp nod in response and with a grimace muttered, “Yes, and I will use it to get to Paris on my own.”
Her tone brooked absolutely no argument, but blast it all, he would not let her steamroll over him. He didn’t want her taking the train and ferry on her own.
“Your job is not to protect me,” she protested, as if she could read his thoughts. “I lived in Paris on my own a few years ago. I can get myself there without your assistance…Your Grace.” She opened her mouth and then closed it. Her lips pressed together, ensuring whatever almost slipped out, didn’t.
“If you will not travel with me, then allow me to make arrangements.” He could talk down even the most fastidious lords in Parliament, and yet this woman continued to run circles around him. “I would like for you to get there safely and in comfort. It is the least I can do.”
“Fine. Send me the information by messenger.” She crossed her arms and decreed.
“I will see you there, Marena.” The satisfied thrum in his blood from getting his way was heightened by the prospect of spending more time with this querulous herbalist.
She lifted a finger and pointed it directly at his face. “We’re not friends, and this will not be a social call. We are getting Delfine and Lluvia back, and parting ways the moment that’s done.” With that, she turned and left the room.
This woman reminded him of who he used to be. Of the passion with which his grandmother lived. He wasn’t sure if the effect Marena had on him would be positive or disastrous, but he was eager for more of her either way.
Chapter Three
Gare du Nord, Paris
“It is fortunate that I adore those two as much as I do, because otherwise this would be the most foolish thing I have ever done,” Marena muttered under her breath as she gathered her things from the private train car Linley had reserved for her trip to Paris. Two days. That’s what she’d agreed to, and even that felt dangerous.
Arlo Kenworthy had an extremely adverse effect on Marena’s common sense, and this jaunt through Paris would probably prove to be her doom. But it could not be avoided. The man was Delfine’s brother. El duque—as she’d been calling him in her head—had not been pleased with her request to meet him in Paris, but he’d conceded. Not that she would’ve agreed to travel with the man.
She would not be compromised by boarding a train in London with a notorious aristocrat and be labeled his mistress. No. It had taken a lot of effort to finally convince her mother and their patrons that at five-and-twenty, Marena could operate Baine’s Apothecary on her own, and four years later she would not lose her hard-earned reputation over a man she wasn’t sure she liked.
Arlo Kenworthy had a purpose to serve in her life: to help get Lluvia and Delfine back home to London. Once that was done, she’d be happy to see him only if absolutely necessary. But now she’d arrived, and the anticipation was like champagne bubbles in her blood. She loved Paris, and foolishly, the idea of walking some of her favorite streets with Arlo Kenworthy made her heart skitter in her chest.
Too much feeling was a dangerous thing. Letting a nobleman be the source of excess emotion was downright perilous, and Marena had always been excellent at self-preservation. As she stepped on to the platform, she thought of the next part of her journey: find her way to the lodgings Linley had arranged for them in the Place des Vosges. The tony square was not anywhere she’d frequented in the short months she’d lived and studied in Paris. She’d admit, if only to herself, that the thought of staying at such a fashionable address was another reason for her excitement. She walked with purpose to where her small trunk would be delivered, looking around to spot where the fiacres would be lined up to take newly arrived passengers to their Parisian destinations.
There were hundreds of people milling about, but her French was excellent, and she knew Paris well enough to get around. She slid a hand into the pocket of her skirts in search of the note where she’d written the direction to the apartments.
“They’ve already got your bags. They’ll take them to the townhouse.” A voice from behind startled her, but Marena didn’t have to turn around. After only two meetings she’d recognize his voice anywhere. The Eton accent in that baritone was unmistakable. But what was he doing here? He’d left a day before she did. They’d agreed she’d see him at the Place des Vosges.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, still with her back to him. Perhaps she’d embellished her memory of him. The man’s arrival in her life had been a whirlwind, and now her memory of his looks superseded the real thing. No one was that handsome. Bolstered by that thought Marena turned as people walked around them, her narrow skirts brushing against his trousers. He seemed to be everywhere. The base of his throat was so close that if she leaned forward just an inch she could press her lips to it—and what kind of reckless, pernicious thought was that?
Someone rushed by, jostling her, and a strong arm gathered her at the waist. “I have you,” he assured her, tightening his arms so that his body shielded her. His voice was husky, and she wondered if she was imagining the flush of color at his neck. She leaned into him, and he gathered her closer. Her own blood rushed through her veins like wildfire. When Marena finally looked up so she could see his face, she came to the troubling conclusion that her memory did not, in fact, hold a candle to his beauty. And what was she doing, falling into the man’s arms not even a minute after she’d stepped down from the train?
“What are you doing here?” she asked shaki
ly, stepping away from him. He raised an eyebrow at her less-than-friendly tone. He towered over her, and everyone around. If not for the finery he wore, he could be an East End bruiser. All of it made her short of breath and exceedingly ill-humored. It was not fair for anyone to look this dashing so early in the morning.
“I’m here for you.” Her stomach dipped at the words. Her nipples tightened when his roaming gaze paused just a moment too long on the area of her mouth, then her neck. She had to clasp her hands to keep from covering her face. Her bonnet was askew, and her skirts rumpled. Still he looked at her like he was ravenous and she was the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.
“You came for me?” She sounded winded.
“Yes, you.” His mouth quirked. Bastard. “I’ll take you to the townhouse.” He was scrambling her senses, and she resented him for that. Resented that perfect sable curl on his forehead that made him look young and roguish all at once. Resented that the emotions she had kept safely locked away wanted to burst out of her the moment he was near. And most of all, she resented his blasted good humor. She couldn’t turn him down just to be contrary. Then she would really seem unreasonable, and they did have to spend the next couple of days together.
“Fine.” She harrumphed, narrowing her eyes at the elbow he offered her before stomping off in the direction of the street. “Where’s the carriage?”
He chuckled, seemingly delighted by her irritation. “Right outside. The staff at the townhouse is very competent. There’s breakfast waiting.” She almost pointed out that she had no idea what made a competent staff, since she’d never had one. Even when they were in Santo Domingo, most of the folks that worked in their house were some kind of family. In London, they had day help, but never anything like the army of servants a duke might have.
“Why didn’t you send someone? You didn’t need to bother,” she said, walking fast enough to stay out of his reach. After a few steps she realized her mistake. There were too many people, it was easy to get swallowed up by the crowd, and she had no idea which one of the almost dozen cabs waiting by the road was Arlo’s.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 34