Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  She’d also lost him. Panicked, she looked through the crowd, trying to get her bearings. Then the smell of bay rum announced his proximity before he reached her.

  “You haven’t lost me,” he whispered close to her ear. She dearly wished that the frisson coursing through her spine was due to the chill of the early morning. “We’re in the green right in front.”

  She would not shiver. She would not tremble from the man’s chest barely brushing against her shoulders. “Thank you,” she bit off, but when she tried to run, he wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “The crowd is too dense. Let’s get to the carriage, and then you can tear my arm off.” Damn the man for sounding delighted at her foul mood. She would not smile, because there was nothing at all charming or funny about this situation.

  “All right.” She conceded, begrudgingly, as they walked with his hand firmly on her waist. She could not deny that once he took charge, the crowd parted before him. Fleetingly, she had the thought that people would see her getting into the carriage with him, and then remembered in Paris that was much less likely.

  “Your room is ready in case you want to rest for a couple of hours after you eat.”

  “I have some errands to run this morning.” She realized her tone was bordering on rudeness and softened it by offering an explanation. “I have to buy some things for the shop.”

  He nodded, then pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “This came early this morning.” The humor in his voice from a moment earlier was replaced by something cautious.

  She slid her gloves off, and then, self-conscious he’d see the dryness there, almost put them back on again. Working with herbs and acidic substances day after day took its toll on the skin. Even if she rubbed them with cacao butter and aloe, her hands were not soft. Not a lady’s hands.

  And why did she have to dwell on that? Why was she dwelling on anything Arlo saw or thought of her? She stopped herself from answering because that information felt entirely too dangerous to grapple with now.

  She ran a finger under the seal of the envelope and quickly read the short note, aware Arlo had looked away to give her privacy. Still, she could feel the tension emanating from him as he waited for her to share news from his half-sister. She’d sent a couple of long telegrams, advising Delfine of their arrival in Paris and the news of Arlo’s desire to meet her. Her friend had agreed to the visit, but there had been no opportunity for Marena to share details other than when they would arrive and where they would be staying. They were not in hiding in Paris, but Lluvia and Delfine asked to come to them instead of bringing Arlo to where they lived, and that was still the plan.

  Marena smiled at the eagerness in Lluvia’s note, filled with hope that Arlo would really help them return. They liked Paris well enough, but it wasn’t London. It wasn’t home. And it had been almost a year. Maybe he was the answer. Marena hoped he was.

  “Delfine needs a day.” She said, studying his profile. “She’s attending a birth that will probably go well into the night. But she and Lluvia will come see you tomorrow in the early evening.”

  His shoulders relaxed at news he’d be able to meet Delfine. Then he turned to face her, and a truly terrifying thing happened. Arlo Kenworthy, the fifth Duke of Linley, really smiled at her. Not the rakish smile he’d proffered freely from the moment they met, which involved a curled top lip and a raised eyebrow. Or the amused one that showed straight teeth and made a dimple appear on his left cheek. No, this smile was…radiant, and it could be deadly for her. Because this man, the one whose eyes shone at the idea of meeting a sister he didn’t know existed a year ago—this man would be far too easy to fall for. To make matters worse, she had a full day and night with him before they could complete their mission.

  “That’s good. We will have to keep ourselves occupied until then,” he said, and the way his mouth curved up when he spoke felt like a proposition she very much wanted to accept. Her hands itched to trace his lips, run the pad of her fingers across their edges. She wanted to know what else could turn those lips up. She wanted too many things, and she would need to dedicate the next thirty-six hours to remembering she could not have a single one of them.

  “What are you doing?” Marena asked Arlo in surprise when she found him standing by the entrance of the townhouse, seemingly ready for an outing. Mere minutes ago, when she’d gone to her room to freshen up, she’d left the man sitting in the parlor enthralled by the Parisian paper in his hands.

  “Doing the shopping with you.” That was uttered like a statement of fact as he reached for the basket she’d procured from one of the kitchen maids. She sidestepped out of his reach, shaking her head.

  “You most certainly are not,” she retorted, placing the basket behind her back. “I’m not going to the Rue de la Paix for gowns and jewels. I’m going to the Marais, where common Parisians do their marketing.” When that statement didn’t seem to dampen his eagerness, she sighed again, then explained, “There are some herbs I need for the shop that I can’t find in London.”

  He tipped his head and stood to his full and exasperating height. “Excellent. I’m quite good at doing the marketing.”

  “A duke doing the marketing.” A grin formed on her lips as she spoke. The man was entirely too much.

  “I wasn’t always a duke, you know. For most of my life I was just Arlo Kenworthy.” He winked—winked—at her. Carajo, but the man was handsome. Almost aggressively virile. So much energy in that large body.

  She appraised him from under her lashes. The trousers that fit his strong legs like they’d been sewn on, with his jacket and matching waistcoat. The perfectly appointed four-in-hand silk tie. Bowler hat in hand. He was every inch the duke, and definitely not dressed for a day of walking and marketing.

  “The covered market is hot. You’ll suffocate,” she warned, pointing at his collar.

  “You’re wearing twelve layers of cloth,” he quipped back, and curled that damned lip again. She wanted to bite it. Then suck on it, perhaps, her arms around his neck... For heaven’s sake, Marena. It wasn’t that she was a prude, or even a virgin. It was that letting this particular man get under her skin like this was absolute madness.

  But he wasn’t wrong. Women’s clothes were a true travesty, and though there was no point in disputing it, she still did. “I’m wearing linen.”

  He took in her skirts, without frills or embellishments. He inspected her jacket, with only simple pleats at the hem, her unadorned straw bonnet—and he made a small appreciative sound, as if he were looking at the most sumptuous gown from the House of Worth.

  “It’s a lovely shade of blue.” The way he said lovely felt like a caress, making something inside her flutter. Although she should not have, she let him stare, reveling in his appreciation of her. The way his eyes roamed over her neck, her chest, her waist and hips, all the way down to her sensible boots, with their wide heels and soft leather—it would be easy to forget who she was under that admiring gaze.

  “I’m wearing cotton and walking boots,” he finally said, patting the breast pocket of his light gray jacket. She really ought to say something cutting to swipe that flirtatious smile off his face, but what was the harm? She wouldn’t mind the company, and this wasn’t London, where half the people they encountered would know who he was, and the other half would know her.

  Here, she could be another Marena, and he…well, he’d still be a duke. But here, the distance between their worlds seemed less vast. Paris was always a good place for escaping or reinventing oneself, for indulging in fantasies, no matter how foolish and reckless they were.

  “I presume you will come no matter what I say.” He was so achingly beautiful, with his mouth set in a sardonic smirk, and those soft, eager eyes telling a different story.

  “It’s quite impressive how fast we’ve learned to understand each other.” This smile made the dimple appear, and Marena almost chastised him for the audacity of being fetching to the extreme. “I let you win f
or the trip from London, but I will be a tougher negotiator here.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I already explained—”

  He raised a hand in concession, smile still firmly in place, but there was a tension there she could not quite decipher. “Yes, you did not want to be seen with me. And you explained your very sensible reasons. I only wish you’d tell me who these bastards were, and I could knock some heads as soon as I set foot back in London.”

  A warmth spread in her chest at how furious he looked on her behalf. Marena valued her independence more than anything. Her parents had raised her and her sister to be self-possessed, to stand on their own two feet. But having this man ready to brawl with the gentlemen of London for her awakened a yearning that surprised her.

  “Are you going to slay dragons for me?” she asked, and the way his eyes widened and nostrils flared made her breath catch.

  She kept her eyes on him as he stepped closer. So close that if she raised herself on the tip of her toes, she could kiss him.

  Bringing his lips to her ear, he whispered, “I’m tempted to, but for now I would be honored to carry your basket to market.” If the man kept this up swooning was eminent. Marena had to close her eyes and breathe as she gathered the strength to step away from him.

  “I will carry my own basket, thank you very much,” she muttered, congratulating herself for drawing some kind of line in the sand. She attempted a scowl, which only seemed to delight him more.

  “Excellent.” He lifted an elbow for her, and her scowl deepened. As if thinking better of it, he opened the door for her instead.

  “Don’t you have a footman or valet who needs to know your whereabouts at all times?” she asked, looking around the well-appointed room.

  “I answer to no one. And besides, it’s Paris. Indulgence and spontaneity are the entire schedule.”

  She raised a doubtful eyebrow at him. “This expedition will be on foot, Your Grace.”

  His lips twitched at the heavy dose of scorn she injected into the last two words. “I can barely contain my anticipation.”

  Chapter Four

  “How long were you here for?” Arlo tried not to smile at the dubious look Marena sent his way at the question. They’d been doing this all morning. He’d ask questions, and she’d provide as little information as possible.

  “About six months. I was studying under a root worker from Port-au-Prince named Marie Lemba. I’d come to the market with her every week.”

  No wonder she’d so effortlessly brought them to the market. They’d come out the townhouse, and Marena had swiftly led them through cobbled streets lined with shops and eateries. After about a mile of twists and turns, she’d veered into an enclosed alley and brought them to a building full of market stalls, which she explained was the petit marché du Marais.

  As soon as they walked in, he was thrust into an overwhelming sensory experience. There were dozens of stalls offering every comestible one could need. Fruits, vegetables, cheeses, chocolates, wine. Marena expertly guided them through the narrow paths between the rows of stalls, pointing out the vendors she remembered. She let him know the cheeses she loved or the grocers who had the freshest produce as he walked alongside her.

  Since they left the townhouse, her demeanor had been lighter. This was obviously her world. She smiled freely at the many people they encountered in the market, negotiating prices down while somehow making the sellers laugh in delight. She was a marvel, this woman. Fierce, competent, and with an air of regal dignity that he wanted to breathe in until he was drunk off it.

  And now she was buying fruit. She moaned and cooed over a little bundle holding fresh figs, which he found absolutely erotic. Then, as if they’d done this a thousand times, she raised her hand in the air, passing him the fruit, still talking to the woman running the stall. Something possessive and hot ran through his body at the idea of having this kind of intimacy with her. To be the man a woman this self-sufficient could depend on.

  He was trying to focus on the conversation, perhaps ask more questions about what she’d studied. But Marena Baine-Torres sucking on raspberries with red-stained lips was astonishingly distracting.

  “Do I get a taste, or am I only here to carry them?”

  She rolled her eyes at him and snatched the basket from his hand.

  “Here,” she said, offering him a few raspberries and taking one for herself. “You keep looking at me,” she commented as she popped another plump berry in her mouth.

  “Do I?” he asked huskily, his gaze unable to leave the vicinity of her lips.

  “Yes. You did the same thing at the café.”

  That, he could not be blamed for. She’d eaten an éclair. A mess of chocolate and custard that she’d licked off her lips and fingers until he was so aroused, he feared he’d have to sit there for the rest of the day. As he handed over some coins for a bottle of wine, he considered what to say. Her mood was so different from any he’d seen from her thus far.

  Light, humorous, eyes open and curious of everything they saw. With another woman he’d consider his words, not wanting to offend by being too forward. But he wanted to mean every word he said to her. “I’m finding it exceedingly difficult to look away. I am helplessly drawn to beauty. And there are few things worth admiring more than a woman taking pleasure in something delicious.”

  They were walking again, she in front and he behind, between the narrow walkways of the market, but he could see a flush of red on the deep brown skin at her nape as he waited for her response. After a moment, she tipped her head up, her long, elegant neck taut from looking at him. At this angle, he could see a smattering of freckles along her collarbone. He’d put his mouth to every one of them if he could.

  Her eyes twinkled at whatever she was thinking. “Did that actually work on all those unsuspecting debutantes you supposedly deflowered?” She was teasing him. Suddenly, he was overcome by an urge to explain himself, and that stopped him in his tracks. This was a feeling he couldn’t even recall. Being with someone who he wanted to think positively of him.

  He looked down at her as they moved, tempted to put a hand on the dip at her back where the curve of her delicious bottom started. “For your information, Miss Baine-Torres, I’ve never deflowered anyone.”

  She gave him a doubtful look, but he shook his head, needing to be clear on this. He pulled her into a more private corner of the market so they could be face-to-face for what he’d say next.

  She seemed confused, but went along with it, holding the half-empty basket like a shield between them. His heart was racing now, the moment turning into something volatile and crackling with energy, like a summer sky brewing a storm.

  “I have never deflowered anyone,” he repeated, his eyes locked with hers. “I prefer to leave virtuous flowers on the vine.” He sounded ridiculous, and yet he could not seem to stop.

  “I thought gentlemen valued purity above all things.” She sounded breathless, her lush curves distracting as he tried to muster up a response.

  He wanted her, that was undeniable, but with every word exchanged between them, his lust careened into something far more perilous. He wanted to impress her. He wanted her to see Arlo Kenworthy, and not the Duke of Linley.

  “I find it hypocritical that women’s purity is held as proof of their value, while a man can do as he pleases. If the sexes are truly equal, then why would I expect something in a woman when I wouldn’t of myself?”

  “Hmmm.” She made the sound as she licked her lips. He hoped it was not because of the lingering taste of raspberries, but because she, like he, was craving a kiss. And he would give it to her…if she asked.

  “That’s quite commendable of you.” With that, she turned on her heel and pushed into market again. But she wasn’t fast enough for him to miss the flush on her cheeks.

  They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the next stall of interest. The vendor recognized Marena and quickly, they began exchanging a warm greeting in French.

  “This
is Phuong,” Marena informed him. “She has the best herbs and tisanes. Her family has a farm in Marseille and they bring products from Vietnam.”

  Arlo bowed to the woman and introduced himself in passable French. Marena appeared to find his efforts amusing and turned back to Phuong, a smile still on her lips. Soon she was back to the business at hand, listing things from a piece of paper as the seller moved around her miniscule stall, pulling out jars and scooping things out of barrels.

  Marena’s face lit up when Phoung handed her a bundle of yellow and green stalks tied together with string. “Merci,” she said with pleasure in her voice, and again his treasonous cock twitched in his trousers as he watched her press the stalks to her nose and inhale with her eyes closed.

  “Citronelle.” She lifted the stalks to him, and he obliged by taking a whiff. It had an intense citrus smell that reminded him of the lemon verbena his grandmother used, but spicier. “In Santo Domingo we call it limoncillo. My grandmother used it for teas and remedies,” she explained, piercing the tip of a stalk with a fingernail, coaxing out a more intense aroma. “It’s good for digestion and excellent for the teeth.” She revealed her own gleaming teeth, and once again he was tongue-tied merely by seeing Marena at ease.

  He, who was used to sitting in rooms with the most powerful men in London and speaking his mind. He, who was known in the House of Lords for always delivering the right words at the right time, could not produce a single one which did justice to this woman, who had brought him here to this little corner of Paris and showed him her world.

  “You can’t find it in London?” he asked, voice hoarse from whatever was afflicting him.

  She gave him a curious look as she placed the packaged goods Phuong prepared for her in the basket. “I can find it on occasion, but it’s expensive and not freshly cut like these. Other things like the lavender and chamomile I grow in my hothouse.”